Lost in Hotels (6 page)

“That would be a negative, but perhaps I’m not really the demographic, am I?”

“You know, it’s not
Vogue
, but it pays the bills and allows me to travel a lot.”

“So, travel writing, mainly?”

“A mix, but mostly I write the cover stories and stalk celebrities to be on the cover.”

“So you meet most of them. That has to be exciting.”

“Sadly, most of them don’t live up to what you imagine. But I try to remember it’s just a job for them, and they’re not really trying to be my friend.”

“Does anyone live up to what we make him or her out to be in our minds?”

“I’d like to think so, otherwise, that’s such a grim outlook on life,” she says having pondered the idea deeper and with more emotion than myself.

By late afternoon, the humidity has almost become intolerable, and we tuck into Doce Delicia, a fashionable café along Rua Aníbal de Mendonça with the best salads and generous pours of rosé around. Inside, the honey-colored woods look freshly oiled along the floor with simple rosewood chairs and cheery striped cushions. Catherine and I take a seat in a quiet corner.

“So tell me about you … where is your family from in the states?” I ask as I spread a starched white napkin across my lap.

“My parents live in Albany where I grew up,” she says as if starting a longer story.

“And they’re still happily married?” I ask as she stays safely on her side of the four-top table, but her legs are so close that I can feel the warmth of her body radiating to my bare knee.

“Well, they’re still married, but I’m not sure how happily. They are that couple who stayed together for the kids, and when they were finally empty nesters, they decided that companionship was better than being alone even if they weren’t in love with each other anymore.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t believe in marriage. How can you love without passion? That’s why I think relationships are only supposed to last for a few years, maybe ten, tops, and then it’s simply in our DNA to want more.”

“And by more you mean what, exactly?”

“It’s that chase, that seeing a woman for the first time and being able to do nothing but think about her and being with her over and over again to the point that you’re almost mad. I can’t imagine being at a point in life, in a marriage, that you could never look forward to that again.”

“And your parents, where are they? In England, I assume?”

“My parents are quite happily married,” I say with a pause, “in heaven.”

I smile as Catherine chuckles loud enough to draw the attention of the table nearest us with two older Brazilian woman eating triangular slices of white-frosted cake.

“But on earth,” I continue, “they couldn’t stand each other and divorced when I was at university.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh,” Catherine says, covering her mouth with her delicate hand.

“I like seeing you laugh, it’s okay.”

She has girlishness despite her age. It’s refreshing she doesn’t talk of children or the desire for them, which is always the elephant in the room with women her age.

The moments in the café sat well with Catherine and I. My one last wow moment in Rio needed to be at the beach, even though our three hours were now in overtime. Setting aside her excuses of not having a towel or sunscreen, we eventually make our way back to the ocean and to the ninth
lifeguard stand where it seems every supermodel and sexy resident of Rio was sprawled out on a towel in the sand.

I can tell that Catherine, uncomfortable among the sheer mass of people at the beach, is apprehensive about the whole idea. I take her arm and meander through the crowd to let her see first-hand the microcosm of life that gathers here every day. The various circles defined by conjoined towels offer smart tourists, drag queens, and muscle men who can barely bend their arms, barely notice us as we cut our way through the sand.

“You can almost get lost in the sea of people and noise, able to forget the crashing shore is just a short run away,” she says as the thump of house music blares from a speaker and vendors yell their various products.

“Look into their eyes, Catherine, let them penetrate your soul. That is what makes this place Rio,” I tell her as she fights past the last few people, and then steps down to the shoreline. She stays close to the slope of sand eroded by the waves. We continue to walk as she maintains her distance from me, avoiding our bodies brushing against each other in the blistering sun and its weighted humidity that might forge us together.

“Brazil is best seen with one foot in the sea watching the kaleidoscope of people who live their lives and do their jobs and earn their money in order to spend as much time as possible at the beach,” I say. “It’s almost poetic.”

Like the Marrakech medina, but on the beach, octogenarians the color of a well-worn saddle, sit inches away from teenagers experimenting with pot for the first time, while kids barely old enough to walk learn that a sandy fortress built at low tide is prone to ruin while their parents make out a few feet away.

“Let’s sit for a minute,” Catherine gestures as she moves in toward her ledge of sand built by the high tide. Even in her casual clothes, she sticks out with her too-perfect hair and swimsuit far too fashionable.

“No, no, let’s go out for a swim,” I say, pulling her arm.

“I really don’t know if I want to swim in that water,” she says emphatically, but without finalizing it with a seat in the sand.

“Suit yourself, but I’m going in, and you’d be wise to follow.”

I rip off my shirt, drop it in the sand, and run between the walls of people who look as though they might never leave the sea. The water is a little murky, especially under the cloud cover that strips it of its turquoise hue and allows it to be judged by fickle tourists. The sky seems only to be worsening, darker clouds gathering above us making the humidity worse and giving the illusion that violent weather is approaching.

“Wait for me!” a voice yells from behind as a stripped-down Catherine sheds her clothes and sprints into the water. Whether it’s out of fear of lightning, the annoying teenage boys, or a desire to be near me, all her trepidation and thoughts appear to have vanquished as she gently pulls my hand under the water and joins me in a single plunge.

“Is this not perfect?” I say, inches from her fully revealed face. Her wet hair perfectly contours her head and sun-kissed face that makes her eyes even greener.

“I was wrong. It’s heaven, really heaven.” She releases my hand and swims farther out.

“Although I do like watching all the guys look you up and down as you cross along the sand. That’s kind of hot, I must admit.”

“What are you talking about, David? No one was looking at me, especially with all the amazing Brazilian women here.” Catherine dismisses the idea as if it’s something she secretly tells herself all the time. Her modesty is innocent and magnetic.

I swim behind her as the ocean floor vanishes from our footed reach. She spins on her back, and her face and feet float on the water. Just briefly, she emerges with the playfulness of a girl let out of her cage of thoughts and rules and personal judgment.

“Look at that sky … it looks like a tornado is coming or something,” she says in wonderment.

Her marvel turns to a shriek when a lightning bolt ignites the afternoon sky above a cluster of rocks in the distance sending her under and into my arms in fear.

“No worries, we’re fine in the water,” I reassure her, holding her tight. “And as long as you’re not wearing any jewelry that would make you a lightning rod.”

Catherine acts as though she doesn’t hear my remark, a backhanded question meant to determine whether I make my move or simply remain friends in this incredibly romantic moment.

“You’re not in a relationship or anything, are you, Catherine?” I ask as she swims away from me and into deeper waters.

I swim after her and go deep to grab her torso. She squirms as I take her hands and hold them in my own.

“I’d be terribly disappointed to start liking you and then find out I couldn’t actually have you.”

“Oh, please,” she says, wiping the water from her eyes.

“You’re not one of those women who leave their wedding rings at home to seduce gentlemen like me in the sea, are you?” I continue sarcastically, but with a note of truthfulness.

“A man like you would never be interested in me, at least for longer than a night.” She pulls her hands away. “I left my jewelry at the hotel like you told me. And if you are trying to ask, I’m not serious with anyone right now.”

I see the barriers I perceived between us fall away. My view of the day changes in almost an instant. I grab her again from behind, my legs wrapping around hers, and I thrust her with my waist, cradling her as we watch the clouds and storm circle above.

“Don’t even start, Mr. Summers,” she says without pushing me away.

I pull her closer and feel a thrust of blood shoot through my dick. A sudden rush of thunder unleashes across the sky as the beach crowd quiets in awe. In fear, she envelops my body in hers, and I hold her closer, my arms over her breasts and caressing the soft skin under her arms and alongside her stomach. There’s the voluptuous femininity of a real woman to her body as my hands work their way down her thighs.

“Oh my god … is this safe?” she says with a whisper of uncertainty.

“As long as you stay close.”

“I’m terribly afraid of thunder,” she says as she holds on tighter.

Thoroughly enthralled by the storm, she allows me to explore her body without going beneath her swimsuit or being too aggressive with my desire. Her skin is ridiculously soft. My swimsuit fails to conceal my excitement as I rhythmically begin to test her resistance to me from behind—faster and faster. She does not stop me. I feel a hand slowly caress my leg and then my thigh. I kiss her neck along the rope of her necklace line, ebbing and then intensifying with a proper bite that I felt sent a chill down her spine.

The flatness of the water is suddenly interrupted with drops of rain that grow bigger and bigger, enveloping us in a warm shower. I pull her even closer, more forcefully, as all attempts to conceal my intentions are revealed. I want to pull her swimsuit to the side and slide my dick into what’s only a few inches from me, but something tells me not now, even though there would be nothing more perfect, more raw, more Rio as the rain intensifies into a proper downpour that hides us if only momentarily. She turns to me and our lips lock in a kiss that consumes both of us. Time stills, sound stops, and our attempt to stay afloat seem secondary as our heads fall below the water.

My hands can no longer deny what they want. I make my way under her bikini, grab her full, ripe breasts from beneath, and submerge my head to kiss my way down the front of her body. Thunder roars across the sky as swimmers beyond us pass without interrupting our moment. My hands feel the arches and depths of her inner body, and I feel her hand grab me for the first time. I want to be inside her. I want it so bad, but I also know I wouldn’t last for more than a second in this moment when she feels so right. I turn her around as my legs wrap around her again, me fully exposed from my swimwear, and our flesh touching skin-to-skin as I increase my forcefulness.

“I want to be inside you, Catherine. I want to fully know you, right here,” I say, well aware I may have gone too far.

“David, we can’t. I can’t.”

“Give into it, Catherine.”

“I can’t, David, really I can’t.”

“There won’t ever be this moment again, right here in this secret … the rain and water and us.”

“But David, it’s perfect to me already.”

I pull back without pushing away realizing Catherine isn’t that type of woman who does this sort of thing despite every part of her body saying
take me now
. With a lull in the thunder, she breaks away from my arms and back toward the beach. I follow. There’s a momentary coldness to the air as we emerge, and the rain pours on us. I take her hand, and we run in a full sprint down the beach and back toward the hotel.

“It’s raining buckets and buckets, David!” she yells above the din of pelting rain. We run side by side, and soon the rooftop of the hotel comes into sight. Barefoot, we make our way onto the warm sidewalk and across the pavement of the busy road dividing the hotel from the beach.

At the end of our frantic run, we stand nearly naked at the valet of the Fasano. The staff rushes to bring us towels without a hint of anything being abnormal about our state of undress. We slip through the side entrance and stand alone under our terrycloth cloaks, staring into each other’s eyes.

“So this is where we say good-bye?” I ask.

“David, that was incredible.”

“We are not done yet, there’s still more to see of Rio. It’s just getting started.”

“I’d love to, really, but I just can’t.”

“Will you have dinner with me, please? It’s my last night.”

Catherine hesitates as if I’ve cracked her hesitation, and the night to be flashes through my mind.

“David, I have so much work to catch up on. I only have one more day left here too, and I have to get a lot more work accomplished.”