A Lonely Resurrection

before I gave her what she wanted.
    When I did, she exhaled sharply and tightened her grip on my hair. I drew my knees up and took her ass in both hands, raising it off the futon. I heard her say “
Isso, isso, continua,”
felt her other hand move to the back of my neck. I glanced up. Her stomach muscles were clenched tight, her breasts trembling slightly from the action of my head and hands.
    I took my time with her. She tasted clean and salty and sweet. Her fingers ran through my hair, sometimes grabbing, sometimes pulling, in time to the way I was touching her. I didn’t rush it, even when the pressure from her hands urged me faster.
    I heard her say,
“Isso”
again, over and over. Her legs rose behind me and tightened across my ears, and her voice was suddenly far away, reaching me as though from underwater. Her legs tensed further, her knuckles dug into my scalp. Then her body slowly unwound and sound came back into the room.
    I lowered her back to the futon and looked at her. The gray light of the room had grown a shade brighter. It picked up the green in her eyes, and without thinking I said, “You’re beautiful.”
    She reached up and took my face in her hands.
“Agora, venha aqui,”
she said in Portuguese. Come here.
    I went to her. She reached down for me but I found my own way in.
    I slid my hands under her arms and around to her face. I dipped my head forward and closed my eyes, the way I had once been taught to pray. I felt her lips against my face, mouthing silent words.
    A minute went by, maybe two. Our movement together, back and forth, gradually slowed, like waves advancing and receding on a beach. More than that and I knew I was done.
    She arched her head up to mine and the kiss quickened. I felt a sensation, like purring or a low growl, across her lips and tongue.
    “Agora, mete tudo,”
she said, her mouth moving against mine. Now, everything now.
    She pushed against me, not holding anything back. I held her face in my hands and kissed her harder. She raised her knees and I felt her thighs and ankles sliding against my hips. We moved faster. She locked her legs around my back and moaned something in Portuguese. My back arched and my toes dug into the futon, and I let myself go with a long
kussouu
that sounded as much like pain as pleasure.
    The strength flowed out of my body and I felt suddenly heavy. I lay down on the futon beside her, facing her, my hand resting lightly on her belly.
    “Isso, foi otimo,”
she said, turning her head to me. That was delicious.
    I smiled.
“Otimo,”
I repeated. My limbs felt jellified.
    She covered my hand with hers and squeezed my fingers. We were quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Can I ask you something?”
    I looked at her. “Sure.”
    “Why were you so reluctant, at first? I could tell you wanted to. And you knew I wanted to.”
    I closed my eyes for a moment, flirting with sleep. “Maybe I was afraid.”
    “Afraid of what?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “I’m the one who should have been afraid. When you said you had something you wanted to finish, I half thought you were going to try to spank me again.”
    I smiled, my eyes still closed. “I would have, if you’d deserved it.”
    “I would have made you sorry.”
    “You didn’t. You made me happy.”
    She laughed. “Good. You still haven’t told me what you were afraid of.”
    I thought for a moment. Drowsiness was settling on me like a blanket.
    “Of getting involved. Like you said, I haven’t been with someone for a long time.”
    She laughed again. “How can we be involved? I don’t even know who you are.”
    With an effort, I opened my eyes. I looked at her. “You know better than most,” I said.
    “Maybe that’s what scares you,” she replied.
    If I stayed any longer I would fall asleep. I sat up and ran a hand over my face.
    “It’s okay,” she said. “I know you have to go.”
    She was right, of course. “Yeah?” I asked.
    “Yeah.” She paused. Then: “I’d like to see you again. But not at the club.”
    “That makes sense,” I said, my mind having defaulted to its usual security setting. She furrowed her brow at my response. I saw my mistake, smiled, and tried to correct. “After tonight, I don’t think I could respect that ‘no below the waist’ rule, anyway.” She laughed at that, but the laughter wasn’t entirely comfortable.
    I used the bathroom, then made my way back to the foyer, where I pulled on my still wet clothes. They were cold and