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And he handed the remainder of his heart into her keeping. Emotional intimacy. This was what love felt like. Orgasms were easy, even multiple orgasms if you paced yourself, and he planned to pace himself tonight, but this moment couldn’t be repeated.

“The strip’s in the side pocket of my bag.”

He slid his hand down, grabbed the foils and tore one off.

“Wanna be on top?” Cas wouldn’t be able to manage much more conversation with his cock throbbing and his head about to explode.

“Hips up.” She pulled a pillow beneath her hips as she spoke. “Love me, Casildo.”

I will.

He nudged his cock toward her, exulting when her slick wetness cloaked his tip. Cas drew back, then moved forward again, slight increments while he kept his gaze on her, arousal spilling into a building tension. Going deeper, he brushed a finger over her clitoris, while keeping up a steady rhythm.

“Harder. Faster,” she stammered, her breath ragged when Cas upped the speed.

She was close, and Cas adjusted his tempo, listening for the slap of skin against skin, feeling the slick of sweat down his spine, and he wanted to hold all those senses in his head, to remember loving Beatriz this first time. She used her hand to guide him to a slightly different angle. Her eyes closed, then shot wide open, and he gave a last thrust and let go.

“Yes,” she gave a half-scream, half-moan, but his body was already unravelling, draining him.

I’ve just been loved, he thought.

So this is what it’s like.

He gathered Beatriz close. Tonight was for more holding and loving, but soon he’d convince her they were right together.

No. That wasn’t the deal.

Except holding her comforted him to his toes, while stirring the desire he’d told himself was a figment of proximity, the fabrics she wore, and her soft giggle when he trailed a hand down her spine, bending her toward him. He pushed recriminations from his mind. Her giggles melted into soft moans when he started kissing her.

He loved kissing her.

What have I done?

* * *

Truly, could the worldgo from magical to the pits in twenty-four hours?

After they’d surfaced on Friday night, Casildo had called intermission and insisted they try one of the restaurants in town. She had vague memories of red-and-white-checked tablecloths, candles in chianti bottles and divine flavours. Clearer in her memory was them sitting hip to hip, staring into each other’s eyes, and him letting her convince him to go home early.

On Saturday, they’d explored the markets together, visiting every stall, holding hands, stopping occasionally to share kisses, unable to wipe the smiles off their faces. On Sunday morning, they’d made love until they were scrambling to meet the deadline for checkout, giggling as they packed the car.

Sunday night, they’d slept, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Monday brought reality.

Beatriz hesitated outside the apartment door, her forehead resting on the wood. She didn’t want to bring trouble home, but she was so angry about Jackson, she wasn’t sure she could keep it to herself. She sighed, and the door opened, tumbling her into Casildo’s arms.

“What’s wrong?” He put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her down the hall, into the living room and guiding her to her favourite corner of the sofa. He perched on the coffee table so they were knee to knee.

“Nothing.” She tried to deflect him.

“You look so woebegone, so”—he paused—"defeated. That’s not like you.”

Bea wanted him to lift her into his lap and tell her he’d kiss it better, but that solved nothing. And it wasn’t his problem.

“Want some tea? Ginger, black, a glass of wine, something stronger.” He took her hand. “Anna must have something stronger hidden somewhere.”

“Brandy for her Christmas cakes.”