Read The Pleasure Quartet for Free Online Page B

had never even seriously thought of having sex with Raoul. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him outside of our morning commercial banter. But the undercurrent was always there; his questioning look when he stared at me, shoulders back, spine straight, flicking back the hair that fell over his face without breaking eye contact as I stuttered my order in halting Portuguese, made me think that he sensed it too. There was a natural sense of physical chemistry between us, and if I had felt at liberty to behave like an animal, devoid of any inward sense of morality or social pressure, I would have met his questioning gaze with action and stepped around the chest-high, red laminate booth that separated us, bent over it and encouraged him to fuck me from behind. But I was too frozen by the constraints of public expectation to do anything more than admire his firm arse as he turned away from me to prepare my fruit juice in the giant silver blender that sat like a sleek behemoth on the opposite counter.
    Two men leaning against the counter, sipping from tall, lime-green-coloured takeaway cups, turned and looked at me. One of them wolf-whistled.
    I turned left up Rua Joana Angélica and the rain came to a halt. I was already too wet to bother avoiding the puddles that had gathered on the pavement so just traipsed through them until I reached the restaurant perched two steps up from the pavement at the far corner, its bright blue and white exterior a tropical blot on the otherwise bland street. A waiter dressed in a white shirt with a black waistcoat over the top was hastily rearranging a stack of yellow, pink and orange cushions on the low picnic seat that lined the verandah out front, while patrons standing and huddling under umbrellas stood wrapped in a babble of conversation while they waited for a table to become free.
    Aurelia spotted me and waved. She was standing on the front deck outside the main doors, waiting for the tables that had been pushed towards the wall during the rainstorm to be returned to their usual places. Her short-sleeved shirtdress was typically modest, the collar buttoned almost all the way up to the base of her neck, partially concealing the living labyrinth of her tattoos, the sheer, flowing, sky-blue fabric falling to just above her knees, several inches longer than the Rio average. In stark contrast to me, she was a woman of few curves and the boxy shape of her outfit hid her small breasts and waist entirely. If it were not for a sweep of bright red, glossy lipstick covering her full mouth, and a pair of high platform cork wedges, she would have looked quite androgynous. Her pale blonde hair was pulled into a messy knot on the top of her head, besides a few loose strands that framed her face.
    Every person who passed her as they entered or departed the restaurant either openly stared or surreptitiously glanced at Aurelia. She refrained from making eye contact with any of them, and appeared quite unaware of the attention she received. It could have been her natural blonde hair, which was rare in Rio, her many tattoos, her height, or her particular brand of beauty which seemed even cooler and more distant than usual in this sultry city. She had the poise of an ice statue, all cool chiselled perfection and reserve in stark contrast with the tanned beach bodies clad in sheer bright chiffon mini-dresses or tight vest tops and short-shorts that populated the city.
    The hostess hovering over her voluminous reservation book on its wooden podium caught my eye and I paused before I approached her, running my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to break up the damp strands that I could feel sticking together like dreadlocks on my head. She smiled at me broadly. She was young and tiny, her pocket-sized frame balanced precariously on pincer-sharp heeled ankle boots. Her shorts were wide cut, black with grey pin stripes and cropped at the very tops of her thighs. Her breasts loomed uncomfortably large for her small