It was a weekend of corporate events and motivational talks, held at a hotel in the Serra da Mantiqueira. We were colleagues, seated side by side during the welcome lecture. At first, we talked about work—projects, deadlines, professional trivialities—but soon the conversation drifted effortlessly into other territories.

It flowed just as naturally during the group dinner. Later, using the excuse that we both needed to refine the presentations we were scheduled to give the next day, we discreetly agreed to continue our discussion in my room.

The room, incidentally, was extraordinary: glass walls opening onto a balcony with a breathtaking view of the mountains, a king-size bed dressed in an inviting, plush duvet, candles scattered about, and a hot tub facing the forest. We opened a good bottle of red wine, and every so often our discussion of presentations was interrupted by laughter, confessions, and unexpected intimacy. The conversation was easy, delicious, unforced—after all, we were married, friends, coworkers. Nothing had to happen.

We lit the fireplace with dried araucaria leaves. You asked, almost formally, if you could remove your tie without being misunderstood. I took the opportunity to slip off my high heels, loosen the silk scarf around my neck, and unbutton my blouse just a little more.

The night stretched on. The inevitable ending hovered in the air, yet neither of us dared to take the first step. I caught myself staring at the glimpse of your chest exposed by your open shirt; you noticed my black lace bra, now barely concealed after my absent-minded unbuttoning.

We sat on the bed to type our edits and somehow fell asleep there, side by side, on the vast king-size mattress.

Hours later, I woke with my self-censorship softened by drowsiness. Moonlight flooded the room through the balcony doors. Outside, there was only the murmur of a river and, now and then, the call of a night bird. I turned toward you, aware that for a long time I had wanted to slide my hand beneath your shirt. I did so, pretending to remain asleep, as if it were nothing more than an instinctive gesture—like hugging a pillow.

You wrapped an arm around me. I held you closer. Still “asleep,” we tangled ourselves together, touching, exploring, until we were kissing—slowly, deeply, without a single word spoken.

You undressed me, removing my blouse and pants, leaving me in nothing but my black bra and panties. My body was bathed in moonlight, goose-pimpled from the cold—the fire had gone out—and from desire, too. You rubbed your hands together to warm them, then traced them slowly over the contours of my body, stopping just a centimeter above my skin. You didn’t touch me, yet I felt your heat everywhere. You repeated this exquisite torment after removing my lingerie, until I finally begged you to touch me.

You did—first with your hands, then with soft breaths, and then with your mouth and tongue, roaming my body once more, lingering when you reached the insides of my thighs. You teased me, slowly, deliberately, touching me only on the outside. I found it unbearably arousing that you were still dressed, still restrained—but by then I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked you to undress, told you I needed to feel you inside me.

That was when we realized we had no condom.

I begged you to take just the tip. You did, and I came intensely, beautifully. You followed, spilling over my stomach.

Then my alarm rang.

We rushed into the shower, laughing breathlessly, hurrying so we wouldn’t miss the morning departure for the mountain hike that was part of the event—something about overcoming challenges, the usual corporate metaphors. You couldn’t even take your motorcycle this time; it wouldn’t look “proactive,” or something equally absurd.

Night finally came. We delivered the presentations we had prepared together the night before.

All day, I felt marked.

Not in any visible way—no one at the conference could have guessed—but inside, something had shifted irreversibly. When you spoke during your presentation, calm and assured, I felt myself soften in my chair. Your voice carried authority, but when your eyes briefly found mine, it was unmistakably personal. Possessive. As if what had happened between us the night before was still unfolding, quietly, beneath the surface.

I realized then how deeply I wanted to belong to that look.

Throughout the day, you barely touched me. Sometimes your hand brushed mine when passing documents; once, you leaned in close to murmur a comment that only I could hear. That restraint—your control—undid me far more than the night itself. I was aware of you constantly, of the way my body reacted to your proximity, of how easily you commanded my attention without asking for it.

That evening, after dinner, you didn’t ask if I wanted to come to your room.

You simply said, “Come.”

And I did.

Your room was darker than mine had been. The lights low, the curtains drawn. You closed the door behind me and stood there for a moment, watching me as if measuring how far gone I already was. I felt small under your gaze, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.

You didn’t rush. You never did.

You guided me—just a hand at my waist, firm, certain—until I was standing in front of you. When you spoke, your voice was low, steady.

“Look at me.”

I obeyed instantly, surprised by how natural it felt to surrender like that.

You told me what you liked about me—not just my body, but the way I listened, the way I tried to stay composed while wanting so much more. Each word tightened the knot inside me, until wanting you felt less like desire and more like devotion.

When you finally touched me, it was deliberate, almost instructional, as if you were teaching me how to feel, how to respond. I let myself be led completely, trusting you without question. I wanted to be undone by you, shaped by your hands and your attention.

Later, when I lay against you, breath slowing, heart still racing, I understood something frightening and beautiful at once: this wasn’t just about sex anymore.

I was falling.

Not loudly, not recklessly—but deeply, quietly, into the power you held over me, into the way you saw me, claimed me without owning me.

And as sleep crept in, one thought echoed clearly in my mind:

I didn’t want to be free of you.