Lesbian

When she took off her sweat-soaked T-shirt in front of that girl, she knew she was no longer sweating just from the heat of the barn.

I had adored her in silence since childhood. The night before she left, she asked me to help her undress, and my hands trembled as they finally brushed her skin.

I had spent ten years resigned to the lukewarm sex of my marriage. Then Lorena locked the shower door from inside and kissed me without asking.

We three met on the last Thursday in December, under the pretext of seeing the year out. None of us said aloud what we were really going to do.

I went up to the seventh floor looking to relax for an hour. I had no idea the masseuse, and then my lover, had other plans for me that night.

I never told her I liked women, or that she kept me up at night. But that midnight, alone by the pool, I was the one who dared to say what I felt.

All it took was for her to tilt her head toward the back door for me to set my glass on the bar and follow her without thinking twice.

Eight years into my career, no patient had ever looked at me like that. That afternoon she put her feet up on my sofa, held my gaze, and everything I thought was solid began to tremble.

Carla couldn’t take her eyes off her while she worked out. Every drop of sweat on her back ignited something she’d never felt for another woman.

When Renata opened the bedroom door wearing a harness and asked if there was room for one more, I knew that Christmas was one none of us would ever forget.

I arrived single and bored, planning to leave early. Then the lambada started, and firm hands took my waist from behind.

I opened the trunk not knowing that inside it waited another woman’s secret: her lingerie, her diary, and proof that she too loved someone forbidden.

She had been with her boyfriend for five years and had never doubted. Until that black-eyed woman stared at her on the platform and something broke inside.

I heard her closing her suitcases on the other side of the wall and knew she would leave with the dawn. Barefoot and trembling, I crossed the hallway to the ajar door of her room.

She showed up twenty minutes late on purpose so we wouldn’t have time to go to the theater. Only then did I realize she’d already decided how the night would end.

I followed her on social media to get revenge on my ex, but ended up wanting her instead. Months later I saw her in the crowd and knew I wouldn't let her go.

My hands were ice-cold in the boarding lounge, but it wasn’t the weather: in a few hours I’d see her again, and I didn’t know whether I’d run to her or hide.

She booked a routine wax before vacation. What she didn’t expect was the way that woman would look at her when the private room door closed.

I had spent six days counting down the hours to my wedding when I saw her leaving the café. I hadn’t seen her in years, but my body recognized her before I did.

She carried a pistol hidden in her stocking and an impossible mission: get close to the most dangerous woman in the room without desire betraying her too soon.