She had gathered the clothespins back into the box and placed the lid on top. Now she was carefully making the bed like a devoted housewife. No one would ever guess what had taken place on it. Except for the smell of sex, of desire, that pervaded the room. It smelled like she tasted—both earthy and feminine, like sin and like redemption, and as Ricardo inhaled deeply he felt his erection return to full, raging hardness. He set the tray he was carrying on the dresser while Chelsea turned to him expectantly. He saw that she had tried, again, to adjust the silk bra and panties to cover her more demurely. He—and his tailor, to whom he had communicated his specific instructions—could have told her that it wasn’t possible. Perhaps Ricardo had been born with a gift for visually assessing a woman’s precise measurements and proportions—but perhaps not. It was entirely likely that at the moment of his birth, Ricardo had been ordinary. Spending his childhood at the feet of the finest tailor in Segovia, Italy, however, had ensured that he learned some things.
