Business Trip to Rio

I hadn't wanted to go to Rio.

After fifteen years of climbing the corporate ladder, I was tired. Tired of hotel rooms that all looked the same. Tired of business dinners where everyone laughed at jokes that weren't funny. Tired of being Thomas Wheeler, Senior VP of International Development, instead of just Tom, who used to have hobbies and friends and a life outside quarterly reports.

But the Brazil deal was important. Our largest South American expansion in company history. And the local team insisted that personal presence mattered—that you couldn't close a deal like this over video calls, that Brazilian business culture required face time and relationship building.

So I packed my suits and my exhaustion and flew twelve hours to a city I'd never visited.

And that's where I met her.

Camila Santos was not what I expected.

Our Brazilian partner had assigned her as my liaison—translator, cultural guide, local fixer. I'd imagined someone older, maybe male, definitely formal. Instead, I got a thirty-year-old woman with a wild mane of dark curls, curves that her professional blazer couldn't quite contain, and a laugh that made everyone in the room turn to look at its source.

"Mr. Wheeler? I'm Camila. Welcome to Brazil."

Her English was nearly flawless, just a soft accent on certain syllables that made everything she said sound like music. She shook my hand firmly, held eye contact without flinching, and smiled like she knew something I didn't.

"Tom, please. Mr. Wheeler is my father."

"Tom, then. Are you ready for an adventure?"

"I thought I was here for meetings."

That laugh again. "In Brazil, meetings are adventures. Everything is more... intense here. You'll see."

I had no idea how right she was.

The first few days were business. Long sessions in conference rooms, endless negotiations, dinners that started at ten PM and didn't end until two. Camila was always there, translating when needed, smoothing cultural misunderstandings, explaining why certain phrases landed differently than I intended.

She was brilliant at her job. But more than that, she was magnetic. I found myself watching her when I should have been watching the presentation slides. Found myself timing my coffee breaks to coincide with hers. Found myself disappointed when she disappeared to take calls or check her email.

Get a grip, I told myself. She's half your age, works for the partner company, and you're here to do a job.

But my eyes didn't listen.

Neither, apparently, did hers.

I caught her watching me too. During meetings, over dinner, when I loosened my tie in the evening heat and rolled up my sleeves. She'd look, then look away, and something like color would rise in her cheeks.

On the fourth night, she invited me to see the real Rio.

"Not the conference rooms and hotel bars. The city. My city."

I should have said no. Should have claimed fatigue, work, anything. Instead, I said yes.

She took me to a bar in Lapa, where live samba spilled onto the street and no one spoke English. We drank caipirinhas that were stronger than they looked, and she taught me to dance—or tried to, laughing at my two left feet while somehow making me feel less self-conscious about them.

"I'm terrible at this."

"You're too rigid. Americans always are. You think too much, move too little."

"That's basically the national character."

"Then let me teach you to be Brazilian. Just for tonight."

Her hands found my hips, guiding me into a rhythm I didn't know I had. The music was loud, the bar was hot, and she was so close I could smell her perfume—something floral and tropical, nothing like the scents women wore back home.

"Camila..."

"Shh. Don't think. Just feel."

I let myself feel. The bass thrumming through the floor. Her body moving against mine. The way she looked up at me with dark eyes that held challenge and invitation in equal measure.

"This is probably inappropriate,"

I said.

"Probably."

"We work together. Sort of."

"We do. Sort of."

"I'm forty-five."

"And I'm thirty. We can both do math."

She smiled, sliding her arms around my neck.

"Tom. You've been looking at me all week like you're trying to convince yourself not to want me. I've been doing the same. Are we going to keep pretending, or are we going to admit that we're both adults who find each other attractive?"

The directness of it hit me like cold water. In the best way.

"You don't mince words."

"Life is too short for mincing. I want you. Do you want me?"

"More than I should."

"Then kiss me. Right here. Right now."

I kissed her.

The taxi back to my hotel felt like the longest ride of my life. Her hand on my thigh, her mouth on my neck, my fingers tangled in her curls. The driver either didn't notice or didn't care—probably saw this kind of thing every night.

In the elevator, she pushed me against the wall and kissed me like she was starving. I grabbed her waist, pulled her against me, let her feel exactly what she was doing to me. She gasped against my mouth.

"I knew you'd be like this."

"Like what?"

"Intense. Controlled. Makes me want to see what happens when you lose control."

The doors opened on my floor. We barely made it to my room.

Inside, the ocean view was stunning—moonlight on the water, the curve of Copacabana Beach stretching into the distance. Neither of us looked at it. We were too busy looking at each other.

She stripped off her blazer, revealing a low-cut top that had been hiding beneath. Her skin was the color of café com leite, smooth and warm under the dim hotel lights. She kicked off her heels and was suddenly smaller, more real, her head barely reaching my shoulder.

"You're overdressed, Mr. Wheeler."

"Then help me fix that."

She did. Slowly. Deliberately. Undoing my tie like she was unwrapping a gift, sliding my jacket off my shoulders, working my shirt buttons one by one while maintaining eye contact. By the time I was bare-chested, my heart was pounding like I was twenty again.

"Not bad for an American businessman."

"I hit the hotel gym."

"I noticed."

Her hands explored my chest, my abs, the waistband of my pants.

"I noticed a lot of things about you, Tom."

"Like what?"

"Like how you chew your pen when you're thinking. How you rub the bridge of your nose when you're frustrated. How you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

She tugged my belt free.

"I was always paying attention."

I caught her hands. Pulled her up to kiss her. Then walked her backwards toward the bed until her knees hit the mattress and she fell onto it, looking up at me with those dark, hungry eyes.

"My turn to notice things."

I undressed her like she was a work of art. Because she was. Her top slid off to reveal a lace bra that barely contained her full breasts. Her skirt inched down to show matching panties that made me groan. She was curved in all the right places—hips, thighs, ass—a body built for pleasure and unashamed of it.

"You're stunning, Camila."

"And you're still wearing too much."

I shed my pants and boxers while she watched with obvious appreciation. Her eyes traveled down my body and back up, her smile widening.

"I knew you'd be worth the wait."

I climbed onto the bed, covering her body with mine. Kissed her deep and slow while my hands explored every curve. She arched into me, responsive and eager, her nails dragging down my back.

"What do you want, Camila?"

"Everything. Give me everything."

I kissed down her neck, her chest, the valley between her breasts. Unclasped her bra and took one dark nipple in my mouth, sucking until she cried out. Her hands gripped my hair, holding me in place.

"Sim... isso mesmo... don't stop..."

I loved that she slipped into Portuguese when she was overwhelmed. It made everything feel more real, more intimate. I moved to her other breast, then lower, kissing down her stomach, her hip, the inside of her thigh.

When I pulled her panties off and settled between her legs, she was already glistening. Her scent was intoxicating—musky and sweet and completely her. I looked up at her once, meeting those dark eyes, then lowered my mouth to her center.

She cried out at the first touch of my tongue. Her hips jerked, her thighs clamped around my head, and she babbled in a mix of English and Portuguese that told me I was doing something right.

"Ai meu Deus—Tom—right there—don't stop—"

I didn't stop. I worked her with my tongue, learning her responses, finding the rhythm that made her writhe. When I slid two fingers inside her, curving them to hit that perfect spot, she came with a scream that I was glad the thick hotel walls muffled.

I stayed with her through it, gentling my touch as the waves subsided. When I kissed my way back up her body, she grabbed my face and kissed me hard.

"I need you inside me. Now."

"Condom?"

"My purse. Side pocket."

Always prepared. I liked that about her. I retrieved the condom, rolled it on while she watched with hungry eyes, and positioned myself between her thighs.

"Ready?"

"I've been ready since you walked off that plane."

I pushed into her, and we both groaned.

She was tight and hot and perfect. I moved slowly at first, savoring the sensation, the way her body gripped mine like it was made for this. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper, her hips rolling to meet every thrust.

"Harder,"

she gasped.

"Don't hold back with me, Tom."

I let go of my control. Fucked her the way I'd been fantasizing about all week—deep and hard, driving her into the mattress with every stroke. The sounds she made were incredible, a mix of moans and curses and my name, over and over.

We moved together like we'd done this a thousand times. Changed positions without missing a beat—her on top, riding me with abandon, her breasts bouncing as she took her pleasure. Then me behind her, gripping her hips, watching the curve of her back as she pushed back against every thrust.

"Touch yourself,"

I told her.

"I want to feel you come on my cock."

She reached between her legs, fingers circling her clit as I continued to move inside her. I felt the moment it started to build—her walls beginning to flutter, her rhythm becoming erratic.

"Tom—I'm going to—"

"Do it. Let go for me."

She shattered. I felt every pulse and clench of her orgasm around me, and it pushed me over the edge too. I came with her name on my lips, buried deep inside her, my whole body shaking with the intensity of it.

We collapsed together, tangled and sweaty, the ocean breeze from the balcony cooling our heated skin. Her head rested on my chest, her curls tickling my chin.

"That was..."

"Yeah."

"I don't normally do this, you know. Sleep with clients."

"I don't normally do this either. Sleep with women I've known four days."

"So we're both breaking our rules."

She propped herself up on one elbow to look at me.

"Was it worth it?"

"Ask me again when I can think straight."

She laughed and kissed me, soft and sweet, nothing like the urgency of before. Something shifted in my chest. Something I hadn't felt in a very long time.

I was supposed to fly home in three days.

I extended my trip by a week.

We spent every night together. Sometimes in my hotel room, sometimes at her apartment in Ipanema with its tiny balcony overlooking the beach. She showed me her Rio—the hidden bars, the best churrascarias, the view from Sugarloaf at sunset.

And somewhere along the way, what started as attraction became something more.

"What happens when you go back to New York?"

she asked on my last night, lying in my arms while the city glittered outside the window.

"I don't know."

"Long distance is hard. We barely know each other. This was probably just a business trip fling."

"Probably."

"So we should just end it cleanly. Remember the good times. Move on."

"Is that what you want?"

She was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "No."

"Me neither."

I pulled her closer, kissed her forehead. "I'm fifty-five days away from retirement. I've been putting money away for thirty years, and I have more than I'll ever spend. I was planning to... I don't know. Golf. Travel. Be bored out of my mind."

"That sounds terrible."

"It does, doesn't it?"

I tilted her chin up to look at me.

"What if I didn't go back? What if I stayed here, learned Portuguese, figured out how to make caipirinhas properly?"

"You're serious."

"I've never been more serious about anything. Camila, I know this is crazy. I know we barely know each other. But I've spent forty-five years doing the sensible thing, and I'm tired of it. I want to do the crazy thing. I want to stay here. With you. If you'll have me."

She stared at me for a long moment. Then her face broke into that brilliant smile that had captured me from the first moment I saw it.

"You're insane."

"Probably."

"I love it."

She kissed me hard.

"Stay. Stay and we'll figure it out together."

⏳ One year later

My Portuguese is still terrible. Camila teases me about it constantly.

But I can order food without help now. I can argue with taxi drivers about prices. I can tell her I love her in her language, and the way her face lights up every time makes all the awkward pronunciation worth it.

We got married on Copacabana Beach at sunset. Small ceremony, just her family and a few friends I'd made here. My kids flew down from the States, skeptical at first, but Camila won them over the same way she won me—with that laugh, that directness, that infectious joy in living.

I don't miss the boardrooms. Don't miss the quarterly reports. Don't miss the gray New York winters or the endless grind of corporate life.

I wake up every morning to the sound of the ocean and the woman I love curled against my side. We drink coffee on our balcony and plan the day—beach, maybe, or exploring some new neighborhood, or just staying home and exploring each other.

Sometimes I still can't believe this is my life. That I took a business trip to a city I didn't want to visit and found everything I didn't know I was looking for.

Camila says Brazilians have a word for it: sorte. Luck. Fate. The beautiful random chance that brings the right people together at the right moment.

I just call it the best deal I ever made.