“Fuck!” she cries out, grabbing my head, wrapping her fingers in my hair. My scalp is already sore from her pulling on my hair all night, but the pain is more than worth it. “Keep going! Please, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
I don’t stop.
I fuck her with my tongue, reaching up to make tiny tight circles around her clit with my thumb, feeling her swell beneath my touch and then she’s coming on my face with a hoarse cry. I keep my eyes on her, watching her wet gaping mouth, the deep line between her brows, the flush that smears bright pink on her cheeks.
She’s still coming. She yanks at my hair, hips lifting to drive me in deeper. I’m breathless and hot and I think my tongue is about to fall off.
Finally, she stills, melting into the bed, chest heaving, limbs heavy.
I lift my head and wiggle my jaw, the muscles sore from eating her out so hard.
Best fucking meal I’ve ever had.
“Where am I?” she murmurs, staring up at the ceiling. “Who are you?”
“Number eleven for Sporting Lisboa. And I need to come inside you before I go mad.”
She blinks and I’m up and prowling over her, moving my aching cock in place.
I push inside of her. She’s so fucking wet and slick that it’s easy, too easy, I’m going to lose myself sooner than I thought.
“Fuck me, Ruby. Fuck.”
I kiss her hard, her lips responding to mine, her tongue licking her own desire, as I push in deeper, leaving her breathless again. Her supple breasts mash against my chest, my taut, sweat-slicked stomach pressing against her soft one, my hips finding their rhythm as I start rutting against her. She feels both small and delicate beneath me, yet I’m overwhelmed by her plush curves, and there’s strength in her grip as she reaches up behind my shoulder blades and digs her sharp nails into my skin.
I hiss from the pain and pleasure and fuck her faster, harder, the bed starting to move, the headboard hitting the wall. The need to screw her like this, to get off, to make her mine, is a wild animal inside me, threatening to tear me apart if I don’t.
The room is silent except for the creak of the bed, the lewd sound of my cock pumping inside of her, my gasping breath as I work harder and harder. The air fills with the smell of sweat and her desire. We have made our own world here, a world I never want to leave.
“Luciano,” she says, a whisper that catches in her throat.
I stare into her eyes.
She stares into mine.
We’re bound to each other in this gaze, tied and roped and tossed away.
I don’t think I’ll be the same after this.
What we’re doing, what we’ve done, that’s going to change me forever.
Forever is a long time.
“Come inside me,” she says, so sweet that something inside me moves, like my heart found its resting place. “I need you to come inside me.”
“Oh, Ruby girl,” I murmur, my lungs evaporating.
She really had to ask.
My ass clenches as I drive myself into her, like I’m trying to impale her against the bed, over and over again, sweat pouring off my brow.
I don’t even have a chance to touch her and she’s coming too, just from my cock, squeezing me into oblivion while she moans and groans. It kicks my orgasm over, and I feel it charging, sliding through my veins until it explodes at the base of me.
I am totally fucking ruined.
I yelp, grunting hard as I come, shooting inside her for what feels like eternity, my body tight and tense and out of control. I don’t know what I’m doing, don’t know how to come down.
Don’t know if I want to.
I’m seeing fucking stars.
My eyes pinch shut as the last of it rolls through me and I fall onto my elbows, trying to keep my weight off of her, but hell, it’s hard to not just collapse and be done with it.
She places her hand at the back of my head and pulls my head down onto her chest. I can hear her heart hammering through her skin, the ragged intake of her breath as we both try to calm ourselves and give into the stupor.
We stay like that for a while as every part of me goes soft and tender. Our bodies meld together, our hearts feel like they’re beating in sync.
My god.
What have I done to myself?
“Okay,” Ruby says slowly, drawing out the words. “That was…”
I lift my head, resting my chin on her chest, my eyes trying to focus on her beautiful face.
“Good?”
She lets out a throaty laugh. “Good? My god. Luciano. You fuck like the devil, that’s for sure.”
“And I’m starting to think you’re no angel.”
A sleepy smile curves her lips as we stare at each other for a moment. “Now I need a shower,” she says. “Even though I don’t think I can walk anymore. Three orgasms in a row can be dangerous, you know.”
I grin at her. “The only danger is if you get addicted to my cock.”
She lifts a brow as if to say, well?
Even though I don’t want to move, I push myself off of her and she sidles out from under me. I collapse back on the bed, rolling over to my side and watching her walk naked to the bathroom. Fuck, this is a view.
I should go in the shower and join her too, but I have a feeling I’ll only get in the way. I’m hit with the sad, disappointing truth that she has a flight to catch today.
I wait in bed for a bit, trying not to dwell on it, then get up, slipping on a pair of sweatpants and go into the kitchen to make coffee. It feels good to do this. To get up from the bed we both slept in, to have her scent on me, to hear the shower running with her in it, to make coffee before we start our day together.
The fact that this is over before it begins is choking me, making my throat close up, my lungs close tight like a cage. This isn’t fair.
But this, us, it has never been fair.
When she comes out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, her black wet hair clinging to her porcelain shoulders, that choking feeling returns, making me feel paralyzed.
“God, I need that injected right into my veins,” she says, grabbing the mug I’m holding out for her. Then she winces. “Guess that’s pretty tacky of me to say…”
I know what she means. “How is your mother? I had asked Marco awhile back and he said she was doing okay?”
Ruby’s bright expression dims and I feel bad for being the one to do that, even though I’ve felt myself slipping toward the dark ever since I left the bed.
Left the ghosts of what we were behind in my bedroom.
“She’s okay,” she says carefully. “If you can call being an addict in prison okay.”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
She shakes her head and gives me a quick smile. “Don’t be. I mean it. I don’t like to talk about her, but I don’t mind talking about her with you.”
“When your time is up in Barcelona, then where are you going? Are you going back home?”
I realize there’s still so much that I don’t know. I guess our bodies don’t tell each other everything.
Her shoulders lift. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I have the return ticket that I can use at any time but…who knows. I guess it depends on what happens in Barcelona. Maybe I can stay and make money and fuck the Schengen Visa.”
“That’s a dangerous game, Ruby.”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to go all adult on me. I know that. But maybe it’s worth the danger.”
But in that case…staying here, with me, would be worth the danger?
Wouldn’t it be?
I shake that out of my head.
This is her life, it’s not based on what I want in mine.
“Anyway,” she says, taking a long sip of her coffee. “Maybe I’ll end up going home. Maybe I’ll get enough money to leave for a non-EU country and work there. I guess that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? The sky is the limit. There’s nothing but unknowns. That’s kind of freeing, don’t you think?”
&nb
sp; Sometimes I forget that she’s only twenty-two. That she’s fresh out of school. That she’s never traveled or been on her own before. This is her first chance to discover herself and I’m not about to judge her or get in her way.
I owe her that much.
“You’re going to thrive,” I tell her.
That brings a wide, genuine smile to her face. “You know what? I think I’ll thrive too.”
She glances at the clock on the microwave and makes a face. “But I won’t be thriving if I don’t get ready now. I’m running out of time.”
She takes a hurried sip of her coffee and sets the mug down. She quickly picks her lingerie and clothes off the floor, then scampers off toward the bedroom, her towel falling away at the last minute, giving me one last look at her body.
One last look.
I lean against the counter, trying to be okay with this, trying to focus on what she wants, but it’s not long before she’s coming back in the kitchen, dressed and ready to go.
“Okay, so I guess this is it.”
No.
It’s too soon.
“I’ll drive you to the airport,” I tell her.
She shakes her head, her expression wrought. “I’m not good at goodbyes.”
“No one is.”
“It will just…make things harder for me. I’m fine. I’m catching the airport bus. But I have to go soon. Like, now.”
“Let me at least drive you to the hostel.”
“I want to walk,” she says, her tone insistent. “I want to walk through Lisbon one last time. I need to say goodbye to this place too. I think this city has meant more to me than I realized.”
That I can understand.
And yet I can’t wrap my head around this being the end.
This.
I want to grab hold of the moment and make time bend to my will.
But I can’t.
She’s so young and she’s not yours anymore.
It was only for the night.
It was only so that the two of you could finally give in and see what you’d been missing.
Now you know what you were missing.
And you have to let her go.
I have to let her go.
“I’m going to miss you,” I tell her, my throat feeling thick, a pinch in my chest that I try to ignore, but fuck does it hurt.
“I’m going to miss you too,” she says softly. She stands on her tip toes and places a kiss on my nose.
And just like that, this is what we are now. One minute I’ve got my cock crammed so deep inside her that I’m seeing stars, the next she’s kissing me on the nose, telling me she’ll miss me.
Walking out of my life for good.
“Keep in touch, okay?” she says, giving me a sweet smile before turning to the door. Her hand goes on the handle and she hesitates for a moment before turning it.
Turn around.
Please.
Tell me you’ll stay.
We can make it work.
But both of us know that last part isn’t true. She was just dating Marco. There is no way that we would ever work now, not without bringing hell into our lives.
“Goodbye Ruby,” I manage to say. I can hear the pain in my voice.
She nods, still not looking at me.
“Goodbye, Luciano.”
Her hand turns the handle and the door opens. She steps out, eyes catching mine for a second before it closes.
And in that second I saw the future I could have had with her.
I think she saw it too.
I sigh and rest my head against the cool steel of the refrigerator, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the pain in my heart.
I suppose in the end, her leaving was for the best.
She probably saved the both of us by doing so.
She would have at least saved me from utter destruction.
Ruin.
And heartache.
She saved me from falling in love with her.
Part Two
Lisbon, Portugal
Two Years Later
“If you spin your love around
The secrets of your dreams
You may find your love is gone
And is not quite what it seemed”
- “Thru the Eyes of Ruby” Smashing Pumpkins
Twelve
Luciano
I remember the first football match I ever helped win, the one where I scored the winning goal. I was young, I think eight years old, and on the team at boarding school. The school wasn’t oriented toward football, but it was a huge part of it, and from the beginning the teachers there saw my potential. They encouraged me to play, said I had talent, and so I wanted to play the game to make them proud.
Those teachers were all I had most days.
In that game, we were tied. My mother and stepfather were watching this time, since it was near the start of Easter break, and they had come to pick me up and take me back to their home for a week. One of my teachers convinced them that they should come early to see me play.
Marco was there too, but he was just a baby. Every time I looked to the stands, my mother was fussing over him. Sometimes she wasn’t there at all, she was off on the sides with Marco, walking with him in her arms. I understand now that she was doing that to keep Marco entertained, that he would have started screaming otherwise. But back then all I noticed was that she didn’t care about me.
Then there was my stepfather, who never cheered for me once. He just watched me with his cold eyes. I swear he was rooting for the other team, looking disappointed whenever I managed to steal the ball.
Then I scored. The winning kick spinning and soaring past the goalie and everyone erupted into applause.
Everyone except my mother, who was nowhere to be found.
Everyone except my stepfather, who was staring right at me, not even managing a smile.
I’d like to say that it didn’t matter that day, because my team jumped on me in celebration, and the teachers were cheering for me, and my coach was hooting and hollering. I was the hero and it felt so fucking good.
But I would never be a hero to my family.
If anything, I was the villain.
I’d never find out why.
That night I went out for dinner with my mother and stepfather and Marco. I proudly wore the ribbon for winning. Marco reached out and took it, shoved it into his glass of milk.
I was angry. I reached out and got it out of the milk, but I knocked the glass over.
The milk spilled, went all over Marco, who started crying.
My mother was mad, she picked him up and took him to the bathroom to get cleaned up.
My stepfather just looked at me with a vicious glint in his eyes.
He said, so quietly that I could barely hear him, “If you ever make Marco cry again, I’m going to make you cry.”
But that wasn’t quite the truth.
Because later that night, he backhanded me for no reason.
And I didn’t cry.
And the years that passed, when he’d sling violent words at me, or whip me with his belt, or shove me into the wall, I never cried.
All that pain he caused, and I never cried.
And he never cheered.
Even now, as the crowd at Estádio José Alvalade goes nuts, waving their banners and flags, chanting and singing over the fact that we just won against Belenenses, I can see my stepfather in his usual seat, and he’s not cheering. Sure, the bigwigs he brought with him to the game are cheering loudly and the minute they catch on that he’s not, he jumps right into it, laughing and clapping politely, but I know the truth even if they don’t.
“Luciano Adrien Duarte Ribeiro!” our coach Leonardo practically yells at me, bringing my attention over to him, over to the things that matter.
I scored the winning goal this time, and the team is not about to let me forget it.
Leonardo puts his arm around my neck, pulling me down, and then a few of my teammates including Benedito pil
e on top of me until I have no choice but to collapse.
“Capitão!” someone yells. I think it was Fito. “Capitão! Capitão!”
Everyone is joyous, relieved. Hopeful.
It’s mid-December and this is our fifth win in a row, with only one more game before the end of the year. I’ve only been the team captain for a few months, yet this season it feels like we might have a chance at not only beating Benfica (who is currently ahead of us in points, but no matter), but qualifying for the Champions League.
Last year was the worst season ever in our club’s history. We were also eliminated from the Europa League group stage for the first time ever, ending in fourth place. After that, a lot of our team was traded, including our captain, which led to me stepping into my new role.
So far, it’s going well. Better than well. Even if we don’t come out on top, we’re doing a million times better than we were last year, working harder, playing like a unit, like a family out for blood. I feel like I’m finally doing what I’m meant to do, that I have the capabilities to lead and I’m finally using it to my advantage.
But while things in my career are finally picking up, finally starting to get me places, my relationship with my family has become more strained than ever.
My mother barely talks to me anymore, though to be fair, she’s withdrawing from everyone. She’s started drinking a lot and spends a lot of her time in their second home in Madeira, hiding from who knows what. Sometimes I wonder if my stepfather was ever abusive to her like he was to me, and if she’s hiding from him. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just life in general.
Tomás has worn a mask of pride in public. The more famous and revered I get, the more he pretends that he’s proud of me. He gets attention, as do his horses. He plays it up, all of the wealth and the success, like he’s trying to prove himself to someone, but I’m not sure who. All I know is what I’ve said in the past is true. The better I get, the more he hates me.
Late at night my mind takes on silly fears. It wonders what happens to a man’s heart when it’s swallowed by hate. Does it crush it? Does it make it shrink? Or does it grow with venom, until it consumes him?
The One That Got Away: A Novel Page 15
