Are we on the same page tonight? I can’t tell.
Our food comes at that moment, breaking up the tension that’s been swirling around, giving us both something else to focus on.
And, wow, the food is good.
“Oh my god,” I say as I shovel the pasta in my mouth, my eyes nearly rolling back in my head. I know I’m making orgasm faces to rival John Mayer right now, but I don’t care.
“Good?” Luciano asks, chuckling.
“Amazing.”
When we’re both done eating and I’m on my third glass of wine, I ask Luciano what his other dreams are.
“Other than being the captain of a Champions League team,” I clarify.
He stares at me for a moment, tapping his fingers along the edge of the table. “I guess I have the same dreams everyone else has.”
“You need to be more specific. You don’t know that I used to dream of running away and joining Cirque du Soleil. Thankfully, it was short-lived after I discovered that French Canadians are weird.”
“Okay, so perhaps I don’t have that dream,” he admits. His expression grows serious. “But…I dream of falling in love and settling down, I suppose.”
It feels hard to breathe all of a sudden. He’s just so fucking honest, always was.
“You haven’t found that yet?”
“Have you?”
The other day Elena asked me if I’d ever been in love before. I had to tell her no. That’s not what I did. I wasn’t built for that. It was something meant for other people who had their shit together, not for me with my mother and my father and my shattered path and the way I kept pinballing through life, bouncing from place to place with nowhere to land.
“No,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Just haven’t…”
I want to say I haven’t found the right guy, but that would be a lie.
Because I did find the right guy.
He’s sitting across from me, his eyes pining me in place, searching for the truth I would rather keep buried.
Luciano is the man I could fall in love with, if I only let myself.
But I know that just because he’s the right man for me, that doesn’t mean it’s meant to happen. Doesn’t mean it’s the right time. Doesn’t mean it won’t end with my heart broken and bleeding.
Fucking hell, things took a heavy turn.
I think he’s thinking the same, because he flags down the waiter and asks for the bill.
Then he turns to me and I fully expect him to call it a night, perhaps walk me to my hotel, and let that be that.
But he just looks at me with dark eyes and asks, “Do you want to grab another drink somewhere? I know just the place.”
I know that look in his eyes. I know it means it might be a late night for me.
I know it means that things might get complicated again.
And of course I say yes.
Fourteen
Ruby
The streets of Lisbon are alive tonight.
The yellow trams trundle and creak past us, packed with tourists, while holiday shoppers crowd the sidewalks, their arms laden with their purchases. Teenagers hang out in the shadows, drinking inconspicuous beers and smoking. Christmas lights and decorations flank the stores, bustling with business, despite how late it is.
On every corner there’s a man selling chestnuts, the delicious smell wafting through the air. I know from experience that roasted chestnuts don’t taste as good as they should, but it totally brings me into the holiday spirit. I’ll be spending Christmas with Elena and her family this year, and even though Christmas in Finland is among the best in the world (Santa lives there, after all), there’s a part of me that wants to spend it here, where the air is mild and the world seems so much more chaotic, gritty and alive.
I don’t know where we’re headed tonight, but I don’t care. It’s just nice to walk with Luciano at my side, his presence both comforting and exhilarating.
Sometimes he touches the small of my back, guiding me around a corner, and even through my leather jacket, I swear I feel his heat through my clothing. Other times his hand brushes against mine when we’re moving through crowds, and it takes everything in me to not reach out and grab it.
We stop by a square with black and white patterns on the tiles, watching a group of incredibly talented break dancers doing crazy moves to a loud beat. There’s a crowd around them, clapping along and cheering.
I stand beside Luciano, glancing up at him. He’s watching the dancers keenly, smiling, nodding his head to the music, and I can’t help but think about how much he’s changed. In some ways, he hasn’t changed at all. He’s what, thirty years old? Obviously older than me, but still young. And yet the responsibility of being a team captain seems to have made him so much more of a man. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think his drive to succeed has kicked into gear, yet instead of making him more serious, he’s become more loose and playful, more like that persona he used to have. He’s become the person he wanted to be.
I wish I could say the same for me. The more he seems to be going places, the more lost I get. I feel like I’m this swirling, tumbling galaxy, always moving, always searching, and he’s the sun. He stays in place, bright and burning and powerful, while I spin around him to no avail.
He takes his focus off the dancers and eyes me. “They’re fucking good,” he says.
“They are.” But really, all I want to look at is him.
I want to touch him.
Being this close to him, shoulder to shoulder, breathing him in, feeling the electricity and heat flowing off him, like it’s going right through my lungs and into my veins, it’s making it hard to think about anything else.
Then I realize who I’m with.
Luciano Adrien Duarte Ribeiro. He’s not just anyone. He’s a somebody to this city. To Sporting’s downtrodden fans, he’s their savior. And even though people are watching the dancers, sometimes they watch us. I know he doesn’t end up in photos or gossip sites often, because there’s apparently nothing to report. But us? If he did hold my hand, if he did show the affection I pray he still feels for me, that would be something. That would be huge.
And his brother would see it.
So now I understand.
“Should we get to the bar?” I ask, suddenly feeling exposed.
“Of course,” he says.
We walk past the crowd, some heads turning, and then he takes me up the hill towards my old hood, Bairro Alto. Not exactly the place I thought we’d go.
And when he shows me the bar, I’m taken aback again.
It’s pretty much a dive bar. I mean, it’s really cool, my kind of place. It’s dark and it’s tiny. There’s dried meat hanging from the ceiling for some reason.
“This used to be a butcher,” he explains as we walk in. He nods at the bartender who seems to know him well, and we take a seat at the bar.
“What will you have?” Luciano asks me.
“Dirty martini,” I say without thinking. I wink. “I’m feeling kind of dirty tonight.”
If Luciano didn’t know what I had on my mind, now he does.
He swallows audibly, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips. “Well, then.”
He turns to the bartender. “Dirty martini, por favor.”
“You’re not having anything to drink?” I ask.
“I had a glass of wine at dinner,” he says, and then playfully bumps my elbow with his. “You trying to get me drunk, Ruby?”
“Can you blame me?” I say, my voice going husky. “Last time we drank scotch, I rather liked where we ended up.”
Another swallow. He shakes his head briefly, a smile curving his lips.
“I have to get up early for practice,” he says, but the words sound futile.
“I won’t keep you late.”
He breathes in sharply through his nose, his brows lowering as he gazes at me.
There it is. That fire. Right back where we left off, like nothing changed.
/>
He wants me, and I sure as fuck still want him.
I lean over, whispering slowly in his ear, my hand resting on the taut muscles of his thigh. “If I moved my hand, how hard would I find you?”
He sucks in a breath and I smile to myself, giving his thigh a light squeeze. I turn my head and look around the bar to see who is watching. It’s pretty much empty. There’s a pair of tourists looking over a map of Lisbon in the corner, an old man drinking by himself and reading a book, and by the door there’s a couple on a date, full-on making out. No one is paying us any attention, and even the bartender’s back is to us as he shakes my drink.
I bite my lip, pulling my face back from Luciano just enough to watch his expression, and then I slowly slide my hand up over his thigh and onto his fly where, fucking hell, I feel him as hard as rebar.
Luciano hisses softly and I expect him to tell me to stop.
But I grip his cock through his jeans instead and give him a squeeze, watching as his heavy lids close and his mouth falls open.
Why am I torturing the both of us like this?
The bartender starts to turn around and I quickly take my hand off him, not that the bartender can see anything anyway, but I also want my drink.
He places the cold martini in front of me and I thank him, “Obrigada,” before lifting the drink to my lips and taking a sip. Damn. That’s good shit.
I steal a look at Luciano, who still has his eyes closed, brows low.
Then he takes in a sharp breath through his nose.
His intense gaze lands on my lips.
He leans into me, carefully getting off his seat. “Enjoy your drink,” he says, his voice rough, giving me goosebumps. “I’ll be back.”
He gets up and quickly walks toward the back of the bar, adjusting his pants as he goes.
Enjoy my drink?
Oh my god.
He’s going to go jack off in the restroom.
I take a quick gulp of the martini, reach into my purse, clasp the condom in my palm, and then take off after him.
He’s not getting off without me.
I go around the corner and faintly knock on the door of the bathroom.
“Luciano,” I hiss. “Let me in.”
The door opens.
He stares at me for one heated second before he’s pulling me inside, locking the door behind us, then pressing me against the wall with a rough, fiery kiss.
“Fuck,” he groans and gasps against my mouth, our lips melding with each other, driven by the pure, raw, intense desire that’s snaking through me. I can only whimper, the desperation flooding me, clouding my ability to think and see. I can only feel, and what I feel is him.
The bathroom is small, as they are all over Europe, but it’s big enough for him to grab my face and twist me around until my ass is backed against the sink. He reaches down, hands under my thighs, and then lifts me up, placing me on the rim.
This is going to be one hot, dirty fuck.
One I’ve been dreaming about for two years.
“I’ve never needed to come so badly,” he murmurs, breathless. I wrap my legs around his waist as his hands shove up my dress, fingers sliding into my underwear. “God, Ruby, you’re already so wet.”
“Can’t hide how I feel about you, can I?” I ask, my head going back against the mirror, my body surrendering to the slick, hurried touch of his hands. Then I hold out the condom that was hidden in my fist.
He takes it from me without saying anything.
Quickly unzips his fly, taking his cock out.
I stare at it, such a beautiful, perfect dick, and watch as he tears open the condom, sliding it on his thick length with such precision.
Then his mouth is at my neck, biting, sucking, and my hands are in his hair, digging into his shoulders, silently begging for him to fuck me.
I get my wish.
He positions himself and then thrusts up inside me, so hard the air is expelled from my lungs. I hold him tighter, making fists in his hair, groaning loudly, as he starts to pump into me with hot, fast strokes. His tongue and lips are everywhere, my mouth, my neck, my chest, his hands are roaming over me with a frantic yearning, and it hits me how much my body has craved this.
From the way he’s grasping me, kissing me, I know it’s the same for him.
All our patience is gone.
We are hunger personified.
He fucks me quick and hard, his hips rutting against me, my ankles crossed behind his back, pushing him in with each thrust. His hand slips down, sliding his fingers over my clit, and the vicious need that’s been consuming me is all too ready to let go.
I come so quickly, it’s like I’ve fallen into a slipstream, fast and molten and drowning me and he strokes me again and again, hard and slick, until I’m calling out in a choked cry, trying to keep quiet but failing.
The world bursts open and then he’s grunting into my neck, swearing as he bites my ear, grasping at my breast. His hips falter and then they pick up the pace again, pushing in harder and harder, his breath heavy and ragged until he goes silent for a second.
“Fuck,” he cries out softly, shuddering and shaking as he comes.
He presses his teeth to my neck as his rhythm gradually slows, and I know he’s about to still, about to pull out. That we just fucked in a public restroom and there’s no reason to linger.
But I want to linger. I want him to stay inside me. When he’s inside me, I feel more than just full, I feel like he’s filling up the empty and ugly corners inside me. There are so many of them and he’s the one that makes them whole again. He’s the one that makes my heart race and skip but also soothes it. When he’s inside me, I don’t feel the fear, I just feel everything he gives me.
I place both my hands on his face, marveling at how damn gorgeous he is, taking in his sleepy soft eyes as they search mine, the lazy satisfaction on his lips, his stubble rough and skin hot against my palms. I want to hold his face all day, stare at it, relish it. I just want to be with him in every way I can.
Calm your tits, I scold myself. One fuck in a restroom doesn’t mean you get to be obsessed.
But, fuck, what if it’s already too late?
“Ruby girl,” he says to me in a low murmur, leaning in to kiss me on my lips. My god, to hear him call me that again…
Then he pulls out and I feel so intensely alone and vulnerable, it scares me to death. What happened to the carefree girl who never got attached, who never caught feelings, who soared from place to place like a bird without a flock?
“Are you okay?” he asks me, when he realizes I’m still sitting there on the sink. He throws the condom in the wastebasket and then comes over to me, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me up and onto the ground.
“We should go back,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “As much as I want to be in here all night.”
I nod, smoothing down my dress.
I exit first, returning to my martini.
The bartender raises his brow. He knows.
Oh, and the old man with the book? He’s not even reading it anymore.
I suppose we might have been loud.
As I sit down and go back to finishing my martini, Luciano comes out of the restroom. I laugh to myself, thinking how obvious we are.
I drink the rest of the martini down in one gulp and thank the bartender, while Luciano places twenty euros on the bar.
We exit into the crisp winter air and I’m laughing, nearly stumbling, holding onto his arm.
“What?” Luciano asks, but he’s laughing too.
“I don’t know, I think the whole bar just heard us having sex.”
He shrugs. “Free entertainment, I suppose.” He stops and takes his phone from his blazer pocket, glancing at the time. “Would you rather me walk you back to your hotel or do you want to take a cab?”
I want him to walk me back. I don’t want this night to end.
But I know he has practice. That his team is important.
“A cab
is fine,” I tell him.
“Perfect, we’ll get one together.”
So he flags down a cab and we get in and now that it’s later, the streets are emptier and the journey is quick. The whole time he holds my hand in his, his thumb slowly rubbing against my skin, leaving his mark on me.
Before I know it, the cab pulls in front of my hotel and I unbuckle my seatbelt, twisting to face Luciano.
“I guess this is goodbye again?”
I don’t want it to be goodbye.
I’ll die if it’s true.
Don’t let this be all this can be.
He shakes his head, a strand of wavy hair falling across his forehead. I reach out and brush it back. “It’s not goodbye,” he says. “Tomorrow, I’m going to pick you up after practice and take you away somewhere.”
I grin with relief. “Where?”
“It’s a surprise.” He leans in and kisses me softly on my lips. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, my voice sounding small.
I get out of the cab and watch it pull away, driving off into the night, the exhaust hanging in the cold air. But I’ve never felt warmer.
Fifteen
Luciano
“Where’s your fucking head at, Luciano?” Benedito yells at me.
I avoid his eyes, running past him to get the ball that apparently soared past me, and I didn’t even attempt to make it stop.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, spinning around and kicking it back to him.
Practice is wrapping up and I’ve spent most of it with my head in the fucking clouds.
Or, to be more specific, it’s been wrapped up in Ruby.
Benedito runs over to me, his eyes narrowed.
“What?” I say, throwing out my arms in exasperation.
“You’re being sloppy. Not a good look, Capitão.”
“We all have our days.”
“Not you,” he says, poking his finger into my chest. “Never you. You’re always the one who has the focus, even when we don’t. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. Not even a little.”
He observes me for a moment. “Then something is right. What went right for you?”
The One That Got Away: A Novel Page 18
