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,
