“I guess not,” I tell him. “Especially as I ended up here. Home.”
He picks up my hand and kisses my tattoo. “Home.”
The ranch is located on the north side of the island, in São Vicente, at the base of the mountains. It’s actually a longer drive than I thought it would be, considering how tiny Madeira is on the map.
We spend the hour talking about everything, as if we don’t know every single detail of each other’s lives. But, shit, it just feels good to talk to him. The phone and video messaging just can’t replace person-to-person interaction, especially between two people who do a lot of talking through their bodies.
“And how was your father?” Luciano asks me, as we head down a dirt road.
I shrug. “Fine. I mean, I think he was pissed that I was leaving again but hey, I’ll take it. Means he cares.”
“Of course he cares.”
Luciano says that, even though it’s been a tough go for my father and I putting our relationship back together. But while Luciano and his stepfather drifted apart for good, me and my father repaired what we could.
The thing is, if I hadn’t gotten deported and sent back, I would have never had that opportunity. I might have stayed in Europe until I died, because it felt so fucking scary to imagine ever going back, especially as time distorts things. Bad feelings become monstrous ones that eat you alive. Because I had to go back to Houston, I was forced to stop running for once in my life.
I was forced to make amends with my family, to make up for lost time, to try and make something out of the situation. That’s what I meant when I said it takes time to see the diamonds under the shit. There are blessings in disguise around every corner, and you can always find the good in whatever life hands you, even if you don’t see it at the time. Eventually it will reveal itself, and everything else will slide into place. It’s hard to make sense of life but when that clarity comes, it feels like you’re plugged into the universe.
And this universe spun me right back to Luciano.
“Do you think he’ll come visit?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I tell him. “I mean, he could get a free flight.”
“I can’t believe he’s still flying.”
“He’s got a cushy gig. I know Sharon has been dying to come here.”
Sharon is my father’s wife, which I guess makes her my stepmother. She’s actually really nice, and once we got to know each other and she knew what to do with my energy (which, I know, isn’t for everyone), we got along well. I have to say, it’s nice to have a mother figure in my life for once. I still cry over the loss of my own mother sometimes, but as vague as the pain feels sometimes, it’s gotten easier to manage.
I glance at Luciano, my heart warming at the sight of him, knowing how much he’s gone through recently, how much we both have.
And yet here we are.
Lost and stumbling together.
Except, maybe, a little less lost.
A little more found.
Finally, he pulls the truck up to the massive ranch house I’ve seen in a million videos and pictures. Again, it’s one of those things that you need to see in person.
It’s huge, white, sprawling, with a red-tiled roof. There are tawny fields stretching out in all directions, with the green craggy mountains behind it. I can see the stables to the side, then the barn. I know beyond that must be the sheep.
I really had no idea that part of Luciano’s dream was to raise sheep. I mean, I knew he still loved his horses and now that he’s no longer on the team, he’s able to ride them again. But he bought this place and the sheep that came with it and now this is his thing.
He looks the part too, with his wild hair and his beard, and the way he seems to suit the dramatic landscape.
He gets out of the truck while I fiddle with the seatbelt and he opens the door for me.
Bends down and scoops me up into his arms, like a groom would carry his bride over the threshold.
I yelp. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he says gruffly as he carries me toward the porch of the house. Even though I’m fairly heavy, he handles me with such ease, his muscles not even straining. I wrap my fingers around his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin, holding on as we go up the steps and then he kicks in his front door dramatically.
I laugh. “You’re not going to give me a tour?”
“Oh, I’m going to give you a tour.” He carries me through the house, straight to the bedroom at the back. He pauses at the foot of the bed. “The tour starts with me.”
He throws me on it and I bounce, laughing playfully.
“You better take off your fucking clothes,” he says to me, lifting his shirt over his head. “Unless you want me to rip them off you.”
I stare at him in a trance.
His gorgeous sculpted shoulders and arms, the wide expanse of his pecs, the lines of his abs. He looks as perfect as he did the last time I was with him, except his six-pack has softened into a four-pack and his chest has some greying hair. He looks beautifully mature yet stunningly youthful at the same time, his skin the color of gold.
Then there is his dick.
Perfectly cut, rigid, pulsing for me.
My god, I’ve missed him.
“Ruby,” he warns.
I shake my head, lost in my lust, but then I work quickly. I discard my tunic, my leggings, bra, underwear, shoes and socks, the urgency building inside me like I’ve been set on fire.
For the first time in
