Page 25 of Rio (Redcars #3)

A faint smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. It was gone in a second—but it had been there. He looked at me then, really looked, as if he was trying to see past whatever mask I wore. It was both unnerving and grounding at the same time.

“At least it wasn’t that someone found you,” he murmured, and I sighed.

“I hate feeling as if I’m a liability and a danger to everyone I connect with.”

Rio’s gaze didn’t shift. “You’re not.”

“Not yet.”

“You never were,” he said. “Not to me.”

That… hit. Somewhere between my ribs and my heart. I swallowed hard, throat tightening. “No?”

“Mine to watch over, mine to protect.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I stared at the scars across his knuckles, the bruising along his ribs, the new hurt layered over old.

And he let me. I didn’t want or need to be cared for, or protected, but part of me—some ragged buried part—ached at the idea of being seen .

Of being someone’s to guard, not because I was weak, but because I mattered.

I’d spent so long surviving on my own that the thought of someone standing between me and the chaos didn’t only unsettle me—it terrified me. But Rio didn’t hover. He didn’t push. He let the moment stretch between us, a silent tether I hadn’t realized I’d needed .

I shifted in my seat, my shoulder brushing his, and he didn’t move away. Not even a flicker.

“I’ll let you protect me,” I said quietly, eyes locked on his, “as long as you understand—I can protect myself any time I want to.”

That pulled his gaze to mine, sharp and focused. Something serious stirred behind those dark eyes, a flicker of interest—or challenge.

“How would you take me down?” he asked.

I lifted a brow, let the question sit for a second. Then I leaned in a little.

“Depends. I’d pivot from your dominant side—most likely your right—step in close before you can get full extension on a punch. Strike your solar plexus, or go lower, disrupt your stance. I know Krav Maga, a little jiu-jitsu, some Filipino knife work.”

He tilted his head, a small, appreciative sound escaping him.

“Or,” I said, voice dipping, “I’d just shoot you.”

And then I pressed a finger right between his eyes. Held it there.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, Rio’s hand came up slowly, wrapping around mine. Then he tugged—just once—and I leaned, drawn toward him.

Heat inched up the back of my neck, and for a beat, we were quiet. This would never work. He was the big bad alpha type, and even though he said he didn’t want a twink to rail, I was no submissive guy who wanted someone else to take the reins. But…

Our lips met.

There was nothing soft or questioning about it—just heat, need, the clash of two people wound past breaking. He gasped into the kiss, a sharp exhale of pain, and I stilled instantly.

“Your lip,” I murmured, and grasped his face between both hands. His skin was warm beneath my palms, rough from stubble, and flushed with adrenaline. “Stay still,” I ordered, not unkindly but firm.

He relaxed under my touch, his shoulders easing, his breathing coming a little slower now, and I filed that response away under interesting things about Rio Villareal .

The man who never backed down from a fight, who carried pain as if it had been stitched into his bones—he stilled the second I asked.

And somehow, that made my chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Then I kissed him more carefully, my lips barely brushing his.

But I was hard now, and the weight of that truth pulsed through me.

I climbed into his lap, tentative at first, testing the boundary—his body was one big knot of bruises and pain, and still, this big man who only knew how to fight and bleed…

melted. His arms came up automatically, strong around my waist, and he whimpered—just a little—as if the sound was dragged from somewhere deep and private.

Fuck.

I could come right now, just from that.

I pulled back an inch, stared at him. The left side of his mouth was swollen, his breath shaky, his eyes dark with something that looked an awful lot like surrender. But not weakness. Never that. Just… trust.

My heart thudded hard.

“I could’ve killed him,” Rio said, voice raw.

“But you didn’t,” I whispered. “You got him help.”

“I nearly…”

“Stop talking,” I said, brushing my thumb over his lips.

Rio shook his head slowly, overwhelmed. “Danny was just a kid, same as me. Took a deal to drop hands in the third just to get money for his sister and her baby, and I was angry, riled up, and I hit him so fucking hard.”

“The guy tonight?”

“No, Danny… way back…” His expression was unfo cused. “The reason I did time… I never meant to kill him. I’ve lived with it every day since. If I’d seen what was happening, if I hadn’t been so fucking angry. Just one more second…”

He was spiraling—questioning himself, lost in memories too jagged to hold. I saw it in the way his eyes drifted past me, as if he was slipping back into a place he’d never escaped. And I couldn’t let him go there.

He needed someone to stop him from thinking.

I pressed my hand to his cheek, and made him see me. Here. Now. “Don’t move,” I said again, breath catching.

And he didn’t. Not an inch.

“Look at me, Rio,” I demanded, and slowly he focused on me, looked into my eyes, and I saw the moment he was back in the room.

I shifted my hips, grinding down on him, testing the way his hands flexed against my waist, the hitch in his breath. “Tell me what hurts,” I whispered.

He blinked, breath ragged. “My ribs. My head.”

“And the rest?” I asked, voice lower.

“My left knee.”

I nodded, noting each injury. Then I leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “Good. That leaves me with options. ”

I set a rhythm—not too fast, careful of his injuries, but purposeful. Rocking against him, mouth finding his again in another kiss, softer this time but no less intense. I kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the line of his throat. I was careful. Forceful. In control.

Across the garage, Enzo and Robbie were likely still in the back room. They could walk in at any moment, and the thought thrilled me.

“They could come out here,” I murmured against his ear.

His pupils widened, his breath catching again. But he didn’t move or stop me. He waited, lips parting, the tension in his frame replaced by something else entirely.

Want.

Trust.

Submission—only to me, only in this moment.

And I wanted to ruin him, slowly, reverently, in all the ways that wouldn’t hurt him—unless he asked.

I wanted him on his knees. I wanted to take him apart with my tongue and mouth, to learn every scar and hidden tremor, to worship his strength and unravel it with every deliberate flick and suck.

I wanted to fuck him—not just out of need, but because it was him.

Because I wanted this with him. It was impossible, it was reckless, it was right there on the edge of too much—but I’d take now .

I’d take this, his warmth under me, his hands on my hips, the shape of him pressed against me as if we were made to fit.

I’d take every breathy sound, every second of surrender, and wrap it around me as armor against the dark.

Just tonight.

Just for now.