Page 21 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

Rio

ONCE OR TWICE ... OKAY , more times than I cared to admit, after Owen had gone back to Europe, I found myself watching the sky and wondering if he was looking at the same one.

But then I’d remember—the eight-hour time difference meant we weren’t even seeing the same color of sky.

I’d look down and see the streets of Blueshore or the lawns of my soon-to-be-deserted college, while his gaze probably met the winding cobblestone alleys of some grand European city.

We weren’t looking at the same things. We weren’t the same.

Back then, I told myself it was just nostalgia—because he’d been an escape, a symbol of something bigger, better, something to aspire to. A success story in the making. A great dream while it lasted. I wasn’t missing him as much as I was missing the version of myself I was when I was with him.

But now ... now I knew with certainty that when his knee healed and he left—and I knew he would because he was working hard toward it and his improvement was tangible—I wouldn’t just miss the idea of him. I’d miss him .

Worse, I wouldn’t just miss him, but also my heart that he’d take with him for the road.

Looking through the car windshield on the way back from Simon’s, I cursed gravity—because it was the only way to explain the inevitable, forceful pull between us. But no matter how strong it was, we still weren’t the same.

Next to me, Owen was silent, maybe swallowed by guilt, too. That was the second emotion I’d seen on his face when my brother and Nicole walked in. The first was even more unsettling—a fierce willingness to torch everything for the sake of one moment.

Yet, feeling him next to me, his scent lingering on my skin, his touch etched on my body, his taste still in my mouth—I knew that if he so much as leaned in, I’d be caught in his gravity all over again.

Like guilty delinquents, exercising their right to remain silent, we walked up the path from the back of the house.

My mind ricocheted between all the reasons I couldn’t go for it, and the fact that we were about to be alone on the second floor, with two bedrooms waiting on either side, minutes after the kiss we’d shared—the heat, the hunger, the way he’d pulled me to him like he had a right to.

And I let him, because I wanted it just as much.

“Your brother sure took his sweet time,” Walter announced from the sofa the moment we stepped inside.

Every light in the house was on, and Walter was wide awake.

Thank you . I had never loved that cranky old bastard more .

Expecting to come back to a dark, silent house—and my own inability to withstand temptation—I was relieved to be spared of both.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” I said.

“I didn’t. I’m watching TV.”

Three hours past his usual bedtime.

“NCIS?” Owen asked, jutting his chin toward the screen.

“I didn’t know you liked that,” I said, dropping onto the couch beside Walter.

Owen looked at me then—the first time our eyes met since we’d broken off that devouring kiss and came out of the fort. His little smile was there, subtle but knowing. I see what you’re doing.

You’re welcome, I tried to wordlessly communicate back.

I wasn’t being altruistic—because if this ended badly, it wouldn’t just be his friendship with Simon that shattered.

“Well. Night, Gramps, Rio. Babysitting was fun. And exhausting like a penalty shootout after overtime.”

“Good night,” Walter and I said in unison.

“All that physio, jogging on the beach, and working that leg in the gym is paying off,” Walter said, watching Owen, who was out of earshot. “He seems almost as good as new.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. He’d just hit the point where my body and heart were at war.

I kept my focus on the TV, even when Walter started shifting, yawning, signaling he was ready to turn in. I needed a buffer, a safety valve, something to keep me from knocking on Owen’s door and taking exactly what I wanted .

I had done it once before. And I knew I could do it again.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything” I had said back then, but it did, and I knew that it would mean much more now.

Much. More.

I NEVER KNEW MY BODY could react like this—not just to someone’s touch, but to my own touch on him. My head was already swimming from that first kiss—the way Owen responded to me, how he kissed me back, how he tasted, how he deepened the kiss until my knees trembled even though I was sitting.

Then he pulled away, breaking the kiss but staying close.

I brushed my fingers over his shoulder and down his arm, and even that—just that—sent a ripple of heat to my core. I slipped my hand under his sleeve, fingertips tracing bare skin over corded bicep, and the burn inside me ignited.

If he had sent me back to my room right then, I wasn’t sure my legs would have carried me.

I kissed him again—because I wanted to, needed to, burned to.

This time, Owen didn’t hold back. He ravished me, pulling me against him so hard I found myself straddling him.

We were face to face, hands cupping each other’s faces, fingers threading into hair, grasping, desperate.

A quiet moan slipped from me, pulled out by the sheer force of arousal, by sensations so overwhelming I could barely make sense of them .

Owen’s hands chafed down my back, then lower—gripping my ass, dragging me even closer until my core was flush against him. And I felt it.

For the first time in my life, I felt what it was like to have a man hard against me.

If I thought I was aroused before, now I was drenched. I rocked against him, and his groan vibrated into my mouth. His hands raked under my shirt, palms rough and searching, branding a path up my back. When he reached my bra, he hesitated, then slowly slid his hands back out, breaking the kiss.

For a second, I thought he was stopping. Regretting.

But then he looked at me—I’d never seen Owen like that—his eyes were stormy skies, dark and wild, as if he was barely holding himself back. Desire. I’d recognize it later when I had the capacity to think.

He held my gaze, waiting.

I nodded once.

In a flash, he grabbed the hem of my shirt and whipped it off me. His eyes darkened further as they roamed over my black lace bra, his chest rising and falling faster.

He exhaled and brought his hands to the sides of my neck, then smoothed them down—over my collarbones, my breasts, lingering there before continuing to my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my jeans.

Then he traced back up, cupping the lace-covered flesh as his lips found my neck, kissing me senseless.

I tugged at his shirt, and we stripped it off him too.

Like a starving person at a feast, I didn’t know where to touch first—his warm, bare skin, the firm planes of his shoulders and chest, the ridges of his eight or six-pack—I lost count—abs. My palms explored greedily, mapping him .

He kissed me again, deep and consuming, one hand holding me in place, the other covering my breast. When we broke for air, his fingers skimmed my back, finding the clasp of my bra.

He looked at me as if ensuring, again, I was okay with it.

With a flick, he unfastened it, then dragged his hands back to my shoulders, slowly rolling the straps down. My breath came fast, anticipation knotting in my stomach.

Our eyes locked.

Then I let the bra fall away.

For a beat, neither of us moved. Owen’s gaze dropped, his inhale sharp. Then, unable to resist, he smoothed his hands over my stomach and up, cupping my naked breasts in his palms.

My eyes drifted shut.

I felt his breathing as he began kneading me. I heard myself moaning quietly at the way my nipples hardened against his touch.

Then he shifted.

I opened my eyes just as Owen turned with me in his arms, laying me back on the bed with him on top of me, our legs still dangling off the edge.

His eyes met mine, dark and intent.

He kissed me again, deeper, slower, as his hands trailed down my body, his lips following. He placed hot kisses on my neck, then lower, his tongue gliding over my clavicle.

He lifted his head, taking me in beneath him like this, bare and wanting.

Then he dipped his head again, and I nearly cried out at the sensation—his lips closed over my nipple, tongue flicking, sucking. The pleasure shot straight through me, making me arch up, desperate to press myself against him, to feel that hardness again, to grind against it.

I had never wanted anything more.

With one hand, he pushed my breast up to his mouth while the other kneaded my other breast, his touch unhurried but insistent.

I had no idea what I was doing—except raking my fingers over his back, maybe digging in my nails, just trying to pull him closer though there was no space left between us.

Owen moved to my other breast, then traced a slow path down my stomach with his lips. I felt his mouth at my navel, just above the waistband of my jeans. He lifted himself, his fingers brushing my skin as he popped the first button. Then the next. And the next.

He stilled.

I could see the top of his face from this angle, the way his brows lifted just slightly, the flitting unreadable expression crossing his features. And then I knew.

Not only was I wearing the black lace panties that matched my bra—one of only two sets I owned—but he’d seen the tattoo. The flowery infinity symbol inked low on my hip, the one I’d gotten three months ago when I wanted to feel fearless. Daring. Sexy. Everything I hoped I could be one day.

Owen lifted his gaze, locking it onto mine. And then—the secret smile. That slow, knowing curve of his lips.

When the surprise faded, understanding settled in. It was as if he knew. Knew why I had it done.

Still holding my gaze, his smirk deepening, he dragged a finger, just one fingertip back and forth across the tattoo on my hip. The sensation streaked straight down my body like a live wire, as if he was running that finger between my legs, where I felt the lace already soaking wet.

I closed my eyes.