Page 49 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)
Rio
HE WAS MY FIRST, AND I wanted him to be my last.
His words still echoed in my heart, the gravel of his voice reverberating in my body.
I wasn’t prepared for this.
For the way he kissed me like it had been years.
For the way my back met the dining area wall, and every thought in my head scattered like petals in a storm.
His hands were everywhere—possessive, searching, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold on or consume me.
And God, I wanted both.
I clung to him, anchoring myself to the only thing that made sense from the start—him. My Owen.
From the wall, we staggered together, barely making it to the dining table where my hips met the edge, and he lifted me like we’d always been like that. Like he’d always been mine, even here, right on the wood where he once spelled out mine on a board of innocent little letter tiles.
That night, he’d first claimed me with the thing I appreciated most—words. Words didn’t come easy for me, and he didn’t waste them .
Then he’d claimed me with his hands, his mouth, his body.
The edge of the wood pressed into the backs of my thighs, but I didn’t care.
Not with Owen’s mouth on mine—urgent, hungry, like he couldn’t get close enough.
My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He pushed his hands under my shirt, dragging it up and over my head, and I fumbled to get his off too—and when I did, I froze.
My breath caught. On his left ribcage, the skin was still healing.
A fresh tattoo.
Thin, delicate lines curved into a river. And just above it, in clean black lettering: her name is Rio.
My song. My name. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. I touched it carefully, reverently, like I might smudge the ink with my fingertips. “Owen ...”
He stilled under my touch, his chest rising hard beneath my hand. “Now it’s permanent,” he said, his voice husky. “Just like us. Just like you.”
My heart thudded against my ribs, my eyes stung with tears—as if my body couldn’t contain the depth of emotion and had to spill it out somehow. “I love you,” I managed to whisper, but it was so much more than that. Our eyes locked and I hoped he could read it all written in there.
He kissed me again—softer this time, but no less intense.
His lips dragged to my neck, my collarbone, lower.
He laid me back slowly onto the table, his mouth trailing after his hands as they swept down my body.
Each kiss, each breath against my skin, made my back arch, made my whole body pulse with anticipation.
My jeans were tugged off somewhere between a gasp and a moan, his palms skimming over every inch of exposed skin like he was relearning me.
I watched him watching me—eyes dark, jaw tight, like he was holding back everything he felt just to keep it from undoing him.
His hands explored as if he was memorizing or recalling every inch. As if he was mapping the geography of home.
I slid my hands over his chest, his shoulders, the tight ridges of him—touching every inch that now belonged to me. My fingers didn’t just explore—they made a vow.
And Owen was no longer holding back.
Our eyes locked as he pushed deep into me.
“I love you, Rio Mio,” he rasped.
I couldn’t speak—just held his gaze. I was drowning in it like he was sinking inside me.
His body, his words, that ink beneath his skin. All of it was a claim, a promise.
This is us now.
Twenty-two years after I first met him, sixteen since he became my first, Owen was mine. All mine.
I’d spent so long trying not to hope for this. And now he was here, not just passing through—real, solid, choosing me, choosing us .
We both knew it. The kitchen countertop knew it.
The shower in his room. The bed in mine.
The sofa, the coffee table, even the wall halfway up the stairs.
We had the house to ourselves, and we made good use of it—declaring our love, each other’s names, and unintelligible half-words, half-groans in every corner.
Now we had to tell the rest of the world.