"What are you doing here?" for the brio prompt meme thing pls
My prompt is anything that makes it obvious Dean is the third wheel and that he's incompetent and insufficient lmao
Rio's gaze is on Elizabeth when he says it, but he can still feel the incredulity radiating off of that jackass she married. It would be entertaining if Rio hadn't given up a weekend with Marcus to fly all the way out to Chicago for this damn conference, if he didn't feel the need to come check in on his business partner just to make sure she didn't do something stupid.
If she didn't keep giving him reasons not to trust her.
Still, there's a part of him—somewhere deep inside he doesn't want to acknowledge—that's pleased by the way she immediately gives him her full attention, the way the shock of seeing him standing there melts into anger, melts into resignation, melts into curiosity, melts into something more.
Her husband is getting ready to open his mouth, to make a big ol' scene probably, but she blinks back over at him, fixing him with those wide Bambi eyes, playing up the innocent housewife role she's so good at, that whole fragile white lady victim complex her husband keeps buying into, even though he's gotta know by now she's doing this cause she wants to be doing this.
And it's interesting the way she makes it sound like she's reminding him that Rio's dangerous, when really she's just afraid Dean's going to embarrass her. He's like a damn toddler being handed a lollipop just to stave off a tantrum. And it's something Rio still can't figure out because him and Elizabeth? They don't need the guy for any of this—his name’s not even on the paperwork. And Elizabeth doesn't love him—shit, she doesn't even respect him—but she won't leave him. It must be exhausting–paying the bills, taking care of the kids, running a house, and still she has to do all that pretending for someone who's supposed to be her partner.
Rio doesn't feel sympathy for her, not anymore, but if he did, it might be for that. For the loneliness she's clinging to just to placate whatever part of her can't let go of that perfect life she envisioned for herself. Sometimes he wants to crawl into her brain, pick it apart piece by piece just to find whatever memory—whatever feeling—it is she's clinging to so desperately that's got her stuck in this limbo between normalcy and potential.
But. Well, whatever motivates her's not important to him, not as long as she holds up her end of their arrangement.
So he just keeps giving her that camouflage smile for anybody watching, knowing she's smart enough to recognize there's poison dripping from his teeth.
"It's just a dance, Dean," Elizabeth says with a sigh, taking a step back from him. "Just... order some drinks and I'll meet you at the bar."
Dean doesn't let go of her hand, doesn't do anything but stand there open-mouthed and slack-jawed, eyes moving slowly between her and Rio, and Rio's patience is wearing thin.
"Bourbon, on the rocks," he instructs, eyes still on Elizabeth.
Her husband splutters, says, "Yeah, right, I'm not ordering a drink for you."
And Rio can see how much restraint it takes Elizabeth not to react, can see the pink start to slowly creep into her cheeks, and he wonders if it's from embarrassment or shame, if it’s from being married to a man that misses the implication altogether or just from being married to someone that never learned her drink, never learned her at all.
Whatever it is, she swallows it down, sends one last pleading look to her useless husband and the relief on her face when he finally backs away, when he starts to make his way over to the bar should feel like a victory but it pinches at something in Rio, stings in a way he can’t put his finger on.
He ignores it, slipping into the empty space in front of her, and snakes one arm around her waist, hand settling against the small of her back, holds up the other for her to take, and she does, gingerly placing her much smaller, much softer hand in his. Her skin looks extra pale in the dim lighting of the ballroom, stands starker against the backdrop of the black and dark fabrics adorning the people moving all around them. He trails his gaze along the line of her exposed skin, from the tips of her fingers resting in his palm, past the elegant twist of her wrist, up to the soft curve of her arm where it disappears beneath a deep shade of green, one he's never seen her in before. It looks good on her, even if the style is meant to downplay what she's really working with, meant to hide her away.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, body tensing when he pulls her with him as his feet begin the familiar box step of the waltz he learned when he was in the ninth grade.
"It's the Eighteenth Annual Conference for Midwest Spa Retailers and I'm a midwest spa retailer," he deadpans, casually drifting to a section of the dance floor more obscured from the bar, just to really get her husband all worked up, get him straining his neck to see what's happening.
"Funny," she says, like she thinks it's anything but. "I didn't see you once all day, you know, during the actual conference part, but of course, now that there's a chance to have a pissing contest, here you are."
Her grip on his shoulder is tight, like she thinks she's the one leading, but the rest of her body is starting to relax, going easily where he guides her.
"Why don't we just find a ruler and get this over with already," she chides, flippant as hell, provoking that part of him that can't leave it alone, that has to push back.
"Oh baby, you think I'm worried about size?" he asks, planting his feet so that her body collides with his, then holds her tight against the length of him, tilting his head to murmur into her ear. "Size don't mean nothing if you don't know how to use it. That a contest you really wanna have tonight, darlin’?"
Her throat bobs but she doesn't answer, doesn't try to move away either. He wants to lean back, wants to see the look on her face, see how hard she's trying to hide the truth. Instead he presses in closer, angles his hips just enough to make his point, and brushes his lips over the shell of her ear. "You remember how I felt inside you, yeah? How wet you got just on my fingers? You were begging me for more."
The hitch of her breath tugs at his core, has heat pooling low in his stomach, and he should just leave it at that, but she shifts against him, just a little, like she wants to grind down on his thigh, like she needs the friction, and fuck, he wants her to. Wants her to need it so bad she can't control herself, not even here in front of all these people.
"You still think about it?" he asks, bending his knee to let his thigh press into her, just enough for her to feel it, for her to want more. "'Bout how good I filled you up?"
"Yes," she whispers, voice barely audible over the din around them. He wasn't expecting it, goes straight to his cock and he knows she felt it—the twitch against her hip—by the way her voice comes out stronger when she asks, "Do you?"
And he knows they're not teenagers, knows they’re way too old to be doing this, but fuck he wants it, any way he can get it, even if it's just for a few more seconds. He hums, nodding his head where it's bowed down and ignores the way her hair catches in the stubble on his jaw.
"Think about the sounds you made," he admits, voice low, swaying their bodies just barely, feet not moving at all."'Bout how good you tasted."
"Yes," she breathes, an answer to a question he didn't ask, and he has to close his eyes.
"Think 'bout how good you looked when you were coming."
And shit, he means it. Never seen anything so perfect as the look on her face when that pleasure exploded through her body. Like a fucking religious experience, watching that release, the way her back arched and her body froze, how she floated there, suspended in time. If he hadn't know any better he'd have thought it was the rapture. Even now, just the memory of it is enough to make him want to get down on his knees.
It's dangerous, this power she has over him.
"Wanna make you come again," he confesses, relishing the way her whole body shudders against his, and that's the thing. He hasn't even touched her, not really, but just the suggestion's got her trembling, panties soaked, knees shaking and shit. Hell, even he's hard enough it's gonna be an awkward ass walk back up to his room but this kind of thing doesn't just happen. She might be married to someone else but for all of her sanctimonious bullshit, she's still right here in the dirt with Rio.
He gives himself one... two... three... seconds to revel in the moment. Then he opens his eyes.
"See, darlin’," he says, sliding his hand off her back. "It don't matter who's bigger. Ain't room for nobody inside you but me anyway."
He drops her hand, and takes a step back. There's a flush in her cheeks and a glint in her eye. She looks alive in a way he hasn't seen in a very long time, and it sends a thrill through him, the idea that maybe he's not the only one who's risen from the dead.
She's still standing there, arms hanging at her sides, when he slips into the crowd, and he wonders how long it'll take her to realize the keycard in her hand isn't for her room. Wonder if it’ll make a difference when she does.
