Page 26 of Rio (Redcars #3)

EIGHTEEN

Rio

He wasn’t asking anything from me.

That was what threw me. Lyric was hot and intense, sure, but he was also tender.

He didn’t cling. He didn’t beg. He didn’t look at me as if I had to save him or make promises I couldn’t keep.

He just moved as if he knew what he wanted—and what he wanted was me .

Not the fighter, not the protector. Just… me.

And I didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

Because it made me feel .

Every second with him grinding down on me, every whisper, every gasp—I wanted more. Wanted to give him more. And that scared the shit out of me.

I wanted to fucking cry, and I hated that.

So I did what I knew .

I shoved him off my lap, hard enough that he stumbled, catching himself, and wincing in pain, which sliced through my gut.

Guilt hit me fast—hot and choking. I hadn’t meant to hurt him, not really.

I’d only wanted to push him away, break the moment, break me before he could.

But seeing him flinch, watching the wince crumple his face—it made my stomach twist. I was the one hurting him now.

Me. Not Kessler’s system, not some faceless bounty hunter, but me.

“What the fuck was that!” My voice was ragged and I clenched my fists. Not because I was angry at him—because I was drowning in something I didn’t understand, and it was him . It was all him .

And I couldn’t handle it.

“Well, if you have to ask,” Lyric drawled, voice steeped in sarcasm, “I was doing it wrong.”

He stood with his hands on his hips, hips wrapped in a pair of soft pajama bottoms that were too long for him and pooled at his bare feet.

The Redcars shirt was Jamie’s, maybe—worn cotton, a size too big, the collar slouching off one shoulder.

His hair was a wild mess, either from sleep or perhaps the way he had tangled his hands in it; his mouth was red, and his eyes were sharp.

He didn’t look fragile. He looked confused .

And maybe a little hurt. But not broken. Never that.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to…” I started, the words stumbling over each other. “I lead this with a smaller man. I’m?—”

Lyric raised an eyebrow. “The fuck?”

My muscles were tight, and I felt shame and confusion. And Lyric—hell, he didn’t even flinch. He was immediately in my space, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, see the fire behind his eyes.

“Sit. The fuck. Down,” he ordered.

And I did. Not because I was afraid—but because the command in his voice went deeper than skin. It hit something primal. Something that said: I see you. And I’m not letting you drown.

Then he climbed right back into my lap as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t shoved him. His hands were on my face, fingers firm but not rough, tilting my head until I had no choice but to look at him.

“This is my show,” he said, low and steady. “So settle the fuck down.”

And then he rolled his hips, and the movement stole my breath. He kissed me as if he owned the moment, and I didn’t move. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t fight it.

He was making me feel again—raw and open and real—and all I could do was let it happen.

Lyric shifted on my lap, and this time when his mouth found mine, it wasn’t soft.

It was messy and hungry, teeth dragging over my bottom lip, tongue demanding entry, and I gave it.

Gave him everything. My hands came up, caught his waist, fingers digging into the borrowed cotton.

He rolled his hips hard and my breath caught.

“Tell me what hurts again,” he whispered against my mouth, his voice dark, demanding.

“Ribs. Head. Left knee,” I ground out, dizzy with need.

“Good. Then don’t fucking move.”

Lyric’s hands were everywhere—palming my chest, sliding under my shirt, nails catching lightly on skin. Every move was calculated, a rhythm of pressure and retreat, all control and possession. I groaned, head tipping back as he kissed my jaw, licked a line to my throat, and bit.

I was hard. Desperate. Fucked if I didn’t feel tears prick my eyes again because I wanted this so badly. Wanted him . And it wasn’t only lust. It was goddamn need .

He rocked into me, slow and deliberate, grinding over my cock in smooth, punishing rolls. My hands curled on his thighs, nails digging in, but I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

Then he moved.

In increments, Lyric slid from my lap and onto his knees between my legs.

His fingers traced the waistband of my sweats, and before I could blink, he tugged them down enough to free my cock.

The cool air kissed my skin, and I shuddered, breath catching in my throat.

I’d been sweaty from the fight; there could be blood there could be…

I reached to stop him, instinct more than thought, but he glanced up—eyes fierce—and said, “Hands by your sides, big guy.”

That voice. Fuck.

I dropped my hands, every muscle tight with restraint. He wrapped one hand around me, firm but reverent, and the first pass of his tongue made my vision blur.

“You smell so fucking good,” he rasped. Surely I was all sweat and funk and… fuck…

He didn’t tease. He wasn’t tentative. He sucked me deep, his hot mouth pulling me in, his tongue working with deliberate precision. It was too much. Not enough. I choked out his name, hips jerking despite the ache in my ribs, and he pressed his hands to my thighs, holding me down, taking me deeper.

I wanted to collapse into him, to fist his hair, to lose myself in the slick, perfect heat of his mouth—but I didn’t move. Not when he was giving me this. Not when he was fucking owning me.

And he was. Every swirl of his tongue, every hungry pull—he was undoing me completely.

Then his hands moved lower.

Warm fingers skimmed the underside of my cock, gentle at first, then firmer, more demanding.

One hand cupped my balls, weighing them in his palm, rolling them with just the right amount of pressure.

I groaned—a raw, guttural sound—and my hips lifted before I could stop them.

He growled a warning, mouth still full of me, and I forced myself to sink back into the chair, fingers twitching at my sides.

“Fuck, Lyric,” I rasped, voice thick.

His response was a hum of satisfaction, and the vibration traveled straight through me. My thighs trembled, every nerve ending lit and fraying, and I couldn’t stop watching him—his dark hair messy, mouth stretched wide around me, hand stroking, teasing, controlling.

He pulled back, tongue flicking the head, eyes locked on mine .

“You gonna come for me?” he whispered.

I barely managed a nod, breath hitching, pressure winding tight in my spine. Every wet glide of his mouth was heaven and heat and hell. And I was so fucking close I couldn’t breathe.

“Lyric, I’m?—”

He pulled off with a wet sound, fingers twisting around me with a steady rhythm, and looked up. His mouth was wet, eyes darker than sin, and that smirk—fuck.

“Hands stay by your sides,” he murmured, low and commanding.

Then he leaned in, tongue flicking one last time across the sensitive head as he squeezed, and that was it. I was gone.

I came hard, hips bucking, warmth spilling across my belly in thick pulses as Lyric kept stroking, his other hand cradling my balls. I cried out, something strangled and ruined, and it felt as if I’d been torn open and rebuilt in the same goddamn breath.

I sagged against the chair, boneless, chest heaving, vision blurred around the edges. He loosened his grip, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stared up at me as though he’d won a fight I hadn’t known I was in.

Then he used my thighs to steady himself, pushed upright with grace and effort, and leaned in again. His fingers curled around the waistband of my sweats, tugging them back into place with ease.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached in, wrapped a hand around his cock, and said, “Your turn to watch.”

He didn’t wait for permission.

He stroked himself with fast, firm jerks, his breath stuttering as he stared down at me. I lifted my shirt out of the way, needing to feel it when he came, needing to be marked . His body arched, and with a shudder and a choked groan, he came, hot and messy, over my belly.

Before I could say a word, Lyric dipped his fingers into the slick mess, dragging them slowly through it as if he was painting. Then he brought one to my lips, eyes locked with mine. “Open,” he said, soft but sure.

I did exactly what he said.

His finger pushed past my lips, and I sucked him in, tasting us both on his skin, the salt and the heat. His breath hitched, and his pupils dilated further as I curled my tongue around his fingertip.

“Fuck,” he whispered, reverently.

He dragged his finger out, and for one breathless second, we stared at each other. I was still wrecked in the chair; he was flushed and glowing, chest rising and falling fast.

“Beautiful,” he whispered and carded his fingers into my short hair, tilting my head back and pressing a kiss to my lips. “Perfect.”

I was getting hard again. Fuck.

“Night,” Lyric said, voice low and lazy as he turned away, padding toward the stairs.

He moved carefully, and I could see the strain in every step.

He shouldn’t have gone to his knees—fuck, he was in pain—but he hadn’t let it show until now.

His spine was stiff, his arms held out for balance, as if his body didn’t trust itself not to fold.

He shouldn’t have been the one kneeling. I should’ve taken care of him. That was my job. I was the one who?—

I swallowed hard, guilt making me sick.

Each step creaked under his bare feet, as he left me in the silence of the garage. My shirt stuck to my stomach where he’d marked me, and I still hadn’t wiped it off.

I leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling, one arm slung over my ribs. Every inch of me ached—my head, my knee, the cut Enzo had stitched, the bruises blooming under my skin. But none of that hurt as much as the twist in my chest .

I’d let him take the lead. I’d let him care for me. And it had felt good. Too good. So good it scared me.

Because he shouldn’t have to carry any of this. Not the pain. Not the risk. Not me .

He wasn’t mine to need. But fuck, I did need him. And I hated how easy he made it to forget the walls I’d built. Just a look, a touch, a kiss that melted everything I thought I knew about myself.

I exhaled shakily, wiping a hand down my face.

What the fuck was I doing?

I stood, finally, every joint protesting, and turned off the lights on the lower level, leaving only the faint hum from the fridge upstairs. Lyric would be asleep soon or pretending to be. I wouldn’t go up there. Not yet.

I’d already let him get too close.

And still, I wanted to follow him.

I locked up the garage and ran my fingers over the keypad that armed the security grid—Jamie’s setup, upgraded and brutal. It took a full thirty seconds before the soft beep confirmed Lyric, Enzo, and Robbie were safe inside.

I slipped out of the side door, hood up, and walked the block and a half to the apartment I used to share with Jamie.

The place was cold, mostly empty, and I dropped my keys in the chipped ceramic bowl we’d always used and let out a breath.

I picked up my phone, transferred money from my meagre savings, and sent half to Doc to cover his fee, and the other half to Isobel.

She’d never know it was me, Jamie made sure of that with whatever clever shit he did, but I knew I was doing at least one thing right.

She’d gotten out of LA, and was renting a small place outside La Puente, and her son, Carlos, was healthy and happy.

I only knew this because of Jamie and what he was capable of.

They could afford the place because I’d anonymously paid a shit-ton of money into her account.

I owed her. Would do anything to make sure she and Carlos were okay.

Then, the silence hit me hard. Without Lyric’s weight on my lap, without his voice—his heat—it was just me again with the ghosts in my head.

I didn’t want to be alone tonight.

I flopped onto the couch and fished my phone out of my pocket, more for something to do than anything else—one new message. No name.

SL. All good .

That was all it said, but it was enough to let me know that Doc, or whoever he called, had gotten Bruno to the hospital—SL was St Luke’s—to heal, and I hope the “all good” part meant he’d be okay.

I stared at the screen, then locked the phone again, dropped my head back against the sofa’s back, and sat there in the dark.

What the hell happened tonight?

What’s wrong with me?