Page 30 of Rio (Redcars #3)

“Thought so,” he said, stroking himself again, slow and filthy. “You sit there, as if you’re the one calling the shots, but I know better. You want someone to take it from you. Peel the layers back and own what’s underneath.”

“Lyric…”

He stepped in, the tip of his cock brushing my chest. “I’m gonna ruin you so fucking good you’ll forget how to breathe without my say-so.”

Then, with the kind of grace that didn’t belong in a body that had been through hell, he straddled my lap.

One smooth movement, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, settling his weight over me.

His ass rocked against my cock, pressing right on the ache that had been building since the moment he’d locked the door.

My legs were still spread, and he fit there perfectly—warm, heavy, grounding.

He didn’t rush. He shifted enough to make me feel every roll of his hips, every teasing grind sending sparks shooting up my spine. It was raw and deliberate, the kind of movement that told me he knew the power he had and wasn’t afraid to wield it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning in close, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You gonna stay still. Be a good boy? Or you gonna beg?”

“Lyric…”

It was a plea. Desperate. Raw.

“Do more,” I breathed. “Touch me. Please. ”

He stared at me, and his smile was slow and sharp, all confidence and possession.

“Tell me what to do. I’ll do it.” My voice cracked with need.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he murmured, and he tugged at my T-shirt until I scrambled to pull it up over my head. I was a mess of trembling limbs, but he waited. I wanted to get my cock out—I needed friction.

But before I could reach for the waistband of my sweats, Lyric stopped stroking himself.

His hand left his cock and slid up my chest instead, fingers dragging across my skin as if he was learning me one inch at a time.

He found my nipple and pinched, hard enough to make me gasp, then circled it with his thumb, slow and maddening.

“So pretty,” he murmured, eyes locked on my face as he leaned in. “All that muscle, all that control—and you’re coming apart because I’m playing with you.”

My breath hitched as he tweaked the other one, rolling it between his fingers, sending a bolt of heat straight down my spine.

“You’re mine,” he growled, leaning closer, his mouth brushing the corner of mine but not kissing. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasped, and he rewarded me with another twist, pain and pleasure mixing until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “Now keep your hands where they are. Let me play.”

He spent so long on my nipples I thought I might lose my mind as he sucked bruises into my skin. I gasped, rising into every touch, every bite, chasing sensation like a man starved.

I needed to feel him. Needed it more than breathing. My hands twitched where they’d stayed obediently at my sides, but one moved on its own. Unbidden, I lifted trembling fingers and rested them lightly on that scar at his hip.

He stilled.

His eyes locked on mine, the heat draining from his expression as if someone had cut a switch. There was no anger—just a hard warning.

“Did I say you could touch me?” he asked, low and dangerous.

My pulse hammered in my throat, but I didn’t pull away. Not yet.

His body hovered above mine, tense, unreadable. My fingers burned where they met his skin.

I could stop and retreat into the safety of silence and self-control. I’d spent a lifetime clinging to it—refusing to be weak, refusing to need .

Or I could give in.

I could let go. Surrender. Let him take away everything I held too tight. Take me . Because right now, Lyric wasn’t asking for control—he was demanding it. Offering me something I didn’t know I craved until this very fucking second.

And maybe I wanted it. Maybe I wanted to fall into him, to be remade in the heat of his hands.

My fingers trembled. I released the scar and dropped my hand back to my thigh, open and visible.

His expression didn’t change, but something eased behind his eyes. Not softness—approval.

“My Rio,” he said. “So good for me.”

He carried on—biting, licking, sucking, driving me wild with his mouth.

His tongue circled one nipple while his fingers toyed with the other, then switched, relentless and patient.

He sucked bruises into my chest as if he was claiming me with every mark.

My breath came in bursts, every nerve ending tuned to where his mouth touched me.

Then suddenly, he surged up, caught my mouth with his, and kissed me hard—deep and filthy, his tongue sliding against mine as if he owned it. As if he owned me . His fingers dug into my sides, hips still grinding, and I moaned into the kiss.

And then—he slowed down .

Pulled back enough that the kiss turned soft, almost tender. His lips brushed mine. Featherlight.

It was somehow worse .

The ache roared back tenfold, the contrast dizzying. I chased his mouth, desperate, but he held me still, one hand on my chest, the other gripping my thigh.

“See?” he whispered against my lips. “You don’t need it rough to beg.”

Then he stood, fluid and fast, and before I could even ask what the hell he was doing, I saw the flash of silver foil in his hand. Lube. A condom.

Where the fuck had he gotten that?

“Turn around,” he ordered, voice low and deliberate.

I obeyed, shifting and turning on the sofa, pulse thudding in my ears. “Pants off and over the back of the couch,” he added.

I scrambled to obey, my cock hard and aching as the cool air kissed my skin.

My legs were still spread; my chest flush against the cushions. Vulnerable. Exposed. And the sound of him snapping that condom open behind me made me tremble.

Then cold fingers brushed against my ass, slick and deliberate. He didn’t warn me—just pressed one fingertip to my hole, circling, teasing. The touch made me jolt forward with a gasp.

“Shhh,” Lyric said, calm and dark. “So good. You’re doing so fucking good.”

One finger pushed in slowly, spreading me, loosening me with a confidence that made my spine arch. Another followed, and I moaned, hips twitching.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” I panted, pressing back, desperate. “Lyric… please. I need?—”

My cock brushed the sofa cushion, the contact agonizing, too much and not enough, the fabric dragging across my oversensitive skin.

Then he yanked me back—hands on my hips, strong and steady—and suddenly I was fucking air.

“Nooooo…” I whined, throat raw with frustration.

Lyric chuckled. “Not yet, Rio. Not yet.”

I whimpered before I felt him shift behind me. A hand smoothed down my back, anchoring me, holding me in place. The other gripped my hip, and I heard the soft, slick sound of him lubing up.

“Breathe,” he said.

Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against my hole—patient, unrelenting. My breath caught, muscles clenching around nothing. He gave me time, let me feel every inch of the pressure building .

And then he pushed in.

The stretch was intense, fire-hot and dizzying, and I groaned, fingers curling into the cushions.

“Fuck, yes,” Lyric hissed. “So tight. So perfect for me.”

He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, hips flush against my ass, the weight of him grounding me as much as it wrecked me. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, ragged and hungry.

I was full. Owned. His.

“You okay?” he asked, hips rocking, teasing the edge of motion. “Rio?”

“More,” was all I could manage.

Lyric didn’t hesitate. He pulled out, until just the head of his cock remained inside me, then thrust back in with a smooth motion that punched a sound out of my throat—part gasp, part sob.

He set a rhythm that wasn’t punishing, but deep and claiming. Every roll of his hips sent sparks ricocheting through my nerves, pleasure blooming bright and hot under my skin. I braced myself on the couch, moaning now, no shame, no mask.

“You feel that?” he whispered, thrusting harder, hands tight on my hips, keeping me in place as if I was something precious he wasn’t letting go. “That’s mine. All of it. You give it to me. ”

I nodded, voice gone, body trembling. “Yes. Yours.”

Something in me cracked open.

All the control I kept wrapped around me—gone. Every wall, every defense I’d ever held together by sheer force of will—it collapsed under the weight of him inside me, around me. His voice. His touch. The way he moved as if he knew me.

I wasn’t falling apart. I was giving in. And for the first time in my life, it was freedom.

Lyric shifted one hand from my hip and reached underneath me, fisting my cock with a firm, sure grip that made me cry out. He stroked me in time with his thrusts, relentless and overwhelming, dragging me higher with every pass of his hand.

“Let go,” he whispered. “It’s okay, Rio. I’ve got you. Let me have it.”

My body clenched, muscles seizing under the intensity. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. I came hard, spilling into his hand, shaking as pleasure ripped through me, my vision white-edged and blinding.

I hardly had time to think before Lyric grunted, deep and raw, and drove into me one final time. His hips stuttered, the heat of his orgasm flooding the condom as he clung to me, forehead pressed to the back of my neck.

We stayed like that, panting, sweat-slick, and trembling, and then Lyric chuckled. “Wow,” he managed, breathing heavily.

Wow. Yeah.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, pressed against my back, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine. I could feel every inch of him—heat, breadth, weight—and I didn’t want him to move. Not yet.

Slowly, he pulled out, and I hissed at the sudden emptiness. My body ached, used and spent, but it wasn’t pain I felt. It was something deeper. Quieter.

Lyric helped me turn, then guided me onto the sofa as if I might break. He grabbed a soft blanket from the back of the couch, draped it over my shoulders, and sat beside me, one hand never leaving my thigh.

We didn’t speak.

He cleaned me with a cloth I hadn’t even seen him grab, movements careful, reverent. Then he disappeared for a second and returned with water, pressing it into my hand. I drank because he wanted me to .

Only then did he sit back, exhaling hard, and leaned his head against the back of the couch.

“You good?” he asked, voice quiet, words edged in something that might’ve been concern, or maybe tenderness.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

A long pause.

“Have you ever let go for anyone else?”

“No. They always wanted me to top, as if I had something I could give them.” I’m sure I wasn’t making any sense, but he didn’t smile, didn’t gloat—just nodded once as if he understood exactly what that meant.

Then he reached over and brushed his knuckles down the side of my jaw, slow and grounding. “That means something to me,” he said quietly. “You could mean something more.”

I swallowed hard, throat thick. There wasn’t anything to say that didn’t sound too big or too soon.

But I didn’t move away. I leaned into his touch instead, and we sat, legs tangled, hearts slowing, the weight of everything we hadn’t said settling softly around us.

And for once, I didn’t feel the need to run.

Someone pushed at the door. It didn’t open, but the knob jiggled, a distinctly Enzo-type curse, and then footsteps on the stairs, and then more, a few seconds later.

“Rio? You in there?” Robbie’s voice, hesitant.

“I have an uhm…” He paused as if he was making shit up on the spot, and we could both hear heated whispers.

“I have a question about invoice 77387-slash-AW6 from Clovelly Auto. Uh… the one for the high-flow throttle body sensor with the modified TPS mount.”

There was no way I could think about cars right now… I was boneless, sated, wrecked. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Another pause. Then: “Uhmmm… asking for a friend… uhm…” He was so bad at this. “Is the door broken? Enzo said it wouldn’t open.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I repeated.

There were muffled voices outside. Heated. I thought I caught Enzo’s voice saying something about fucking.

Robbie: “Ohhh… okay then.” A beat, then: “Later!” he called, chipper and already walking away.

I groaned and buried my face in Lyric’s shoulder. “Kill me now.”

Lyric chuckled. “No chance.”

His fingers brushed through my hair again, and neither of us moved to get up.

Not yet.