EIGHTEEN
Rio
He wasn’t askinganything 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 heknewwhat he wanted—and what he wanted wasme. Not the fighter, not the protector. Just… me.
And I didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.
Because it made mefeel.
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, breakmebefore 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 washim. It was allhim.
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 ismyshow,” 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. Ididn’t fight it.
He was making mefeelagain—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.
