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 inthe 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. Notme.
He wasn’t mine to need. But fuck, Ididneed 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 bowlwe’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.
