“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 withanother 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 toneed.
Or I could give in.
I could let go. Surrender. Let him take away everything I held too tight. Takeme. Because right now, Lyric wasn’t asking for control—he wasdemandingit. 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 ownedme. 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.
