It was somehowworse.
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 onefingertip 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.
