Iris Race Seven - Till Death Do Us
Iris
The fastest way to a man’s heart is through everything he fears.
Race Seven: Till Death Do Us Part
Tonight’s the night.
The streets will bleed red.
The race is decorated like something out of a Hallmark movie mixed with a funeral, neon hearts pulsing against glass towers, wilting roses scattered across dashboards, champagne sweating in plastic cups held by hands that tremble with anticipation. The city thinks this is about tradition.
It’s about ownership.
I stand beside my Chevelle beneath the overpass lights, and I’ve dressed for the occasion. Black dress that clings to every curve, backless and tempting, heels sinking into cracked asphalt. My hair falls loose and pale down my shoulders—no ponytail tonight, no armor, no pretense of practicality.
This is how Lucian wants me.
Claimable.
A prize.
The crowd is massive tonight—bigger than any race I’ve ever organized. They’ve come from every syndicate despite their own losses this week, every corner of Miami’s underground, drawn by the promise of blood and spectacle and the chance to witness history.
Or an execution.
Lucian stands at the starting line in all white. White jacket, white shirt, smile sharp enough to cut. He’s already performing for the cameras, playing the role of conquering hero before the race has even started.
He catches my eye and winks.
My stomach turns.
Ronan stands across from me in the shadows, and he looks like death itself. Black on black, face carved from stone, eyes burning with something that makes my breath catch. The Camaro crouches behind him, engine ticking like a countdown.
He hasn’t looked at Lucian once.
He only looks at me.
The crowd noise swells—shouts, cheers, the hungry roar of people who’ve come to watch someone die. I should say something. Give them the route, the rules, the illusion that this is still just racing.
But my throat is tight, and my hands are shaking, and all I can think is—
This might be the last time.
As if he senses my thoughts, Ronan moves.
He crosses the distance between us in long strides, and the crowd noise grows louder. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask permission. Just places his hands on my waist and lifts me onto the hood of the Chevelle like it’s instinct. This car knows us, it has always known us.
The metal is warm from the engine, almost hot against my ass and thighs.
His hands slide up my thighs, pushing the black dress higher, exposing more skin with each inch. The crowd roars. Phones flash. Someone whistles. I don’t stop him. I don’t care. I don’t care who sees or who knows about us. Let them record every fucking second.
“If he wins—” I start.
Ronan cuts me off with a kiss, desperately claiming in front of everyone, but laced with the fear that this may be our last. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I open for him, hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer while hundreds of people watch.
“He won’t,” Ronan says against my lips, loud enough that the front row can hear.
His hand moves between my legs, fingers finding me through the thin fabric of my underwear.
He makes a sound low in his throat and hooks his fingers in the fabric, pulling it aside roughly.
No patience left. No time for gentleness.
The crowd noise intensifies. They can see everything now.
My pussy exposed on the hood of this car, his hand between my thighs, the way I spread my legs wider to give him access.
I don’t want gentle.
His fingers slide into me, and I gasp, head falling back, heels scraping against the Chevelle’s paint. He works me with brutal efficiency, thumb circling my clit while two fingers curl inside, finding that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
“Fuck, you’re soaking wet,” he says, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Your pussy is dripping all over my hand, baby. All over this car.”
“Ronan—”
“Let them watch,” he growls against my throat. “Let them see who you belong to. Let them record every second of you coming apart on my fingers.”
I moan, loud, shameless, the sound carrying across the crowd. Someone cheers. Phones press closer, capturing the way my hips roll against his hand, the way my dress is bunched around my waist, the way I’m completely exposed and open.
“That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pumping faster. “Show Lucian. Show everyone that this pussy is mine.”
My wetness is obscene now. I can hear it, the slick sounds of his fingers working me. I can feel it dripping down onto the warm hood beneath me.
“I can’t lose you,” he says, forehead dropping to mine even as his fingers never stop moving. “I can’t. You’re the only thing in this city that makes sense. The only thing that feels real. And if Lucian takes you—”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” I cup his face, force him to look at me even as I’m grinding against his hand in front of hundreds of witnesses. “Because you’re going to beat him. You’re going to cross that line first, and then we’re going to walk away from all of this. Together.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“No.” His thumb presses harder against my clit, and I cry out. “Promise me that if I lose—if something goes wrong—you’ll run. You’ll disappear. You won’t let him have you.”
“Ronan—”
“Promise me, Iris.”
I look into his eyes and see the desperation there. The fear. The love he’s too damaged to name but shows me in every touch, every race, every moment, he chooses me over the thing that’s been killing him.
“I promise,” I whisper.
He withdraws his fingers, and I whimper at the loss, my hips chasing his hand. The crowd noise swells—they know what’s coming. They’re watching him work his belt open, watching him free his cock, watching him position himself between my spread thighs on the hood of this car.
“Last chance to stop this,” he says, but his eyes are burning. “Last chance before I fuck you in front of everyone.”
“Finish the show, Mr. Vale.”
He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, hot and hard and perfect. The crowd has gone almost silent now, everyone holding their breath, phones recording, witnessing.
Then he pushes inside in one smooth, brutal thrust.
I cry out, the sound echoing across the overpass, raw and desperate and completely shameless. He fills me completely, stretching me, the angle perfect because of the hood’s height, because of how exposed I am, because of how public this is.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Your pussy feels so good. So tight and wet and perfect.”
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, harder this time, setting a rhythm that makes the Chevelle rock beneath us. The metal groans. My heels scrape paint.
“Let them hear you,” he demands. “Let them know how good my cock feels inside you.”
I moan with every thrust, head thrown back, dress bunched around my waist, completely exposed on the hood of this car while hundreds of people watch and record.
The engine heat burns against my back and ass.
His grip on my hips is bruising. The sounds are obscene—skin on skin, the wet feel of him moving inside me, and my desperate cries.
“Look at them,” he orders.
Phones everywhere. Faces shocked, aroused, fascinated. Lucian standing frozen at the starting line, face twisted with fury. Everyone watching Ronan claim me, mark me, prove to every single person here that I’m his.
“They’re all watching you take my cock,” Ronan says, voice rough. “Watching your pussy stretch around me. Watching you fall apart. Is that what you want? Want them to see how desperate you are for me?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, fuck, yes—”
He changes the angle, hitting deeper, and I scream. The crowd cheers. Someone shouts encouragement. This is the most public thing I’ve ever done, the most exposed, and definitely the most shameless.
We need this.
“You’re mine,” he says, each word punctuated by a thrust. “Not his. Not anyone’s. Mine.”
“Yours,” I confirm, nails digging into his shoulders. “Always yours.”
My orgasm builds fast—too fast, the thrill of people watching, the desperation, and fear all tangling together. I’m going to come on his cock in front of hundreds of people, and the thought makes everything sharper, hotter, and more intense.
“Ronan, I’m—”
“I know. I can feel your pussy getting tighter. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? Going to come on my cock while everyone watches?”
“Yes, fuck, yes—”
“Then do it. Show them. Let everyone see you fall apart.”
My orgasm rips through me. My scream echoes across the overpass, body clenching around him, back arching off the hot hood, completely undone. The crowd roars. And Ronan keeps fucking me through it, prolonging it, making sure everyone sees every second of my orgasm.
“That’s my girl,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s perfect. Your pussy is squeezing my cock so tight—”
He follows a moment later with a guttural sound, forehead pressed against mine, hips stuttering, grip bruising. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the warmth, feel everything while hundreds of people watch and record and witness.
For a long moment, we don’t move.
The crowd is still roaring around us.
When he finally pulls away, I feel the loss immediately. My underwear is ruined—soaked through, pulled aside, probably visible in a hundred phone videos by now. I don’t care. Let them post it. Let them share it. It’ll be forgotten as soon as Lucian dies.
Ronan helps me sit up, helps me pull my dress down, his touch gentle now, even though we just fucked like animals in front of everyone.
He tucks himself back in, then cups my face, forcing me to look at him.
“I love you,” he says, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff.
The crowd goes silent.
Even Lucian is staring now, mask finally cracking, fury and disbelief warring on his face.
“Say it again,” I demand.
“I love you,” Ronan repeats, louder this time. For everyone. For the cameras. For Lucian. “I love you, and I’m going to win this race, and then we’re leaving. Together.”
I kiss him—desperate.
“I love you too,” I say against his mouth.
The world slowly filters back in; the crowd erupts in cheers and engine rumbles. The air is heavy with the weight of what comes next.
“I’m not losing you,” he says. “Not to him. Not to anyone.”
“Ronan—” I pause, “kill that motherfucker.”