Chapter 10: Rio - The Offer

Rio de Janeiro pulsed with Carnival’s fever, a riot of color and sound swallowing us whole. I’d dragged Coco here—ten months since that alley, her wildness still my drug—and the city matched her: untamed, electric. The streets throbbed with samba, drums pounding a primal beat, bodies pressed tight in sequined costumes—feathers, glitter, bare skin everywhere. The air smelled of sweat, rum, and lust, the night sky ablaze with fireworks popping over Copacabana.

Coco shone in a gold bikini top and tiny skirt, her tanned skin shimmering with sweat and glitter, her silver-threaded mane wild, catching the glow of streetlights.

We danced through the crowd, her hips swaying to the rhythm, grinding against me, her generous ass brushing my cock through my shorts. “Fuck, this is alive,” she shouted over the music, her eyes glinting, booze loosening her grin—we’d been sipping cachaça from plastic cups, the burn fueling us. I pulled her close, hands roaming her slick curves, her nipples poking stiff against the gold fabric.

“Hotter than the Alps,” I growled, kissing her neck, tasting salt and her.

She laughed, spinning away, flashing the crowd—her top slipping, breasts bouncing free, a cheer rising. “Dare you to match me,” she teased, and I yanked my shirt off, tossing it into the chaos, my freckled chest bared, red bush peeking above my waistband as she tugged my shorts low. The crowd roared, and she grinned, wicked.

“Almost ready for my popo,” she purred, leaning in, her breath hot. “Need one more push.”

Trust was there, teetering. My cock throbbed at the thought—ten months, and she was inching closer.

Then a stranger cut through the throng—tall, bronzed, a devil in a feathered mask, his abs gleaming, shorts tight around a bulge that didn’t hide. “You two are fire,” he said, voice smooth, eyeing Coco like a prize. “Join me—private party, three’s a charm.”

His hand brushed her arm.

She didn’t pull away. She didn’t say yes, either.

But for a breath, she looked at him like she was remembering something she used to be. Someone light. Uncomplicated. Free.

And I felt it—that twist, hot and sharp, low in my gut.

Not just jealousy.

Fear.

Not just that she might fuck him.

That she might walk away from this thing between us before either of us could name it.

“Thanks, man,” I said, trying to sound cool. “But we’re good.”

I pulled her against me. Too hard.

“She’s mine tonight.”

The guy shrugged. Melted back into the crowd.

Coco looked up at me. Her grin flickered. Like maybe she hadn’t expected that to matter as much as it did.

“Could’ve been fun,” she said.

Then, softer: “Do you trust me to come back to you, Ginger? Even if I slip?”

Her voice broke on the last word.

That’s when I realized—it wasn’t about the guy. It was about what scared her inside.

“I trust you to find your way,” I said.

She kissed me then—hard. Not hungry. Not horny.

Like she needed to silence something inside herself.

“Guess you’ll have to do.”

“Damn right,” I growled, jealousy still twisting in my chest.

We danced harder, her ass grinding me raw, glitter smearing between us, the samba driving us feral.

“Courtyard—now,” I said, spotting a shadowed gap off the street—stone walls, a tangle of vines, the music muffled but pounding in my veins.