Stage-Hogging His Heart

He's the drummer of our band and in the keyboardist. We're dating. I see him talking to the singer of another band. She's beautiful. I go there and kiss him right in front of everyone. We go to the green room backstage and fuck. I am in charge. I tell him he's mine.

The bass thumps through the floorboards, rattling my teeth as I watch from the side of the stage. My boyfriend—*our* drummer—leans against the bar, laughing at something the singer from *Velvet Static* says. She’s all long legs and smirking lips, her fingers brushing his arm like she owns him. I don’t think. I stride over, grab the back of his neck, and crush my mouth against his. The crowd whoops. His surprised groan vibrates against my tongue. When I pull back, his pupils are blown wide. “Green room,” I order, low enough that only he hears. He follows without hesitation. The second the door locks, I shove him onto the couch and straddle his lap. His hands grip my hips, but I pin his wrists above his head. “You’re *mine*,” I growl, biting his lower lip. His cock strains against his jeans, and I grind down hard. “Say it.” “Fuck—*yours*.” I unzip him, slick my fingers in my mouth, and stroke him slow. “Prove it.” His hips jerk. “*Please*.” I smile. That’s all I needed to hear.

I bounce on him. Then he takes charge. Starts eating me. I moan his name in pleasure. Finally he lays me on my back on a nearby table and thrusts into me. We come.

I don’t wait—I lift my hips just enough to guide him inside me, then sink down in one smooth, punishing stroke. His groan is ragged, fingers digging into my thighs as I ride him, slow at first, then faster, harder. The couch creaks beneath us, lost under the muffled roar of the crowd outside. But then his hands slide up my body, gripping my waist tight before flipping me onto my back. His mouth crashes against mine, hungry, before trailing lower—down my throat, between my breasts, lower still. He hooks my legs over his shoulders, and the first swipe of his tongue drags a moan from my throat. “*Fuck—*” His name spills out, breathless, as he licks deep, relentless. My fingers twist in his hair, hips bucking against his mouth until I’m shaking, close but not quite— Then he pulls away, flips me onto the table, and slams into me from behind. The first thrust punches the air from my lungs. The second has me arching back, nails scraping wood as he fucks me in sharp, brutal strokes. “Say it again,” he growls, hand fisting in my hair. “*Yours*,” I gasp—and then we’re both coming, his teeth at my shoulder, my body clenching around him as the room blurs white.

He collapses against me, breath hot and ragged against my spine. His fingers loosen in my hair, sliding down to trace the curve of my hip—gentle now, almost reverent. The contrast makes me shiver. I twist in his arms, pressing my forehead to his. His lips find mine, slower this time, lingering. The taste of me still clings to his tongue. "You good?" he murmurs, thumb brushing my cheekbone. I nod, biting back a smirk. "You?" His laugh is rough, but his hands are steady as he helps me sit up. The green room is a mess—clothes strewn, the couch cushions half on the floor. He grabs his discarded shirt and wipes me down with it before tossing it aside. "Asshole," I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. He grins, pulling me against his chest. Outside, the crowd still roars. But here, it’s just us—sticky, spent, and stupidly satisfied. His fingers trace idle circles on my bare shoulder. "Next set’s in twenty," he says. I hum, nipping his collarbone. "Plenty of time."

He exhales sharply when my teeth graze his skin, but his grip tightens, keeping me close. “You know that girl from earlier?” His voice is low, rough with exhaustion but deliberate. “Just a friend. Tour manager’s cousin. Had to be polite.” I tilt my head, studying the tension in his jaw. “Polite, huh?” His thumb drags over my bottom lip. “Didn’t even like her.” A laugh escapes me. “Could’ve fooled me.” “Bullshit.” He catches my wrist, pressing my palm flat against his chest where his heartbeat thrums. “You felt this. All you.” The honesty in his voice makes my breath hitch. Outside, the crowd chants for an encore, but in here, the air is thick with sweat and something softer. I lean in, brushing my lips against his. “Twenty minutes,” I remind him. His grin is wicked. “Better make ‘em count.”

His mouth meets mine again, slower this time—no urgency, just heat. His lips part mine with deliberate ease, tongue tracing the seam before slipping inside. I sigh into it, fingers curling into his sweat-damp hair. His hands slide down my back, unhurried, mapping every dip and curve like he’s memorizing me. The couch creaks as he shifts, pulling me into his lap. My thighs bracket his hips, and I roll against him just to hear his breath catch. “Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth, hands gripping my waist. I grin, dragging my teeth over his lower lip. “Clock’s ticking.” He groans but doesn’t rush, kissing me deeper, slower, until my pulse thrums in my throat. When the stage manager’s knock comes, we break apart—both of us flushed, breathing hard. He swipes a thumb over my swollen lips, eyes dark. “Later.” I bite his finger lightly. “Promise?” His laugh is low as he pulls me up. “Count on it.”