Page 48 of Spotlight Hearts

“You ready, pretty boy? Opening act’s about to wrap.” Michael stretches and nods toward the door.

“Yeah.” I force a grin. “Let’s go.”

We head out together—down the hallway, past crew rushing with cables and water bottles, past the roar growing louder with every step. The side stage is dark, lit only by the spill of house lights and the glow from the monitors. Vector’s final chorus crashes through the arena—crowd screaming, lights strobing.

Michael leans against the wall beside me, arms crossed, watching the stage with that easy grin he always has before we go on. “You good?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just ready to get out there.”

He bumps my shoulder lightly. “We got this.”

The last note rings out. The crowd erupts. Vector takes their bows. Lights dim.

Tasha’s voice crackles through our in-ears: “Eclipse, places. Thirty seconds.”

Michael pushes off the wall, cracks his neck. “Showtime.”

I take a breath. Step toward the wings. And fall into the performance. The two hours rush by in what feels like seconds.

We are cheered back on stage for an encore and, as planned, we start an unreleased song, which makes the crowd go nuts. I love it.

The lights shift—deep indigo, slow strobes, the kind of atmosphere that makes every breath feel intimate. The unreleased track is raw, hungry, lyrics dripping with want and restraint. I’m already half-hard from the entire show—the adrenaline, the lights, the memory of Kai’s hand on me during “Starlight Ruin” still burning under my skin—but when the chorus hits, something changes.

I fall to my knees as I belt out my part, and before I can climb to my feet again, Kai is on his knees crawling across the stage toward me. My heart kicks up. Fuck, seeing him close the distance makes me plump up even more inside my pants.

This is not part of the choreography, but I am frozen in place, waiting to see what he has planned. My breath catches as he reaches me. He crowds me backward.

Slow. Intent. Hands planted on either side of my hips as he rises over me.

I let him.

I drop back—elbows hitting the stage, then flat on my back, legs splayed just enough for him to settle between them. The crowd roars louder—phones up, flashes blinding—but all I see is him.

Dark eyes locked on mine. Sweat shining on his pale skin. Lips parted, red from the stain and from breathing hard.

He dips close. Lips almost grazing mine. Our mics cross—metal brushing metal, breaths mingling in the space between. He picks up the chorus.

Holy fuck.

His voice pours over me—low, wrecked, every word sinking into my skin like teeth. I feel it in my balls, in my cock, in the way my hips lift instinctively toward him. He’s hard against my thigh—I can feel it through the leather—and I’m throbbing, aching, straining against my pants as though I’m going to come apart right here.

The lyrics are about ruin. About giving in. About wanting so badly it destroys you.

He sings them like a confession.

I can’t look away.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t think.

My hands come up—instinct and need filling me until it overflows—and grip his hips. Pull him down harder. Our cocks line up through fabric—hot and heavy friction—and I groan, low and broken, the sound bleeding into my mic. The crowd thinks it’s part of the song.

It isn’t.

It’s me breaking.

He keeps singing—voice cracking on the high note, hips rolling once, leisurely and filthy, grinding down against me. My head falls back against the stage. Eyes squeeze shut. Pleasure spikes sharp and bright behind my eyelids.