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Jesus. I was there when he wrote those lyrics, and it still makes me weak at the knees when he looks at me as though he’s remembering every touch between us. Then he sings with his deep, raw voice, as if promising me more.
My words come out raspy, needy when I sing back, “You think you have me figured out. You think you want in, but that’s not what love’s about.”
At my side, Rye bumps shoulders with me as we play, and Killian sings the refrain of “Broken Door.” Stage lights turn everything into a white haze. Their heat caresses my skin. Energy flows through me on a wave, making the tiny hairs along my body stand on end. My nipples tighten, slick need swelling between my thighs.
If I hadn’t already had sex with Killian, I’d think this was the most addictive thing in the world. Because, in this moment, I’m not Libby, the woman who has fears or doubts, who worries about where she’s going in life or where she’s been. In this moment, I’m just me, in my most basic version.
There is freedom in that. Joy.
It’s the long crash down that sucks. Every time a concert ends, I’m disoriented, buzzing, and slightly dizzy. There’s one thing that truly breaks the tension and brings me back to reality. Unfortunately, it’s also the riskiest.
The risk doesn’t stop me, though. Or Killian. We both need it too badly.
Minutes later, we’re hidden in a storage closet that smells of Lysol, and I’m bent over a stack of old amps, Killian buried deep inside me. His big, rough hands cup my breasts as he thrusts hard and fast. Frantic, his hips meet my ass with a slap, slap, slap, the sound mixing with our muffled grunts.
The way he fills me, wide and thick, each thrust hits a spot within that I feel in my throat, in my toes. Cool heat ripples down my back, up my thighs. So good.
I push back, meeting halfway, needing the hard hit of him.
“Jesus,” he grunts, his hips jerking. “That’s it. Show me how much you fucking love this.”
Faster, harder. It almost hurts. But it isn’t enough.
We’re too in tune for him not to notice my distress. He jerks a hand out from underneath my top, nearly tearing it. His fingers slide between my legs, find my clit. It doesn’t take much. I’m so primed, my clit so swollen, that he merely has to tap it, give it a little flick like he’s playing my body. And I go off.
I bite my lip, holding in my scream. He’s in so deep, his cock so big, that I feel myself pulse around him. He feels it too, because he groans long and low, arching his hips into me as he comes. For a second, we’re suspended there, straining against each other in search of our own pleasure. Then all that tension drains out in a mutual sigh.
Killian’s body sprawls on top of mine, our panting in sync. Our fingers twine as we struggle to regain our breath. I come back to myself in stages, clarity of vision first, then the scent of our sweat mixing with cleaning supplies and must, the meaty girth of Killian’s cock still lodged inside of me, and…
“There’s a wet rag under my cheek.” I wrench my head away.
Killian peers over my shoulder and snorts. The sound of it sets me off, and we both start laughing. Well, I’m laughing and also a bit disgusted, because my face was in a dirty rag.
“You were on the rag,” Killian snickers, his chest shaking against my back.
“Ugh, that was bad. Just bad. The worst joke ever.” Still, I’m laughing. Part of it is the release, but most of it is as simple as the fact that Killian makes me happy.
He eases me to standing, his arms warping around my shoulders, his cock slipping out of me. “I have more where that came from.”
“No doubt.” I rest my head in the crook of his arm.
His breath is warm as he kisses my temple and gives me a squeeze, then steps back to tuck himself into his jeans. I don’t know where he put the condom, but I’d rather keep that mystery and focus on the lean wall of his chest. Absently, I trace a line on his tattoo. “We better get back. This was crazy. Someone is going to notice.”
“Naw,” he says with a wink. “They’re all off doing the same.”
“They are? How do you know?”
“The need to fuck after a show is pretty common. It’s what we all do. You know, find a willing…” His words end on a strangled cough, and he scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing.
“Right. Of course.” My fingers fumble with my top, smoothing out the rumpled lines from where his hands invaded.
