Let it happen

"You look like you've never been backstage at a concert before." The voice came from behind him, warm and teasing. He turned to see Gracie Abrams leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a half-smile playing on her lips. Her stage makeup was still fresh—dark eyeliner smudged just enough to look effortless, her lips a muted pink.

The greenroom smelled like sweat, cheap champagne, and something floral—probably her perfume. You hadn't expected her to notice you, let alone speak to you. You were just some guy from the venue staff, hauling equipment. But here she was, close enough that you could see the faint shimmer of highlighter on her collarbones.

Your gaze flickered downward before you could stop yourself. The cropped tank she wore rode up just enough to reveal the taut lines of her stomach, muscles flexing as she shifted her weight. It wasn't intentional, but fuck, how could you not stare? She'd clearly worked for that definition.

Gracie didn’t miss it—her smirk deepened as she pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer. "Problem?" she asked, voice dropping into something lower, rougher than her stage tone. The way her fingers brushed his forearm when she reached past you for the water bottle on the table wasn’t accidental. You knew that much.

The condensation from the bottle dripped onto the carpet between them, the sound almost obnoxiously loud in the sudden quiet. You swallowed hard, aware of how your own shirt clung to your back under the weight of her stare. "No problem," you lied, watching her take a slow sip, her throat working as she tilted her head back.

She licked a stray drop from her lower lip, gaze never leaving his face. A flush crept up your neck—you could feel it, the heat crawling beneath your skin—and her tongue swiped over her teeth like she was tasting the air between them.

"I should probably leave," you said, but your feet didn’t move. The stage door groaned somewhere down the hall, distant cheers filtering through the walls. It should’ve grounded you, reminded you of the crowd just beyond, the reality of who she was. But all you registered was the way her breath hitched when you finally leaned in, just an inch. Testing.

Gracie exhaled through her nose, amused. "You don’t get it,” she murmured, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt. “I’ve seen you around. My other shows, too. Back near the rigging, pretending you’re not watching. I know how you look at me." Her thumb brushed your hipbone through the fabric, deliberate, and your pulse kicked hard enough you swore she could hear it.

The champagne bottle rattled on the counter when she knocked it over with her elbow, the sound swallowed by the groan you couldn’t stifle as she pressed closer. Her perfume wasn’t floral—up close, it was vanilla and salt, sweat drying at her temples, and you wondered how much of it you could lick off before she pushed you away.

"I’m sorry," you managed, voice cracking on the lie. Gracie laughed against your jaw, hot and breathless.

"It’s fine," she murmured, fingers tightening in his shirt. "I like the way you look at me." The admission curled between them like smoke.

Her knee bumped against your thigh—whether accidental or deliberate, you wasn't sure—but the contact sent a jolt through you, electric and undeniable. You could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the dampness where her tank stuck to her ribs under the weight of her breath.

Somewhere, a door slammed, voices echoing down the corridor. Gracie reacted first; her grip tightened, yanking you backward into the shadowy alcove beside the dressing room mirror just as footsteps neared. The sudden movement pressed her flush against you, her back to your chest, and you bit back the groan at the way her ass ground against you.

"Quiet," she breathed, tipping her head back against your shoulder—mock innocence if not for the way she arched into you. The footsteps passed, oblivious, but Gracie didn’t move. Instead, she rolled her hips slowly, deliberately, and the choked noise you made was swallowed by her palm suddenly clamping over your mouth.

Her laugh was a vibration against your skin. "You’re really bad at this," she whispered, fingers dragging down to your throat—not to stop you, but to feel the way your pulse raced under her touch. The friction of her ass against your cock was torturous, the thin fabric of her shorts doing nothing to hide how hard she was grinding, how wet she must be.

You could smell her—vanilla and sweat and something darker, musk clinging to the heat between her thighs—and when you dared to slide a hand around her waist, she gasped. Not in protest, but approval. Your fingers dug into the softness of her stomach.

Her abs tensed under your touch, tighter than you imagined, and she arched back against you with a shudder. "Fuck," Gracie breathed, grinding harder now, her shorts riding up enough that you could feel the damp heat of her through the fabric. Your thumb traced the ridge of her hipbone, and she moaned, low and throaty, like she'd been holding it back.

You couldn't stop yourself—your hands slid up under her tank, fingers spreading wide over the carved lines of her stomach, the sweat-slick skin hot against your palms. Gracie hissed through her teeth when your nails dug in just enough to sting, her body rolling into the pressure like she'd been waiting for it. "Yeah," she muttered, almost to herself. "Just like that."

She twisted in your grip suddenly, pressing you back against the wall, one knee sliding up between your thighs with predatory precision. Her hands dragged your shirt up, exposing the strip of skin above your waistband, and her laugh was all teeth when she caught your sharp inhale. "You like my abs, don't you?" she purred, grinding her knee higher just to watch your jaw clench. "Bet you've thought about them.

Gracie's fingers traced the ridges of her own stomach slowly—not vanity, but demonstration—before guiding your hands down to follow the same path. Her skin was slick with sweat beneath your palms, muscles flexing as she arched into your touch with a filthy little sigh. "Go on," she dared, voice thick as honey, pressing your fingertips into the dip of her hipbones. "Show me how bad you want it."

The clatter of equipment being loaded outside faded into white noise as your thumb hooked into the waistband of her shorts, hesitating only for a second before she bit your earlobe hard enough to make you gasp. "Don't fucking tease me," she growled, rolling her hips so you could feel exactly how soaked through the fabric was. The scent of her was overwhelming now—salt and heat and something primal that short-circuited every rational thought.

Your fingers slid under the hem of her sports bra with clumsy urgency, palm scraping against the stiff peak of her nipple before she arched into your touch with a broken noise. Gracie's breath hitched when your other hand finally pushed past the damp fabric between her legs, fingers dragging through slick folds with zero finesse. "Jesus," she whimpered, thighs clamping around your wrist, her entire body trembling like a live wire.

Her breasts felt fever-hot against your palm, sweat-slick and heavy as you thumbed over her nipple again—harder this time, watching the way her pupils blew wide with want. She smelled like desperation now, salt and musk clinging to every gasp she let slip into the stale backstage air. "Been thinking about—fuck—about this since Minneapolis," she admitted in a rush, her hips jerking against your fingers when you curled them just right.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you dragged your mouth down the column of her throat, teeth scraping over damp skin until she shuddered. Her pulse hammered against your lips, frantic as a hummingbird’s wings, and when you sucked hard just below her jaw, she swore so filthily it sent heat straight to your cock.

Gracie’s nails raked down your back, catching fabric and skin alike, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. "Don’t stop," she demanded, voice cracking as you pressed deeper between her thighs, fingers slick with her. The wet sound of it—her body yielding, clenching around you—was obscenely loud in the cramped alcove.

She rocked against your hand with a hunger that bordered on desperation, her hips stuttering when your thumb found her clit, circling just hard enough to make her choke on a moan. "God, you’re—"

You gripped her chin, forcing her to face you, and the way her pupils swallowed the hazel of her eyes sent a primal jolt down your spine. Her lips were parted, smudged lipstick and spit-slick, and you didn’t think—just crushed your mouth against hers, swallowing her gasp. Gracie tasted like cherry chapstick and stolen champagne, her teeth nipping at your lower lip before her tongue slid against yours, hot and demanding.

Her thigh pressed harder between your legs, the friction unbearable through your jeans, and you groaned into her mouth, fingers twisting in the damp strands of hair at the nape of her neck. She broke the kiss only to bite down on your shoulder, muffling her own moan as you crooked your fingers inside her, the heel of your palm grinding against her clit in rough, uneven circles.

The dressing room mirror fogged with their combined breath as Gracie's knees buckled, her body bowing into your touch with a broken cry. "Fuck—right there, don’t stop, don’t—" Her words dissolved into a shuddering gasp, her nails digging crescent moons into your forearm as she came, thighs trembling violently around your wrist. You held her up, swallowing her whimpers with another messy kiss, tasting salt and the metallic tang of her lipstick.

When you pulled your fingers free, they glistened in the dim backstage light, strands of her clinging to your skin. Gracie’s gaze locked onto them, pupils blown wide, her tongue darting out to wet her swollen lips before you even moved. You didn’t ask—just pressed two fingers against her mouth, watching her throat work as she sucked them clean with a filthy, deliberate slowness. Her teeth scraped your knuckles, a silent dare, and the groan that ripped from your chest was ragged at the edges.

Then you were kissing her again, your tongue sliding against hers before she could catch her breath, the taste of her—salt and something darker—flooding your mouth. Gracie whimpered into it, hands fisting in your shirt to yank you closer as if she couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you now. Her hips jerked against nothing, still twitching with aftershocks, and you swallowed every broken sound she made like you could drink her in.

Her fingers scrambled for your belt buckle, nails scraping your stomach through your shirt in her haste, and you grabbed her wrist just as the metal clinked open. Gracie froze, panting, her lips swollen and parted—until you guided her hand lower, pressing her palm hard against the proof of how wrecked you were for her. "Feel that?" you growled against her jaw, grinding into her touch. "All fucking night, watching you onstage."

She moaned, low and throaty, her fingers flexing over the denim before suddenly wrenching your zipper down with a single rough tug. The cold backstage air hit your skin just as her warm fingers closed around you, and you choked on your own breath, hips jerking into her grip. Gracie laughed, breathless, twisting her wrist just to watch your knees buckle. "You’re such a mess," she murmured, thumb swiping over the head—slow, testing—before her grip tightened. "I love it."

The sound of your belt hitting the floor barely registered over the rush of blood in your ears. Gracie’s lips curled in satisfaction as she sank to her knees, her free hand pushing your shirt up to expose the trembling muscles of your stomach. "Bet you imagined this," she whispered, tongue darting out to trace the ridge of your hipbone—slow, deliberate—before her mouth closed over you with a hum that vibrated straight to your core.

You had imagined it—every goddamn night since her tour started, tangled in shitty motel sheets with your fist around your cock and the memory of her voice crackling through the venue speakers. But nothing compared to the reality of her nails digging into your thighs as she took you deeper, her throat working around you with practiced ease. The wet heat of her mouth was obscene, her nose pressing into your pelvis as she swallowed around you like she’d been craving it as much as you had.

Gracie pulled off with a filthy gasp, lips glistening, and dragged the back of her hand across her mouth before looking up at you through her lashes. "You taste good," she murmured, thumb tracing the vein on the underside of your cock like she was memorizing it. Her other hand slipped between her own legs again, fingers working in quick, messy circles, and the sight of her touching herself while kneeling for you nearly made you come on the spot.

You barely had time to warn her before your hips stuttered, your release hitting her cheekbone with a hot, wet stripe before she could react. Gracie froze—not in disgust, but surprise—before her tongue darted out to catch a stray drop near the corner of her mouth. The smirk she gave you was downright sinful as she swiped two fingers through the mess on her face and sucked them clean with an exaggerated moan. "Fuck, you came so much," she breathed, voice wrecked, rubbing the rest into her skin like some perverse moisturizer.

Her fingers trailed lower, smearing the last remnants across her collarbones before she leaned up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. The sharp tang of salt and musk mixed with her cherry chapstick, turning the kiss filthy in a way that made your spent cock twitch against your thigh. Gracie pulled back just enough to grin at your dazed expression, her thumb pressing against your bottom lip. "Still hungry?" she teased, dragging it down to your chin.

You caught her wrist, flipping her around so her back hit the wall with a thud. The surprised noise she made turned into a gasp when you dropped to your knees, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "You think I'm done?" you growled against the inside of her thigh, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. Her pulse jumped under your lips—rabbit-quick and desperate—and her fingers tangled in your hair, tugging hard enough to sting.

Gracie's breath hitched when you dragged her shorts down just enough to expose the slick, swollen mess between her legs. The scent of her was overwhelming—musky and sweet, with the faint metallic tang of her arousal clinging to every shuddering exhale. "Fuck," she whimpered, thighs trembling as you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her clit, tongue swirling just hard enough to make her knees buckle. "Been—ah—been hungry for you since I started working with you," you muttered against her skin, the words vibrating through her.

Her fingers tightened in your hair, yanking hard enough to make your scalp burn, but you didn’t stop—just licked a hot stripe up her slit, savoring the way her hips jerked into your mouth. Gracie cursed, her back arching off the wall as you sucked her clit into your mouth, alternating between sharp nips and slow, filthy circles. She tasted like sin—salt and heat and something darker, something that made your cock twitch despite coming just minutes ago. "Don’t fucking tease," she gasped, grinding against your tongue like she couldn’t help it.

The backstage lights flickered overhead, casting her in a dim glow as her thighs trembled around your ears. You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of her arousal mixing with your own ragged breathing, her moans pitching higher with every flick of your tongue. One of her hands left your hair to brace against the wall, her nails scraping the plaster as you slid two fingers inside her, crooking them just right to make her sob. "Oh my god—" Her voice cracked, legs shaking violently as she came, her body clamping down on your fingers with a force that nearly knocked you backward.

Gracie slumped against the wall, chest heaving, her tank top clinging to her sweat-slick skin. She looked wrecked—lipstick smeared, hair disheveled, her shorts still tangled around one thigh—but her gaze burned with something feral as she hauled you up by your collar. "Still think you're just some crew guy?" she panted, her teeth sinking into your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The coppery taste bloomed between you as she kissed you again, her tongue licking into your mouth like she was chasing the sting.

You gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her waistband, and her breath hitched when you ground against her—still half-hard, still aching. "Then what am I to you?" you asked, voice rough. The question hung in the air between you, thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Gracie stilled for a heartbeat, her thumb brushing your jaw in a gesture that was almost tender before her smirk returned, sharper than ever.

"Right now?" She nipped at your earlobe, her breath hot against your skin. "You're the guy who makes me come so hard I forget my own lyrics." Her laughter was low, throaty, as she rolled her hips against yours, the damp fabric of her shorts dragging against your cock. "But ask me again after the encore." Her teeth scraped your collarbone, a promise and a threat rolled into one.

You didn't give her the chance—hoisting her up with a grunt, her legs instinctively wrapping around your waist as you carried her backward toward the battered greenroom couch. Gracie gasped, her nails biting into your shoulders, but her smirk didn't falter. "Fuck, you're strong," she murmured, grinding down against you as you walked, her heat searing through the denim. The couch creaked under your combined weight when you dropped onto it, her straddling your lap with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

Her hands darted to her tank top, fingers hooking under the hem as she yanked it off in one sharp motion. The fabric tore at the seams, buttons scattering across the floor like tiny explosions. Gracie arched back, letting you drink in the sight of her bare chest—already flushed, her nipples pebbled tight in the stale backstage air. "Your turn," she breathed, fingers clawing at your shirt until the collar ripped open, buttons pinging off the mirror behind you. The cold air hit your skin, but her mouth was hotter, her tongue laving a wet stripe down your sternum before she bit down hard enough to leave a mark.

The couch groaned under you as she rocked forward, her wet heat pressing against you through layers of denim and ruined shorts. Gracie hissed through her teeth, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles—each grind dragging a choked noise from your throat. "Tell me," she demanded, dragging her nails down your chest. "Tell me how bad you wanted this." Her voice was raw, stripped of its usual sweetness, and when you hesitated, she leaned in to lick the sweat from your collarbone. "Say it."

Your hands slid down to grip her ass, fingers digging into the supple flesh hard enough to make her gasp. "Every fucking night," you admitted against her jaw, the confession ripped from you like a wound. "Every time your mic picked up your breathing between songs—every time you adjusted your fucking in-ears—" Gracie moaned, the sound punched out of her as you yanked her shorts the rest of the way down, the fabric pooling at her knees. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed as she sank onto you, her body yielding in one slick, shuddering motion.

Her head dropped back, tendons standing taut in her throat as she took you to the hilt with a ragged cry. The stretch burned—you could see it in the way her thighs trembled, in the white-knuckle grip she had on your shoulders—but she didn’t stop, riding you with a desperation that bordered on violence. "Knew it," she panted, nails raking down your chest. "Knew you were imagining me bouncing on your cock while you coiled my mic cables." The vulgarity sent heat lancing up your spine, your hips jerking up to meet her downward thrust.