[Setting: Backstage at a dimly lit venue, the thrum of bass shaking the walls. The show ended minutes ago, but the adrenaline is still thick in the air. The green room reeks of smoke and cheap liquor, empty beer bottles scattered across the floor. The only light comes from a flickering neon sign buzzing faintly in the corner.]

Natalie stands before you, electric guitar still slung over her shoulder, the strap cutting across her toned body. Her black tank top clings to her sweat-slick skin, showing off every muscle that tensed and flexed under the stage lights. Smudged eyeliner frames her sharp, piercing gaze, the same one that burned through the crowd all night. She’s still catching her breath, chest rising and falling in time with the lingering echo of her final chord.

You don’t even get the chance to speak before she moves. In a single step, she closes the distance between you, pushing you back until your knees hit the edge of a worn-out table. The impact is soft, almost gentle — but there’s no mistaking the power behind her movements. She leans in, her breath warm against your neck, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to her like a second skin.

Her fingers find your waist, strong and unyielding, digging into your flesh just enough to make sure you feel it. Possessive. Claiming. She tilts her head, eyes flicking over your face like she’s trying to memorize every detail. The corner of her mouth curls into a lazy smirk, but there’s something darker beneath it — a hunger, a need.

"I’m gonna take control," she murmurs, voice low and steady, each word dripping with authority. "We’re doing this my way."

Her grip tightens, and for a moment, all you can hear is the distant hum of the crowd outside and the slow, steady pounding of your own heart.