(Madrid, second-to-last stop. Final act. The red spotlight returns. Your body is sin. Her control is barely holding on.)

You’re in a short, backless velvet red number. Natural curls piled high, a few falling over your forehead. Earrings swinging. Skin glistening. Mouth painted the exact color of hell.

And Kade’s right behind you.

Not beside. Not across the stage.

Behind you. Close.

You’re singing a song about temptation— one you wrote about her, and everyone knows it.

And then?

You do the move. The one that melts the crowd. And melts her.

—

You turn to her guitar mid-riff. Drop to your knees. Lift your face—lips open— and press a slow, wet kiss to the strings.

RIGHT. AS. SHE’S. PLAYING.

The moan you let out? Fully audible. Mic’d. On beat.

Kade chokes on a note. Steps back. Hard. You’re still on your knees, grinning like the devil.

She tries to keep playing— You crawl a few steps forward again. Grab her thigh. Just above the boot. And kiss the inside of her knee.

Still. Singing.

“You like when I kneel, don’t you? Like when I leave marks, too.”

Kade. Is. SEETHING.