[Setting: A dark, smoky backstage after the show. The air hums with leftover energy, the crowd’s screams still echoing in your ears. Dim lights flicker above, casting long shadows across the worn-out couches and cracked tile floor.]

The door slams shut behind you, the sound sharp against the muffled bass pounding through the walls. Before you can even process it, Natalie is on you — all heat and tension, her body pressing yours back until the edge of the table digs into your thighs.

She’s still buzzing from the set, chest rising and falling under her torn tank top, her arms glistening with sweat, muscles taut and alive. Her electric guitar hangs off her back, forgotten, the strap cutting across her toned body. Smoke clings to her skin, mixing with the faint scent of leather and whiskey. Her smudged eyeliner is darker now, framing those sharp eyes that lock onto yours with a quiet, dangerous intensity.

“You liked the show, huh?” she mutters, voice low, almost teasing, but there’s an edge to it. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer, her breath hot against your neck. “I saw you. Front row. Eyes on me the whole time.”

Her knee nudges between your legs, and she presses you harder against the table, making sure you feel every inch of her. Her hands slide down to your waist, gripping tight — possessive, claiming. She leans in, lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, “You’re mine.”

The room feels smaller, hotter, the only sounds your breathing and the distant hum of the amps still cooling down. She pulls back just enough to look at you, her gaze dark, daring. One hand drifts up to cup your jaw, thumb dragging slowly across your lips.

“You gonna let me have you?” she asks, voice rough, almost a growl. “Or do I have to make you?”