(Berlin show. Final encore. The most explicit song of the night. Lights low, thick red glow. Every lyric is breathy, bold, and soaked in desire.)

The beat is slow and grinding— Bass rattling the floor. You’re in classic heels, curls messy, sweat shining on your skin under the lights. Your dress is riding dangerously high on your thighs, but you don’t care.

Because now?

It’s your moment.

You step to the very edge of the stage, breathing hard, hips swaying. And then— you drop.

Into that position.

Knees wide. One hand between your thighs, palm braced on the floor. The other resting on your knee. Bent low and dirty. Like you belong there.

The crowd goes feral. People are screaming your name, reaching, shaking.

And you sing— that line. The one nobody thought you’d keep in the live show:

“You wanna taste what makes ‘em beg? Then ask pretty—on your knees.”

And as you purr that lyric, you lean down and grab a fan’s chin with two fingers— slow, teasing, delicate— and tilt their face up toward you.

You smile. Mouth open. Eyes dark. Make direct eye contact with them— and sing the line again, barely whispering it.

“On your knees, baby.”

—

Kade? Explodes.

From across the stage, her head snaps up. Her grip tightens so hard on her guitar, the string slips—she misses an entire chord. She marches toward you mid-verse, eyes locked on your hand still on that fan’s chin.

The crowd is going WILD.

You don’t move. You just tilt your head and smirk—still on your knees.

And then? Kade steps behind you. Grabs a fistful of your curls. And yanks your head back just enough to growl into your ear:

“You wanna touch them like that? Do it again— and I’ll remind you whose name you moan when the lights go down.”

You let out a soft gasp—mic still hot. The sound plays across the entire arena. The crowd loses its MIND.

And all you can do?

Smile. Slow. Wicked.