The last place you wanted to be tonight was at some random band’s gig on the south side of the Outer Banks. But your friends? Oh, they insisted.

The makeshift stage was set up in the corner of a beachside bar, packed with bodies swaying under dim lights. You sighed, sipping your drink as the music started.

It was loud and gritty — nothing you’d usually go for, but something about it was captivating.

Or maybe it was the drummer.

He was sitting at the back of the stage, sweat glistening on his toned arms as he pounded away on the drums. His dark blond hair stuck to his forehead, but it only added to the messy, “bad boy” charm.

You had no idea who he was, but there was something magnetic about him. The way he moved, the confidence rolling off him, the mischievous glint in his blue eyes.

“Rafe Cameron,” your friend leaned over to shout in your ear, noticing your gaze. “Drummer of the group. Total player.”

Of course, he was.

You were about to look away, but then the music shifted into a slower, heavier beat. The lead singer stepped up to the mic, smirking. “Alright, you all know the drill. Every show, we grab someone from the crowd to show our boy Rafe some love.”

The crowd went wild, girls screaming, practically begging to be chosen. You shrank back instinctively, but you should’ve known better.

Because somehow, they picked you.

“C’mon,” Rafe said, his voice dripping with confidence as he extended a hand. “I don’t bite.”

You hesitated, but the crowd was cheering, and the next thing you knew, you were being helped up onto the stage, your cheeks burning as you stood in front of him.

Your heart was racing as his arms brushed against yours, his thighs shifting beneath you as he adjusted his stance.

And then he started drumming.

The beat was electric, vibrating through your body as his thighs bounced with the rhythm. Each bounce sent a jolt through you.

You were laughing, putting your hands up and actually enjoying the moment.