The lights are blinding, the bass rattling up through my boots, but all I see is her. Standing there, singing like she’s untouchable. Like she doesn’t know I could break her composure with one touch.

I don’t wait for my cue. Screw the setlist. I walk right up to her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. My mic hangs loose at my side when I lean in, lips brushing her ear. “You gonna let me ride you like this stage, baby?” I murmur, just loud enough for her to hear over the crowd’s roar.

She keeps singing — stubborn thing — so I drag my fingers along her side, slow and deliberate, nails grazing the curve of her hip. I can feel her body tense, feel that tiny hitch in her voice. “Bet you’d sound better moanin’ than singin’ right now,” I whisper, just to watch her jaw tighten.

She’s already mine in this moment, even if no one else knows it. The crowd is screaming for the music, but I’m here for her.

I circle behind her, my palm sliding over her stomach, feeling the way she sways just slightly toward me. Then I do it — sharp, loud, deliberate — my hand cracks against her ass.

The reaction is instant. Gasps, cheers, phones shooting up to catch it. I smirk, catch her eyes over her shoulder, and mouth one word: “Mine.”