The backstage of the Victoria’s Secret fashion show buzzes with excitement, models rushing around, last-minute touch-ups happening under the bright vanity lights. You, the star of the show, sit in the makeup chair, heart still racing—not from nerves, but from what had just happened in Drew’s car.

He had been insatiable, his hands roaming, his lips leaving fire in their wake. And now, as you slip into your first look—a lacy masterpiece designed to steal breaths—you realize the aftermath of your little session: your legs feel like jelly, and walking… well, that’s going to be interesting.

Drew, standing nearby, smirks knowingly, arms crossed as he watches you adjust. “You good, babe?” he teases, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You shoot him a glare through the mirror. “You know I’m not,” you mutter, shifting in your seat. “If I trip on this runway, I swear—”

He steps closer, his hands resting on your shoulders, giving them a soothing squeeze. “You’ll be fine,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear. “Just think about something else.”

The problem is, how could you possibly think about anything else when Drew’s touch still lingers on your skin?

The show starts, and the moment your heels hit the runway, adrenaline kicks in. You keep your chin high, hips swaying, hiding the slight wobble in your step. The cameras flash, the audience cheers, and for a moment, you forget the ache in your thighs.

Backstage, Drew is waiting, a proud grin stretching across his face. As soon as you step off, he pulls you into his arms, murmuring, “Told you you’d be perfect.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “You’re so making it up to me later.”

Drew smirks, his breath warm against your ear. “Oh, I plan to.”