Chapter 6: After Backstage Temptation
The applause was still a tangible echo in their ears, a physical warmth against their skin, as they slipped through the heavy velvet curtain into the private backstage alcove. The roar of the crowd softened to a muted murmur, replaced by the hum of distant generators and the clink of glass from the catering staff in another room. The air here was cooler, scented with spilled champagne and Mizi’s faded jasmine perfume.
Luka ran a hand through his blonde hair, shaking off the last of the stage energy like a dog shedding water. A brilliant, public smile still played on his lips, but his golden eyes were already sharper, focusing on her in the dim light. “Nailed it,” he said, his voice low and charged. “That high note you hit? The donors are probably writing checks right now.”
“It felt good,” Mizi admitted, a genuine smile touching her lips. The shared performance, the harmony, that was real. It always was.
She reached for the zipper at the back of her sequined dress, the tiny teeth parting with a sigh. At the same moment, Luka’s fingers went to the jet buttons of his own tailored shirt. But his movements stalled. Instead of undressing himself, he stepped close behind her. His hands settled on her hips, then one slid around, palm flat against her stomach, pulling her back against him.
“You’re still buzzing,” he murmured into her ear, his public charm evaporating into something more private, more possessive. His other hand slipped beneath the open back of her dress, over the thin barrier of her underwear, finding her. He let out a low, appreciative hum. “Still warm. Still wet from before.”
His touch was blunt, a clinical assessment that sent a conflicting shudder through her—part residue from their earlier, rougher encounter in the closet, part fresh anticipation. “Luka, someone could—”
“No one’s coming.” His whisper was a thread of sound, a threat wrapped in silk. “The handlers think we’re doing media. We have ten minutes.” His fingers pressed, just enough to make her gasp. “I’m going to take you right here, against this wall. I’m going to make you forget your own name.”
As he spoke, he used his free hand to finish unbuttoning his shirt. He shrugged it off, letting it pool on the emerald silk draped over a nearby couch. The stage lights from a distant rig cast angled planes of light and shadow across his torso. His physique was that of a drawn arrow—taut, lean, and ready. Each abdominal muscle was defined not in gross slabs, but in sharp, precise ridges, a topography of disciplined training that carved a shallow V down into the waistband of his trousers. His chest was smooth, his shoulders broad, the glow of performance sweat highlighting the contours.
He turned her to face him, his hand still insistently between her legs, rubbing slow, maddening circles over the silk of her underwear. He began to move against her, the rough fabric of his trousers grinding against her inner thigh. The friction, the pressure, the sheer intent in his eyes had an immediate, visible effect.
The polished silver button at his waist popped open of its own accord, the tension too great. The zipper beneath began a slow, teeth-by-teeth descent, forced down by the swelling, rigid outline beneath. The expensive black fabric of his briefs strained, tented by a thick, unmistakable shape, the head a pronounced curve pressing against the cotton.
Mizi’s breath hitched, a blush heating her cheeks and chest. Her gaze was drawn to the sight, a mixture of anxiety and fascination tightening her throat. Her own dress, half-unzipped, gaped open, and with each deliberate rub of his body against hers, the straps slipped further down her shoulders. The sequined fabric whispered down her arms, gathering at her waist, leaving her in only a delicate lace bra and her underwear.
The sight of her exposed, the flush on her skin, acted like a catalyst. A dark, hungry glint flared in Luka’s eyes. His movements became rougher, more urgent. He rubbed himself against the junction of her thigh and hip, faster now, the swollen length trapped in his underwear sliding insistently along her sensitive skin. The motion hitched his briefs down slightly, the waistband now riding low enough to reveal the base of his shaft, thick and corded with tension.
With a deft, impatient pull, he unhooked her bra, letting it fall away. His mouth crashed onto hers, his tongue claiming hers with a desperate, driving intensity. His bare chest pressed against hers, skin to skin. The contact sent a jolt through them both—her hardened nipples scraping against the defined planes of his pectorals, his against the softness of her breasts. The stimulation was electric, a raw, unfiltered circuit of sensation.
He was panting into her mouth, his control fraying. His cock, now at its peak of arousal, was a vivid, angry red at the tip, the skin stretched taut and gleaming. The shaft, a heavy, veined weight, pulsed with his heartbeat. He fucked the space between her thighs with a frantic, driving rhythm, the heat and wetness of her through the thin lace driving him wild.
“Mizi,” he groaned, a raw, shattered sound she rarely heard. It was her name, but stripped of all polish, a pure need.
The sound, the feel of him, the dizzying intimacy broke something open in her. A matching moan tore from her throat, swallowed by his kiss. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails biting into the hard muscle of his deltoids.
His rhythm stuttered, lost all coordination. With a final, grinding thrust against her, he came. A hot, liquid streak erupted, painting a stripe across the velvet-draped wall beside them. Another pulse followed, then another, his body shuddering against hers as he emptied himself with a guttural cry, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
For a long moment, they stood locked together, the only sound their ragged breathing syncing gradually. The scent of sex and sweat cut through the perfume and champagne in the air. He slowly pulled back, looking at the evidence on the wall, then at her, a slow, sated smirk replacing the earlier frenzy on his face.
He traced a finger through a bead of sweat on her collarbone. “See?” he said, his voice hoarse but regaining its usual easy confidence. “Better than any encore.”