Groupie

Him.

The one with teenage girls surrounding him and shoving posters, bags, body parts, anything under his nose to graffiti his name on. Sweat made his hair slick and left patches on his rumpled shirt. His skinny jeans had definitely been slept in. Exhaustion seemed to weigh him down, and he was probably running on pure adrenaline. He should have looked bedraggled, unappealing, but he owned his appearance with an air of confidence so thick, his bandmates, she was sure they were his bandmates, were overshadowed.

She didn’t know him. She didn’t know his name, what his band was called—she vaguely recalled the word SIREN in bold letters across the merch she’d trolled before the show. She didn’t need to. She didn’t care. She wanted him.

And she was going to have him.

Rule Number One: Always go for the front man.

She pushed away from the stacks of miscellaneous equipment lining the wall where she’d been pretending to text, an act she’d perfected to keep up the rouse that she belonged backstage and hadn’t flashed her way past the security guards. As if her entire appearance wasn’t a dead giveaway. Stilettos. The hint of ass peeking out of her too short shorts. An oversized sweater hanging precariously on her shoulders, one false move and her bra would be on full display. Fuck-me makeup and tousled hair. What a joke. But they ate it up, those band members searching for post-show tail. She knew what they wanted. She knew what he wanted.

He glanced at her. Only for a second before dropping his eyes back to the poster he was signing. He was playing, pretending, trying not to come off too eager, but his body straightened and his practiced smile broke into a full Cheshire cat grin. Cute.

He’d last thirty seconds.

She walked in their direction. She wasn’t going to interrupt them. She knew better than to approach while fans were flocking around her prey. That was a novice mistake.

The trick was to ignore them.

So she walked with her eyes firmly fixed away from the group. Her heels clicked against the tile and her hips swayed, a lethal combination that could make even the most seasoned rock star misplace his sanity. Her walk was the stuff of backstage legends.

She was getting closer, closer, and she could feel him watching her, but still she didn’t look at him. Not yet. Let him think he was the predator and she was some simpleminded whore. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. Until finally, just when she was in ogling distance…

Look.

His eyes were bright, brimming with anticipation, and the weirdest shade of green she’d ever seen. She’d remember his eyes. When she added another notch to her mental bedpost, she’d catalogue him by the color.

She held his gaze. One beat. Two beats. Three beats.

And walked past him.

Down the length of the hall, keeping her mind-numbingly casual pace, and rounded the corner. Out of sight. He’d follow her. In a few seconds, once he could spout some bullshit excuse to walk in the same direction as her.

Guys like him didn’t talk to girls like her in front of fans.

She didn’t stop. Waiting meant she needed him and she couldn’t have him thinking that. No, he needed her. She had the power. She was the one in control. She was the predator. He just didn’t know it yet.

“Hey.”

Bingo.

She turned, and there he was, walking towards her, smiling like the cat who caught the canary. How precious.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

Translation: Are you dtf?

Rock stars and their propositions thinly veiled in niceties. They’d never learn the tact was unnecessary.

She chuckled and shook her head. The slight movement threw off her sweater’s balance, and in perfectly choreographed slow motion, it slipped off one shoulder, bringing those weird greens down with it.

To the half-exposed lacy, red bra.

It was her favorite.

Up went his eyebrows. She’d bet anything he was getting awfully uncomfortable in those skinny jeans. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. He made a noise. Poor thing lost his words. Fine. She could do the talking.

“I have no gag reflex.”

That got his attention.

His eyes shot to hers, to her lips, to her throat, to her bra, back to her lips, and they were so comically wide, she had to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing. Which only made his eyes go wider. He was short-circuiting. All it took was one sentence.

She stepped back, reached for the nearest door, and shoved it open. Brooms, mops, buckets, janitorial equipment. Perfect.

“Oh, look,” she feigned shock, “a closet. I wonder what’s inside.”

In she went.

In he followed.

Yes.

He shut the door, closed them away from prying eyes, locked them in total darkness.

Yes.

And he grabbed her.

God, yes.

This. It was a shot of euphoria straight into her veins, a high she craved. His hands gripping her ass, his cock pressing against her hips, his mouth falling on hers in a rough kiss, yes, yes, yes, she could feel every inch of him, this was what she wanted.

She’d stolen his sanity.

She ripped her mouth away from his, shoved him up against the wall. Her words came out in a breathless rasp, “Let’s get you taken care of.”

She dropped to her knees.

His answering groan was beautiful, and when he frantically fumbled with his belt, his zipper, his pants, desperate for her, every nerve ending in her body tingled. Her heart jackhammered against her ribcage. Fire, she was on fire. She couldn’t breathe.

He shoved his skinny jeans and underwear—boxers, briefs, boxer briefs, she couldn’t tell, and she didn’t care enough to find out—down. His belt hit the ground hard. Clattered. He was exposed, the outline of his cock barely visible in the darkness. Fuck.

He had no idea how vulnerable he was.

She smiled up at him even though he probably couldn’t see her face, gripped him, pumped once, twice, and keeping her gaze in the general direction of his weird greens, licked the length of him. His cock was already pulsing, twitching, and his breathing was labored. His head thumped against the wall, his hand tangled in her hair. Urging her to continue. Wordlessly begging really.

She liked when they begged.

She wrapped her lips around him.

“Shit,” he groaned.

A moan vibrated low in her throat. She wanted more of him. Her tongue swiped over the tip. Salty pre-cum hit her taste buds, sent her senses into overdrive. Nothing but this man, his cock between her lips, and the power she had over him mattered in that moment.

She bobbed. Taking more, more still, relishing in his moans and groans, feeling the throb of him against her tongue, until she was swallowing his entire length. He jerked the second her nose hit his pelvis, took a sharp intake of breath. He thought she’d been kidding, they always did, but she wasn’t.

She was a deep throating champ.

“Shit,” he chanted, “shit, shit, shit.”

He was close.

She bobbed faster, let him slam his pelvis against her nose, massaged his balls, moaned, worked her throat muscles. He tensed. He bucked. His cock got even harder, swelled in her throat, pulsated in her, and damn, she was wet. Tingling and sensitive and she couldn’t stop squirming. Grunting, cursing again, he drove his cock deep in her.

And came.

Warmth shot down her throat. She swallowed. Every drop. Milked him dry for everything he was worth.

He sagged against the wall. Gasping. Panting. She sat back on her heels and watched him. Her body was desperate for release, to have him touch, to feel him against her again, but that wasn’t part of the deal. She’d gotten what she wanted from him. It was time for her to leave.

She stood and adjusted herself—slid the oversized sweater into place, ran a hand through her hair to get rid of the fisted nest, swiped her mouth just in case, back to the oxymoron of presentable whore.

“See you around.” She opened the door. On impulse, she tossed a smile over her shoulder, took in the weird green color of his eyes illuminated by the crack of light one last time. “Or not.”

She left him there with his pants around his ankles and the memory of her lips. He’d never see her again. He wouldn’t even be able to name her in his elaborate retellings. She liked it that way.

Because no one would ever know that boring, studious Kit was a groupie.