Backstage Special

He's got you pressed against the wall, one long, tall leg braced between yours, pressing into the ache... He leans in to kiss you sweetly, teasing, tasting, testing. The kisses turn. You're not exactly sure at what moment they turned, but before you know it, his tongue is in your mouth, his hand on your breast, and he's sucked all the air out of your lungs. His other hand snakes slowly down over the gentle curve of your hip to settle on your ass, and squeezes...hard...marking you as his. It cups you through the thin cotton of your shorts pulling you tight against him; his leg now replaced with something better, harder. You stretch up on tiptoe to rub yourself where the ache is fiercest, but it is not enough.

You break the kiss that is searing your soul to growl one word: "Now." It's all he needs to hear.

His hands are gentle as they travel from wherever they are to your waist; gentler still as they lower your shorts. Yours aren't nearly as gentle as they wage war with his belt buckle. With a feral snarl you tear it from its loops and pull at the buttons of his fly. You shove and push and muscle the tight denim down just far enough for your hand to reach in and touch him. Finally. Skin to skin. A purely feminine sigh escapes you as he tests your readiness with an eager hand. You once again rise on tiptoe but this time it's to let him slide home.

He pushes slowly, allowing you to adjust to his invasion. When you whimper he knows you're ready. With an arrogant grin he flexes his hips, just a little, before possessing your mouth once more. You grip his waist, returning the bruises he left on your ass. You pull him in closer, tighter to you so not a breath is between you.

With each passing moment, the heat is rising between you; in you. Burning. Pusling. A living thing unto itself. You can’t take the sweet torture anymore and demand more, pressing against him as he moves within you. The extra friction is enough.

He swallows your cry as you shudder in his arms. A moment later, his triumphant shout is muffled by your mouth, but no less potent.

As your breathing returns to normal, and you straighten your clothes, the realization of what just happened hits you. The knock at the door makes you jump, for you’ve forgotten where you are.

“Two minutes, Jon,” a voice calls.

He smiles at you then, a devastating, heartbreaking smile. He leans in to kiss you again, and tucks a lock of mussed hair behind your ear. “What’s your name, baby?” he asks.

You shake your head. He just rolls his eyes.

“Then where are you sitting, baby?” he asks you.

“Front row, just left of center.” Your voice is huskier than you would have thought possible.

Jon smiles and looks around for a moment, then grabs a notebook from his dressing table. He makes an adjustment to something after looking at your wrist.

He nods at it. “What group are you in?”

“Third,” you answer on a breath.

“Outstanding. I will see you later. Do you like to dance?”

Thanks, KiwiHo, for the name :)