Page 126 of Revv

Then a few more.

I glance down and find him already with the adapter in his hand.

Yet he’s still crouched there.

My eyes narrow with confusion.

Revel looks up at me from beneath the front of the booth, that slow, wicked grin spreading across his face as he holds the adapter up between two fingers.

Ay, no.

I know that fucking look, and judging by the way he settles onto his knees instead of getting his ass back up here, finding what I dropped is no longer the reason he’s down there.

The booth hides most of him from the crowd, but not from me. I can see him perfectly between the equipment and cables, crouched directly in front of me with that smug expression that says he’s already come up with an idea I’m going to regret agreeing to, and there are people fucking everywhere.

Crew moving around behind the stage. Security posted near the barricades. Other artists and their teams coming and going. Cameras sweeping across the stage every few minutes. Beyond all of that, thousands of people are packed together beneath the lights, jumping and dancing, phones in the air, all of them looking in my general fucking direction.

Fantastic.

I shoot Revel a warning glare, but my hands stay busy on the decks. I can’t exactly stand here staring between my own legs without somebody wondering what the fuck I’m doing, so I turn my attention back to the crowd, twisting the EQ as the bass rolls out over them.

He doesn't move fast.

He takes his time, letting the tension build

I feel his breath first—hot, and steady, hitting the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Then, his fingers hook beneath the hem of my dress, pushing the short black fabric higher before catching the waistband of my panties.

He doesn't yank; he just tugs, a slow, possessive slide that pulls them down, leaving me exposed beneath the booth while the thigh-high boots stay firmly in place.

I gasp, the sound swallowed by the bass, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

Ay, coño.

I straighten immediately, forcing my hips still.

"Revel," I hiss under my breath, a warning that sounds more like an invitation.

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he leans in, his tongue dragging in one long, wet stripe from the base of my opening up to my clit. I nearly jump out of my fucking skin, my fingers twitching slightly on the mixer.

I have to force myself to focus, sliding the fader up, keeping the beat steady while my world narrows down to the point where his mouth meets my skin.

He starts with slow, swirling licks, tasting me, teasing the edges of my folds until I'm dripping. I can feel the vibration of the subwoofers humming through the floor and into my heels, syncing up with the throb between my legs.

Then, he adds the fingers.

One finger slides in, deep and slow, stretching me. I bite my lip, staring straight ahead at the crowd, my face a mask of professional confidence while my hips are subconsciously tilting toward him.

He adds a second finger, curling them upward to find that exact spot that makes my toes curl.

He keeps his fingers moving inside me while his mouth works my clit, somehow knowing exactly what the fuck to do to make it impossible for me to stand still.

Someone near the front catches my attention and throws both hands up when I look their way.

I grin and throw one of mine up in response like everything is completely fucking normal.

Like Revel St Clair, isn’t on his knees under my booth, with his face between my thighs.

Like there isn’t a camera moving across the crowd toward the stage that could put my face on one of those giant fucking screens at any second.