Page 18 of Spotlight Hearts

“Try not to get hard when I take that sucker from your mouth,” he fires back, barely audible.

The cue hits.

We step out.

The arena explodes.

The lights hit like a drug.

Twenty-five thousand voices crash over us the second we step out—raw, desperate, screaming our name. Eclipse. Eclipse. Eclipse. The sound wraps around my ribs, squeezes, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. This is what I live for. Not the money. Not the fame. This—the rush, the heat, the way the stage makes every nerve in my body light up.

Adrenaline floods my veins, sharp and sweet. My heart slams against my sternum, cock already half-hard from the pre-show tension, from the way Kai’s eyes flicked down my body in the shower earlier. That split-second glance has been looping in my head ever since, and it probably meant less than nothing. I shouldn’t want it. I shouldn’t want him. But the stage doesn’t care about shoulds. It amplifies everything. Lust. Hate. The thin, dangerous line between them.

We launch into the opener. Michael and Min-ho flank us, bodies moving in perfect sync, but the crowd’s eyes are on Kai and me. Always on us.

First big moment: the throat hold in the bridge of “Midnight Nova.”

I stalk toward him during the instrumental swell. The crowd senses it—screams spike, phones shoot up like a galaxy of tiny suns. Kai’s back is to me, facing the arena, leather pants hugging every line of his ass and thighs.

I close the distance and circle him before facing away from the crowd.

My fingers hook the silver chain at his throat—same one I yanked in rehearsal—and I pull. Firm. Possessive. He stumbles forward one step, body arching into mine. His chest hits my chest. Heat bleeds through the mesh of my top into his bare sides. I tilt his chin up with my free hand, exposing the column of his throat where those vines twist like some sort of invitation to drag my tongue along them to trace them.

Then my palm slides around—fingers splaying wide, thumb pressing just under his jaw. Not choking. Just holding. Claiming.

His pulse hammers against my skin. Fast. Erratic.

Mine matches it.

The crowd loses it. “Kuca! Kuca! Kuca!”

I lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear so the mic catches the rasp of my breath. “Stay still,” I murmur—low, scripted, but the words feel too real tonight.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds the pose, eyes locked forward, jaw tight, lips parted just enough to show the red stain. His body is rigid, but I feel the tremor in his muscles—the fight not to react. Not to lean into me harder. Not to give in.

I hold longer than rehearsal. One extra beat. Two. Let the tension coil until it’s unbearable.

Then release.

He spins out of my grip on cue, launching into the next verse like nothing happened. But I see it—the flush creeping up his neck, right where my fingers were. The way his dark eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second, pupils blown.

Fuck.

My dick throbs against the leather. Not from the crowd. Not from the lights. From him. From the way his body yielded for that split second. From the memory of him walking in on me in the shower—eyes dipping down, cheeks burning bright when he was caught.

The set rolls on. Every shared glance feels loaded now. Every brush of our shoulders electric. The sucker moment in the closer hits like a bomb.

I’m fronting the crowd, hips rolling through the choreo. Kai steps in close—too close—unwrapping the prop slowly, fingers unhurried. He pops the candy into his mouth once, twice, then clamps the stem between his teeth. Turns to me.

Our eyes lock.

I lean in.

The arena holds its breath.

My lips close around the sucker—lingering, teasing drag. I take it from between his teeth with an unrushed suck, tongue brushing the edge of his lip as I take the candy. Cherry bursts hot and sweet. His breath hitches—barely audible, but I feel it against my mouth. His hand comes up on instinct, fingers curling around my wrist.

The crowd erupts. Phones flash like lightning.