Page 49 of Spotlight Hearts

The final line.

He leans in—lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear.

“Luca.”

My name on his tongue—rough, desperate, and real—tips me over the edge.

I come.

Hard.

Silent except for the choked gasp that slips out, muffled against his neck. My hips jerk up against him, cock pulsing in my pants, wet heat spreading. No one in the arena knows. The lights are too low, the angle too perfect. But he knows. He feels it—the way my body locks up, shuddering under him, and my fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise.

He finishes the note. Holds the pose—bodies flush, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling.

The crowd screams as though the world is ending. Lights cut. We stay there for one heartbeat. Two. Then he pulls back slowly and stands, offering me a hand.

I take it.

He pulls me up. Our fingers linger—interlocked for a second longer than necessary. Then we turn to the crowd.

Bow.

Wave.

Walk offstage.

The roar follows us offstage like a living thing—twenty thousand voices refusing to let go. I’m shaking. Legs unsteady, skin buzzing, the wet heat inside my leather pants a sticky, humiliating reminder of what just happened. I came on stage. In front of everyone. Because Kai crawled to me, straddled me, ground down on me until I couldn’t hold it back.

And he knew.

He felt every pulse, every jerk of my hips, every broken sound I tried to swallow. He held the pose—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling—while I spilled for him under the lights.

I don’t stop moving until we’re in the corridor. Crew claps us on the back, shouts praise—“Fucking insane, you two!” “That was pornographic!” “Kuca forever!”—but the words slide right off me. My full focus is on him. On the way he’s walking ahead, shoulders tense, leather pants clinging to every line of his thighs and ass, his tattoo stark against sweat-slick skin.

He doesn’t slow down or look back. Just keeps going—straight through the green room, past the couches and the makeup stations, all the way to the small side room we use for quick changes.

The door shuts behind us with a soft click.

I’m on him before it even latches.

I spin him around, press him hard against the door. His breath punches out of him—sharp and surprised—but he doesn’t push me away. My hands slam to either side of his head, caging him in. I’m hard again. Achingly, embarrassingly hard. I make sure he knows it—roll my hips forward, grinding the thick ridge of my cock against his hip through our pants.

He feels it. I see it in the way his pupils blow wide, the way his throat works on a hard swallow.

“You made me come on stage,” I rasp, voice wrecked, forehead dropping to his. “You crawled to me, straddled me, touched me. And you made me fucking come in front of twenty thousand people.”

His hands come up—fisting my mesh top, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. His hips shift—just enough to press back against me. Friction. Heat. My dick throbs painfully.

“I know,” he whispers. Voice rough and shaky. “I felt it. Every pulse. Every shudder. I felt you spill for me.”

The words rip a groan out of me. I drop my head to his neck, breathe him in—sweat, leather, the faint cherry from the sucker. My hips rock forward again, grinding against him as though I can’t stop.

“You didn’t pull away,” I say against his skin. “You kept going. You held me there while I came apart under you.”

His fingers dig into my sides. “I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to.”

I lift my head. Look at him.