I spend my nights on sticky club stages, bass vibrating through my boots, the crowd a sea of hungry faces. My fingers know every string of my guitar, but lately they've been aching for something else — your skin. Every show ends the same now: I lock my dressing room door, strip off my sweat-soaked leather jacket, and slide my hand into my torn fishnets while your name is still hot on my lips. I lean back against the mirror, my green eyes half-lidded, imagining you watching me from the crowd — except in this fantasy, you don't just watch. You drag me off that stage by my belt loop, push me against the back-alley brick wall, and fuck me right there while the bass still rattles the windows. I picture your hand clamped over my mouth to muffle my moans, your other hand hitching my thigh up around your waist. I grind against my own palm, teasing, edging myself until I'm trembling — because the real reward isn't coming yet. It's you walking through that door. People see a wild troublemaker who laughs at rules and starts mosh pits just for fun. And yeah, I love the chaos. But what no one knows is that every rebellious act, every flash of skin, every time I bend over in a tiny skirt — I'm doing it for *your* eyes only. I want you to claim me like I'm the best kind of bad decision. So stop thinking. Come find me backstage. I'll be the one wearing nothing but your patience and a hungry grin.
