Chapter 20

The final encore chord is still ringing in your teeth when Dani finds you behind the pyramid of road cases.

“Five minutes,” she pants, sweat-slick curls stuck to her forehead. “Wait for my text, then come to the bus. I’m claiming the back lounge.”

She steals one kiss – tastes like electrolytes and adrenaline – then disappears to do the group bow. You’re left vibrating, the roar of the arena turning into a heartbeat between your legs.

*

The other five bounce off the stage still buzzing.

Manon hip-checks you, laughing. “Your girl set a new record for hair-flips tonight. She’s dangerous.”

Sophia shoves a towel at you. “Go cool her off before she combusts.”

You love that they all know. No one treats you like a tag along; You’re ‘Dani’s person,’ folded into the chaos like an extra mic cable.

*

By the time you reach the parking lot, your phone lights up.

Dani: ‘Code red. Back lounge. Door locked.’

You climb the steps, wave at the driver, then slip past Megan and Yoonchae who are dissecting set-list changes in the front galley.

“Don’t mind me, just grabbing… a hoodie,” you lie.

Lara, stretching her hamstrings in the aisle, smirks. “Hoodie, sure. Try not to break the couch, yeah?”

Sophia, already in pyjama shorts, cups her hands like a megaphone. “Noise curfew starts in forty – make it fast!”

They all cackle. Your face is lava.

*

The door clicks behind you. The tiny back lounge is lit only by the running LEDs along the ceiling – pink, violet, pink – like you were inside of one of their light sticks. Dani’s peeled down to a black sports bra and low slung cargo pants, barefoot, pacing.

As the door snicks shut, she backs you against the cool metal wall, palms sliding under the stolen tour tee you had taken.

“You’re trembling,” she murmurs.

“Adrenaline by association,” you whisper.

Her laugh is low. “Let me wear it off you, then.”

She drags the hem upward, knuckles grazing every rib. You raise your arms; the shirt dropping somewhere behind you.

Air-conditioned breeze tightens your skin, but her gaze is a torch – tracing the line of your throat, the curve of your bra, and the waistband of your jeans like she’s deciding where to start.

You hook a finger through the loop at the front of her pants, and yank just enough to feel the heat radiating through the thin material.

“Still onstage mode?” You tease.

“Stage mode is loud,” she says, mouth nibbling at your ear. “This is the acoustic version – close, quiet, every breath a lyric.”

Hands under your thighs, she lifts. You wrap your legs around her waist, heels knocking the mini-fridge as she sets you on the narrow counter. The vibration of the engine travels up the laminate and settles right between your hips.

She spreads your knees wider, steps into the space she just made, and kisses you like she’s tasting the set-list – slow, verse, sharp chorus, repeat.

She pulls back a fraction, let’s you chase. You catch the small silver ring between your teeth, tug gently; the whimper she gives is hushed, almost swallowed by the road noise.

You lick into the whimper, and her fingers curl hard on the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening.

“Careful,” she warns, voice shredded. “Keep that up and the whole bus will hear the bridge.”

Her hands slide down, thumbs pressing slow circles on the inside of your thighs – over denim first, then under the cuff, skin on skin. Each circle climbs an inch higher, until you’re arching, breath fogging the tiny window behind her.

Outside, highway lights strobe across her face like stage spotlights. Inside, you’re the audience, clapping with nothing but shaky exhales.

You pop the button of her cargos, easing the zipper just enough to slip a hand inside the waistband – teasing only, knuckles grazing tight cotton underneath. She bucks, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

You bite the junction of neck and shoulder, tasting salt and stage glitter. She hisses something that could be your name, or a prayer.

You find a rhythm – her hips rolling between your thighs, your heels locked at the small of her back, the counter creaking in protest. Fabric drags deliciously; heat builds like a snare roll.

Every time the bus sways, you both slide, gasp, re-centre – like choreography neither of you rehearsed but both know by heart.

She drags her mouth to your ear. “Think you can stay quiet for thirty seconds?”

You nod, not trusting your own voice.

She starts a countdown, each number punctuated by a slow grind. At ‘fifteen’ you’re biting her collarbone to muffle sound; at ‘seventeen’ she slips a hand under your bra, thumb brushing once – exactly once – over sensitive skin.

You lose the count entirely.

You were now both hovering on that razor edge where pressure turns into something bigger, something that could deafen you and the whole lounge if you let it.

Dani’s other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back so she can taste the column of your throat, each kiss a vow.

You feel her heartbeat through two thin layers of cotton – hers and yours – like kick drums lining up.

*

Three quick knocks. Sophia stage-whispers, “Ten minutes to hotel, lovebirds. Clothes recommended for lobby cameras.”

You both freeze, foreheads together, laughing silently. Dani presses one last kiss to the inside of your wrist – slow, reverent, promise-heavy – then helps you off the counter.

Putting your clothes back on, smoothing out your hair and sharing a breath mint, you start to unlock the door.

“Hey,” Dani smirks, “Tonight we finish this in bed, No curfew.”

*

You both step out to five grinning faces pretending to be busy.

Megan glances up from her Switch. “Couch intact – disappointing.”

Yoonchae offers two bottles of ice-cold water like medals.

Manon flicks a towel at Dani. “Hair’s a head giveaway, superstar.”

Lara fake-yawns. “Took you thirty-two minutes. New record.”

Sophia just high-fives you. “Welcome to the circus, babe.”

*

Dani threads her fingers through yours, raises our joined hands to her lips. “Best tour support ever,” she says, voice rough, eyes only on you.

The bus rolls toward the hotel, city lights strobing across the windshield.

Behind you: the crowd, the sweat, the roar.

Ahead: a private floor, a door with a deadbolt, and the rest of the night – no curfew, no audience, just the two of you.

———-

Okay I may have made this one a little spicier 😉

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