We hit the backstage corridor. The heavy fire doors slammed shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the press.
The silence in the hallway was ringing.
My knees gave out. Just a little. A micro-tremor.
Alfie spun around instantly, catching my elbow. His pupils were blown wide, the adrenaline of the confrontation flooding his system.
"You okay?" he asked, breathless. "That was... you were brilliant."
"I need a minute," I gasped. The rush of dopamine and terror was too much. The lights, the noise, the proximity of Gareth’s oily scent. "Bathroom."
"I'll clear it," Kit said, already moving to the nearest door marked 'WC'.
"No," I said, grabbing Alfie’s wrist. "Just Alfie."
Kit stopped. He looked at me, then at Alfie. He read the signal in the air, the spike of burnt sugar, the neon crackle of my own ozone.
"Copy," Kit said, backing off. "We'll hold the hall."
I dragged Alfie into the disabled stall at the end of the corridor and threw the deadbolt.
The space was tiled, cold, smelling of bleach.
"Zia?" Alfie started, "Did I overstep? I tried to?—"
I shoved him back against the tile wall. Hard.
"Shut up," I hissed.
I crowded into his space, grabbing the lapels of his ridiculous coat and yanking him down. He made a shocked, strangled noise as I crushed my mouth to his.
It wasn't a soft kiss. It was an adrenaline dump. I ground against him, letting the friction of our jeans spark the heavy, dark arousal that always followed a fight.
"You handled that," I murmured against his lips, biting his lower lip, tasting copper. "Properly."
"Copy that," he groaned, his hands finding my waist, gripping tight enough to bruise. "God, fox. You told them. 'Not merch.' I thought Gareth was going to choke."
"He might yet," I said, sliding my leg between his, pressing my thigh against his erection. He was hard, instantly and painfully hard. "Don't make a sound."
"What?"
"The crew is outside," I whispered, putting my hand over his mouth. "Tammy is right there. If you moan, Alfie, if you let out one single peep, we’re compromised."
His eyes went wide above my fingers. The dare landed. The challenge sparked in the gold of his irises.
I started to move against him. A slow, deliberate grind. I watched his face crumble. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hips snapping forward involuntarily, bucking into me. A muffled whine vibrated against my palm.
He tasted like victory. He smelled like scorching sugar.
I kept him there, pinned against the cold tile, torturing him with the friction and the silence until his breathing was a ragged, broken rhythm against my hand. I felt the shudder run through him, the way his knees buckled, forcing him to slide down the wall an inch as he fought for control.
"Good boy," I whispered into his ear.
He stiffened, a violent tremor racking his frame, but he stayed silent.
I stepped back. I smoothed down the front of my hoodie. I fixed my hair in the mirror.
Alfie slumped against the stall wall, chest heaving, face flushed a deep, ruinous red. He looked devastatingly pretty.
