The way she looks tonight—the flowing dress, the goddess vibe—it shouldn’t scream rock star, but somehow, it does. She’s soft and dangerous at once. Watching her like this, owning every inch of that stage, only fuels the raw, primal need clawing at my chest.
I shift where I stand, adjusting myself as my cock strains in my jeans. Just the sight of her, the way she commands that crowd... it’s maddening.
I want her.
All of her.
I want to bury myself inside her and mark every inch of her skin until there’s no doubt who she belongs to.
Effa strums her guitar, adding to the intoxicating pulse of the song. Then she steps forward to the mic while I hold my breath.
She opens her mouth, and that voice…
Shit.
Her husky, sensual tone slips into the night like velvet smoke. It wraps around me, her silky mezzo-soprano notes hitting low and seductive before rising into smooth highs that border on operatic. It’s beautifully controlled and haunting. Effa’s not just performing, she’s pouring pieces of herself into the sound, and I feel every damn note.
It crashes into me, unexpected and overwhelming.
Effa doesn’t just sing.
She owns you with her voice.
Watching her from this angle, behind the stage, seeing the crowd beyond and the band in action, it’s a whole different vibe from being stuck in the rafters like before. Here, I get the full picture. The music, the movement, the way Effa owns every beat, it’s fucking electric.
The lighting’s on point tonight. Every strobe, every hue, perfectly timed to her presence. And it’s doing her favors. Effa’s summer dress flows as she moves, and when the lights hit just right, it reveals the perfect silhouette of her legs underneath.
It’s distracting as hell.
Tempting in a way that makes my jaw clench.
She slides into the bridge of the song, and everything shifts—the percussion deepens, the bass pulses harder, syncing withmy heartbeat like it’s punching through my chest. She’s not just performing, she’s transforming the whole atmosphere.
Effa’s a storm, and I’m caught in the centre of it.
“Mercs… Mercs, fuck!” Tank hisses, elbowing me hard enough to break my trance. “I know you’ve got a raging boner right now, but seriously, bro, we’ve got a job to do.”
I blink hard, the spell breaking, and glance over at him, scrambling at the lighting controls, sweat on his brow.Shit.He’s doing both our jobs while I’m standing here, craving that beautiful woman like a love-sick lunatic.
“Shit. Sorry, man.” I step up, immediately get back to work, flip switches, and refocus on the timing console.
The song powers on, and I force myself not to look, not to listen, but it’s fucking impossible.
She’s up there, glowing under the lights I set, moving like sin and singing like salvation.
I clench my jaw, trying to get a grip.
Tank was right—aboutall of it.
I do have a raging boner.
Didn’t even realize how hard I’d gotten until he said something. That’s how deep she has gotten under my skin. And if I don’t get this under control, I’m going to screw up something major.
I’m here to do a job.
This isn’t about fantasy.
It’s about making sure every cue hits, every beat lands, and every light follows through without a hitch.
