Page 49 of One Last Encore

He drank her in, every slow drag of his gaze branding her, staking a claim without ever touching her. When he finallylooked back up, his lips curled into a slow, wicked smile that made her heart stutter. He leaned in, his breath brushing her cheek, sending a violent shiver down her spine.

"An angel dressed like a devil," he rasped, voice dark, amused."Think you can keep up with the devil?"

Her pulse kicked hard, reckless and wild. Every stubborn part of her screamedyes.

"Maybe I just want to make the devil beg for heaven." she whispered.

Beck’s answering chuckle was low and rough, the sound dragging over her skin like a slow slide of fingertips. His arms tightened around her waist, yanking her closer, planting her fully in his lap. No space left, no air between them.

The first crack of the snare drum hit, vibrating through her chest, pulsing down her spine.

She hadn't even thought about what it would feel like, sitting in his lap while he played but now she felt everything.

Every flex of Beck’s thighs beneath her. Every controlled ripple of muscle as he commanded the kit like it was an extension of his body. Each movement rolled through her, igniting nerve endings she hadn’t even known existed.

She was trapped in his lap, caged by his arms, helpless against the onslaught of sensation as he rocked her with every thunderous beat. Every roll of the toms. Every flick of his wrist. Every brutal, rhythmic pound of the bass drum vibrated straight into her core.

Her skirt was already scandalously short, but now it bunched indecently high around her hips with every grind of her hips against him, every unconscious push for more. They were mostly hidden by the kit. No one could see. But even if they could, she wasn’t sure she could’ve stopped.

And she wasn’t the only one losing control. Beck’s breathing roughened, his arms tightening possessively around her, hiscock thick and hot beneath the denim, pressing directly against the soaked scrap of lace between her thighs.

Then he leaned in, his breath skimming the shell of her ear, a fresh jolt of shivers tearing through her.

"Still having fun?" he muttered, voice low and wicked.

She felt him smirk against her skin. Cocky bastard. He was playing the drums and playing with her, both way too well. She should’ve said something sharp. Something that kept her dignity intact. But the second he shifted his hips, grinding up into her, her mind blanked.

She slid against him, the hard ridge of him grinding right against her swollen, desperate clit.

The music roared around them, the crowd a blur of noise and color, but all she could feel was him.

She could end this slow torture in an instant. Just a tilt of her chin and she’d have his mouth on hers. But she didn’t move. Instead, she shifted her hips forward, dragging herself shamelessly along the rigid line of him. Beck stilled under her, his next snare hit just a beat too late.

"You tell me," she whispered, breathless.

She ground down against him again, slow and merciless, the soaked scrap of her panties doing nothing to shield her from the thick, throbbing ridge of him. She was soaked through, clinging to him, probably leaving a wet mark on his jeans, and she didn’t care.

She was drunk on him, drunk on the reckless, dizzying power of knowing he was seconds from snapping. From tearing her panties aside, shoving her skirt up to her waist, and burying himself inside her, right here, right now, with the whole damn world watching.

Beck’s arms locked tighter around her waist, his drumming growing rougher, sloppier.

The ache between her thighs sharpened, desperate, a sweet, unbearable pressure building with every rock of her hips. And when she rolled her hips in a slow, grinding circle, Beck growled, the sound almost swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

"Something wrong?" she asked, silk and sin in her voice.

Beck’s next hit slammed down like a hammer. His voice was a rasp, almost lost under the pounding music.

"Not so prim tonight, princess?"

The nickname hit her like a spark to dry tinder, sending molten heat streaking straight to her core. Her nails dug into his shoulders without thinking, dragging through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Funny," she murmured against his ear. "I don’t remember needing your permission to enjoy myself."

"Oh, princess," he rasped, dark and ragged, "I'll need permission for the things I’m going to do to you. And I swear to God..." his lips brushed her ear, "you’ll beg me for every second of it."

Her thighs clenched involuntarily around him. He bucked his hips up, just once, but it was enough to make her bite back a moan, enough to feel the desperate, throbbing pulse of him against her. The friction was too much. Not enough.

"Prove it," she whispered, breathless, daring.

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