Voltage and Vow

Her hands scrabble for purchase, finding his sweat-slicked shoulders, then sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him down for another searing kiss. He returns it fiercely, his tongue mimicking the thrust of his hips. One of his hands grips her hip, anchoring her, the other slides between their bodies, finding the sensitive bud of her clit. He circles it with rough, perfect pressure.

The dual assault – the hard, relentless thrusts and the expert touch – shatters her. The orgasm hits like a freight train, tearing a cry from her throat that he swallows with his kiss. She clamps down around him, her body trembling, waves of intense pleasure crashing through her. He follows a moment later, his rhythm faltering, a guttural groan wrenched from him as he buries himself deep and comes, his body shuddering over hers.

They collapse together onto the table, a tangle of damp limbs and heaving chests, the aftermath leaving them boneless and breathless in the dim, vibrating tent. The distant festival noise feels like another world. Here, there is only the scent of sex and sweat, the heat of their entwined bodies, and the deafening echo of what they’ve just done.

The roar of the crowd vibrates in Siena’s bones as she pushes through the throng backstage, her focus singular. She finds Dario’s tent and throws open the flap. He’s shirtless, back to her. "Siena." His voice is rough from performance.

"You wrote that about me," she states, trembling with furious energy. "'Voltage and Vow'. A public flaying?"

He turns, dropping his shirt. "It’s a song. I write what I feel." He steps closer; the small space shrinks. "You didn’t like it?"

"Like it? It was everything we haven’t said!" Her hands clench. "Was that your plan? To force my hand?"

"What thing, Siena?" he challenges, stepping closer. "The thing where you look at me like you’re drowning and I’m the only air?"

His words steal her breath. "Don’t twist this."

"Imagined?" He laughs harshly. "This tension? This voltage? It’s real, Siena." He reaches out, hand hovering near her cheek. "You feel it too."

"It’s impossible," she whispers, heart frantic. "You. Me. This tour."

"Maybe," he concedes, gaze dropping to her mouth. "Or maybe it’s the only thing that isn’t." His knuckles brush her jaw, igniting her skin. "Siena…"

Her resistance incinerates. With a half-sob, half-surrender, she closes the distance. Their lips collide – weeks of frustration unleashed. He tastes of salt, heat, raw energy. Her back hits the canvas wall. His hands are everywhere. They break apart, gasping. "Siena," he rasps.

"Shut up, Dario," she breathes, pulling him back. This kiss is deeper, molten heat pooling in her belly. He lifts her; she wraps her legs around him. He walks them to the dressing table, setting her down. Something clatters. His mouth trails fire down her throat. She arches into his touch with a choked cry. "Dario, please…"

"Please what, cariño?" He unclasps her bra. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you. Now. Hard." Her boldness shocks her, but his answering flare confirms it.

He kisses her, a filthy promise, working at her jeans, then his own. He’s hot, hard against her. "Condom," she gasps.

He freezes, curses in Spanish, fumbling for his wallet. She takes the packet, rolls it on. He pushes her back, hooking her leg over his shoulder, thrusting inside, hard and deep. She cries out. He sets a punishing rhythm, the table rattling. It’s not lovemaking; it’s a claiming. He thumbs her clit, rough and perfect. The dual assault shatters her. She clamps down, trembling, waves of pleasure crashing. He follows, burying deep, shuddering. They collapse, damp limbs entwined, boneless in the dim tent, the festival noise another world.