Risky Backstage Quickie
“Three minutes.” Jace’s voice was a live wire against her throat, teeth scraping her pulse as he drove into her, already buried to the hilt on that first brutal stroke. “That’s all we’ve got before they call your cue, and I intend to ruin you in every single second of it.” Bianca’s spine arched off the gritty backstage floor, the concrete biting into her shoulder blades, her skirt shoved to her waist and her underwear hooked aside in some frantic, forgotten scramble of seconds ago, but the pain registered as nothing more than a distant hum beneath the roar of him splitting her open, thick and veined and relentless, her slick walls clenching around him like they were trying to memorize the shape of his cruelty.
The bass from the club bled through the walls in a low, pulsing heartbeat, and Jace matched it, grinding deep before he pulled back to the tip and slammed home again, a rhythm designed to unravel her one thread at a time. His hands found her wrists and pinned them flat above her head, sweat-damp skin fusing to sweat-damp skin, and she felt the drag of him inside her like silk wrapped around a blade — soft heat, sharp intent. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice gravel dragged over broken glass. “Soaking my cock like you’ve been starving for it. Take every inch, Bianca. Open that greedy little cunt and let me wreck it before anyone finds us.”
She obeyed without meaning to, hips tilting to meet him, and the angle changed everything — he sank deeper, hit some new devastating spot, and a sound tore out of her that she didn’t recognize as her own voice. He slowed then, maddeningly, dragging out every inch of retreat until just the head of him remained inside her, her body clenching desperately around nothing, before he drove back in with a force that rattled her teeth. Again. Again. The wet slap of skin echoed obscenely off the corridor’s brick, underscored by the filthy suction of her arousal coating him, dripping down to pool at the small of her back where the concrete had gone slick and cold beneath her.
The danger lived in her skin now, electric and humming — any second a stagehand could round that corner, could catch her spread and taken and utterly undone beneath him, and instead of fear it poured gasoline straight onto the fire already gutting her from the inside. She could hear muffled cheering beyond the walls, oblivious, while she lay here being split apart in the dark. Jace felt her tighten around him and laughed low in his chest, a sound with no mercy in it. “There it is. You like this, don’t you. Being fucked where anyone could watch you fall apart.” She couldn’t answer — could only clench and shudder beneath him, her fingertips scraping helplessly against the concrete where his grip held her wrists fast, past words, past anything but the relentless drive of him.
Then his hands left her wrists, and in one rough motion he levered himself backward, hauling his own weight off her and rocking back onto his heels without ever slipping free, dragging her with him by the hips like she weighed nothing at all. His hands hooked beneath her thighs, muscles in his forearms coiling like rope under strain as he pulled her up and into him. The world tilted violently — her back peeled off the concrete, hips still speared open on him as he rolled them both upright, and for one dizzying second gravity had no opinion on where she belonged. She felt every millimeter of him drag against slick, swollen nerve endings as her body resettled, sliding down his length by inches until she was seated fully in his lap, knees planted on the concrete on either side of his thighs, straddling him, her thighs bracketing his hips like she’d been built for exactly this angle.
“Ride,” he growled against her collarbone, hands clamping her ass and hauling her down hard to prove he meant it. “Faster. Fuck yourself on this cock like the desperate little slut you already know you are.” Her thighs screamed in protest, burning with the effort, but she obeyed anyway, grinding in filthy circles before breaking into a frantic bounce, her clit catching the base of him on every downstroke, that slick, swollen bud dragging pleasure through her spine like a match struck against flint. The head of him kept punching that spot high inside her, over and over, until her thoughts scattered into static.
“That’s it,” he ground out, watching her come apart on top of him with something like hunger, something like ownership. “Take what you need. Show me how bad you want to get caught like this.” Her hips lost their rhythm entirely, degenerating into desperate, stuttering grinds as pleasure coiled tight and vicious low in her belly, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders, his cock so deep it felt like he’d rewritten her anatomy from the inside.
Then he stood.
One brutal surge of muscle and he was on his feet, her body lifted clean off his lap, weightless, her knees leaving the concrete as her legs swung up and cinched around his hips, ankles locking at the small of his back before her brain caught up with what was happening. Her stomach dropped the way it did at the top of a fall, that half-second of pure vertigo where she had no floor, no anchor, nothing but his cock still buried inside her and his hands clamped bruising-tight beneath her thighs. He carried her three staggering steps and slammed her spine flat against the corridor wall, the impact punching the air clean out of her lungs in a strangled gasp.
There was nothing to hold now. No floor beneath her feet, no leverage in her hips — just his iron grip and gravity conspiring to keep her impaled, suspended in the dark like an offering nailed to the brick. He drove up into her with short, punishing strokes, the new angle wringing a broken cry out of her that echoed straight down the empty hallway. “You’ve got nothing to grab,” he snarled against her ear, voice fraying at the edges. “Nothing to hold onto but me. So hold on, Bianca, and take it like you were made for exactly this.”
Her fingers scrabbled at empty air, at the smooth unhelpful brick, at nothing — the total absence of control turning every thrust into something closer to falling than fucking. She was suspended three feet off a public floor, held open and used in a hallway where anyone might walk through, and the exposure of it detonated through her nervous system like current finding ground. Her orgasm didn’t build so much as arrive violently, seizing her from the inside out, her inner walls clamping and rippling around him in spasms so hard her vision fractured into hot white static, the wall at her back the only solid thing left in a world gone entirely unmoored.
“Good girl,” Jace growled, feeling her convulse around him, and that was what broke him — his hips stuttering, losing their brutal rhythm as he buried himself to the hilt one final time and held there, a rough groan tearing out of his throat as he emptied inside her in thick, pulsing waves, his cock throbbing with every spurt, filling her until it spilled slick and hot down the inside of her thigh. He held her pinned through it, both of them shaking, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as the last of it wrung out of him.
His legs gave out beneath the both of them, the strength draining from his knees all at once, and they collapsed together in an ungraceful tangle on the cold concrete, chests heaving, her thighs still trembling around his hips, his release leaking out of her stretched, abused entrance to pool beneath them. Somewhere close — too close — footsteps struck the floor in a brisk, unhurried rhythm, growing louder down the corridor, and Bianca’s stomach lurched with the sudden, sobering certainty that they had perhaps four seconds left to disappear.