UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT

I leaned against the dressing room doorway, my head full of Serena as she’d looked backstage.

Her gown had slipped to her hips, black lace lingerie hugging her full breasts. A strap had fallen, exposing snowy skin, the round arc of her ass catching the light, so sexy my blood roared.

I pictured Serena standing before me, slowly easing down the zipper. Sheer fabric whispered away, revealing skin so pale it almost burned my eyes. Lace wrapped her scorching curves, the plunge at her chest so deep it could hardly contain her.

She came closer, perfume washing over me, the warm swell of her breasts pressing to my chest, so soft my heartbeat lost control.

Her fingers skimmed my shirt, teasing open the buttons. Red lips brushed my ear, her whisper a spark: “Pretty boy, want a taste of me?”

“Liam…” she panted against my ear, voice rough, tinged with a plea. “Don’t stop…” Our rhythm quickened, sweat mingling, breath and low moans ricocheting around the room.

Her body arched to meet the storm, wet hair fanning over the vanity, a sin-steeped picture that stole my soul.

When the climax hit, she trembled, taut lines blooming in my arms, and I was dragged under with her, my mind going stark white.

I snapped back, face blazing, heart pounding like a drumline. The dressing room door was still closed; inside, I heard the delicate sounds of Serena changing.

Then a soft gasp, as if something had dropped.

I didn’t think—figuring she needed a hand, I pushed in to remind her about the next call time.

The hinges creaked, and I locked up.

Serena had her back to me. The black dress had drifted like mist to her hips, baring skin so dazzlingly white it seemed to drink the light.

Her waist was so narrow it looked one-hand small, the sweep of her back sleek and illicit, like a forbidden sculpture carved to provoke, my pulse jolting out of control.

Her black lace bra was thin as gauze, stretched tight over full breasts, soft peaks just visible, teasing my blood to a boil.

A slender strap slipped lower, revealing a field of white skin; the dip beneath her collarbone hinted at a curve like a naked invitation.

Her waist was narrow, her back a crafted work of art, glowing softly under the lights.

Her hips, wrapped in lace panties, swayed in a rounded curve. The sheer fabric clung to her, tracing a lethal silhouette—so sexy my breath seized, my mind blanked, my throat scorched like I’d swallowed fire. Below the belt I tightened helplessly, sweat soaking my shirt in an instant, plastering it to my back, the damp cling only winding me tighter.

My name is Liam Hart. Twenty days ago, I joined a small talent agency as a manager.

My boss is a pudgy guy in his forties named Mr. Warren—loud floral shirt, eyes squinting to slits when he grins, greasy enough to make you keep your distance. He clapped my shoulder, voice like a street pitchman hawking knockoffs: “Kid, you’re in luck. I’m giving you an artist—C‑list starlet Serena. If she blows up, you’ll be living the good life too!”

Serena was the first artist I took on. Twenty-five, and she looked like she’d stepped off a fashion‑mag cover.

After the event, I stumbled out, face hot enough to fry an egg, heart thundering like it might blow.

Behind me came Serena’s low, amused laugh. “Relax, pretty boy. You’ve got guts.”

That voice slid over my skin like silk, leaving me aching, my head full of that blinding back and the lure of black lace.

I leaned against the door, forcing myself to steady, but sweat had already soaked my shirt, plastering it to my back. The damp cling only made me more restless.

Backstage Heat