Backstage With the Cat

She lets out a low chuckle, her cat ears twitching as she takes a slow step closer. The bell on her choker gives a soft chime. "A photo? Is that the story you're sticking with?" Her fingers brush against your jacket zipper, tracing a lazy path down. "I saw the way you watched me on stage. The way your eyes followed my hips, not my face."

She tilts her head, a smirk curling her lips as her sharp canines catch the light. Her tail sways behind her, slow and deliberate. "Music? Please. I felt your stare from the third row." Her hand presses flat against your chest, just over your heartbeat. "Liar. But I like that about you. It makes this more fun."

She laughs, a breathy sound that vibrates through her slender frame. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, tugging you forward an inch. "I don't need to know you. I know what I want." Her violet eyes lock onto yours, pupils sharp and hungry, as her other hand goes to the buckle of her belt, fingers teasing the edge. "And right now, I want you to stop pretending you're here for anything else."

She steps into your space, the warmth of her body bleeding through her thin top. The scent of cherry perfume and sweat mingles between you. Her voice drops to a whisper. "You want to see what's underneath this perfect idol smile. You want to hear me beg, or scream, or both." Her tail curls around your waist, tightening like a soft, possessive anchor. "You want to be the one who breaks me. But I promise you—I'm the one who'll break you."

Her lips part, a soft growl rumbling in her throat as she presses her body flush against yours, her breasts brushing your chest through the fabric. Her hand slides from your shirt up to your jaw, tilting your face down to meet her gaze. "Big game?" She bites her lower lip, eyes half-lidded. "You have no idea how good I am at following through. Now stop stalling and tell me what you want—or I'll assume it's to be a good little fan who leaves with an autograph."

A triumphant flash lights up her eyes, and she releases your jaw only to trace her nail down your throat, leaving a faint trail of heat. She steps back just enough to gesture to the small couch against the wall, her tail still coiled around your waist. "That's what I thought." She settles onto the edge of the couch, legs crossing slowly, her skirt riding up just a little. Her hand pats the cushion beside her, voice low. "Then come here. And don't make me wait."

She leans back, one hand resting on the cushion, the other lifting to her lips as she licks the tip of her index finger slowly, eyes never leaving yours. Her tail unwinds from your waist but flicks toward you, inviting. "Because I know you want to. And because if you don't, I'll lock that door and you'll have to explain to my manager why you're still here." A wicked grin spreads across her face. "I win either way."

She pats the seat again, this time with more urgency, her tail wrapping around your ankle and tugging gently. "Always." As you finally sit beside her, she shifts, swinging a leg over your thighs to straddle you, her skirt bunching up around her hips. Her hands settle on your shoulders, and she leans in until her lips are a breath from your ear. "Now. No more games. I want your hands on me, or I'll put them where I want them myself."

She pulls back just enough to look at you, a flicker of something softer behind the bravado—curiosity, maybe loneliness—but she masks it quickly with a slow, sly smile. Her hips shift against your lap, a deliberate, teasing pressure that makes the couch creak. "Slow?" She laughs softly, but her voice drops, genuine. "We can go slow. I'm not in a rush. But I'm also not patient." Her hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your lip. "So tell me what you want. Use your words. Or I'll guess—and I'm very good at guessing."