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Aubree Valentine, Marilyn Johnson Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of warm amplifiers and the sweet, metallic tang of anticipation. Her fingers, slick with a faint sheen of sweat, found the curve of my hip, a possessive anchor in the dim backstage light. A low, throaty laugh escaped her lips, a vibration I felt deep in my chest as she leaned in, her breath a hot whisper agat the shell of my ear. The distant roar of the crowd was a muffled thunder, a world away from the intimate silence we inhabited. I turned into her, my mouth meeting hers in a slow, searching kiss that tasted of adrenaline and cherry gloss. Her other hand slid up my spine, beneath the thin fabric of my shirt, her touch branding my skin with a delicious, claiming heat. Our bodies pressed together, a perfect, urgent alignment from chest to thigh, moving to a rhythm only we could hear. The strap of my guitar was a forgotten weight between us, a relic from the performance we had just shared. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared pulse, the electric current of our connection, and the unspoken promise of what was to come when the last echo of music finally faded.
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