What Happens Backstage - Part 6

River POV

The silence in my room is deafening.

Just the hum of the AC and the muted thud of rain outside the hotel window. I’ve got my phone in hand—paused on yet another tagged fan video. They’ve edited Ash and Micah into a literal romance trailer. Slow-mo glances. That kiss from the Berlin concert set to piano music. The comment section’s a minefield.

“Ash is totally in love with Micah, you can see it in his eyes.”

I shut the screen off and toss it on the bed, jaw clenched.

I don’t want to be watching this.
I don’t want to care.

But then the door slams open.

Ash.
Hair damp from the shower. Tank top sticking to his chest. Eyes wild.

"What the fuck was that with Jett?"

I blink. Sit up straighter. “Excuse me?”

“That kiss. The lap thing. On the bus,” he snaps. “You were grinding on him, River.”

I scoff. “Oh, we’re playing the jealousy card now? Really?”

“You think I’m jealous?”

“You think you’re not?”

He takes a step closer. I feel the heat radiating off him already. “I saw the way you looked at him.”

“Oh, like how you look at Micah before you two tongue-fuck on stage?”

“That’s different.”

“Bullshit.” I stand. “You’ve been playing this fake relationship game for weeks, and now suddenly I’m the bad guy for kissing someone when I’m not pretending?”

Ash grabs my wrist. Firm. “It’s not fake.”

My heart stutters.

He realizes what he said and lets go. But it’s too late.

“So what is it then?” I ask, voice quieter. “Real? Real like that night in L.A.?”

His eyes darken. “Don’t bring that up.”

“Why not? You kissed me first. You made me think—”

He lunges.

Grabs my hips. Slams me back against the wall so fast I gasp. His thigh wedges between mine, grinding up hard.

"You wanna talk about thinking?" he growls, inches from my face. "I thought you were mine."

The breath punches out of my lungs.

He presses his chest to mine, and I feel it—his cock, half-hard, dragging against my thigh through his sweats. I try to push him back but he just grabs my wrists and pins them above my head.

“You’re mad because you don’t get to watch anymore,” I spit.

“Oh, I’ll do more than watch.”

Then his mouth is on mine.

It’s not gentle.
It’s not sweet.
It’s teeth and tongue and months of pent-up, aching frustration.

His hands are all over me—ripping at my shirt, shoving it over my head. He bites my bottom lip, then licks the sting. I groan, and he shoves his knee between my legs harder, grinding until I’m breathless.

“Tell me to stop,” he hisses.

I don’t.
I can't.

He spins me, shoves me onto the bed.

Climbs on top of me, yanking down my shorts in one brutal pull. My cock slaps against my stomach, already hard and leaking. He doesn’t even touch it.

Just grabs my hips, pushes my legs up, and slides his cock along my crack, not going in yet, just teasing.

"You think Jett made you hard?” he growls. “Think again.”

“Fuck you,” I whisper, trembling.

“You wish.”

He pushes in.

No warning. Just pressure, burning stretch, and then full. I cry out—more from surprise than pain—and he slaps a hand over my mouth.

“Quiet,” he murmurs in my ear. “You don’t get to be loud yet.”

And then he starts to move.

Hard thrusts. Deep and punishing. Every slap of skin against skin echoes in the room, mixing with the rain and my choked moans under his palm. I’m sweating, writhing, clenching around him, but he just keeps going.

He leans down and bites my neck. “You gonna cum already, River?”

I nod frantically, but he pulls out completely.

I sob out, “Ash—!”

He flips me over, grabs my hips, and slams back in, his cock even deeper this way.

“You cum when I say so.”

I’m gone. My brain is gone. Every thrust hits my prostate perfectly and I’m drooling into the sheets, cock leaking untouched, begging without words.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans. “You wanted this so bad, didn’t you?”

I gasp, “I did.”

“You liked me watching you get off with Jett?”

“I wanted it to be you,” I whisper.

That’s all it takes. He jerks me upright, holds me by the throat, and strokes me fast, rough, filthy. I cum everywhere, moaning his name, legs shaking. He follows seconds after, burying himself inside me, grunting, spilling deep.

We collapse in silence, both of us panting, tangled in sweat and guilt and something dangerously close to love.

Ash pulls out. I flinch at the loss.

Then he leans over and kisses my jaw, softer now.

“You’re mine,” he says.

And I don't argue.