Undercurrent

"You like it when I go down low, don't you, baby?"

The lyric, a throaty purr into the microphone, was for them, the swaying, half-drunk crowd packed tight against the lip of the small stage. But the way she dragged out the ‘low,’ dropping her own body in a slow, deliberate arch, her spine curving just so, her gaze cutting sharp and direct through the dim, smoky air to the back of the platform – that was for him.

He didn't miss a beat. Of course, he didn't. The kick drum thudded, a steady, grounding pulse beneath the screaming guitar and her sinuous voice. Thump-thump. Like a second, angrier heartbeat in the room. His sticks were a blur, precise, powerful. But she saw it. The slight tightening of his jaw, the way the muscles in his forearms bunched just a fraction more under the rolled-up sleeves of his black t-shirt. His eyes, usually half-lidded in concentration, were fixed on her, unwavering.

Good.

A smirk played on her lips as she straightened, the cheap stage lights catching the sweat slicking her collarbones. She ran a hand down her side, over the worn denim of her shorts, her fingers splaying just for a moment at the V of her thighs. The crowd roared its approval, a wave of humid breath and stale beer washing over her.

She lapped it up, turned the energy back on them, but always, always, a part of her performance was a private show.

The air in the pub was thick. Sweat, spilt booze, the lingering scent of old cigarettes stubbornly clinging to the grimy velvet curtains despite the smoking ban. She could taste the cheap lager someone had probably sloshed near the monitors. The vibrations from the bass cabinet juddered up through the soles of her boots, a pleasant thrum that seemed to echo deep inside her.

He was still watching. His focus was a physical thing, a weight she could almost feel. During the guitar solo, a wild, screeching thing that had the crowd headbanging, she sauntered back. The guitarist, lost in his own world, shredded away. She leaned casually against the rack toms, ostensibly to grab her water bottle. Her hip nudged his elbow, just a feather-light brush.

"Thirsty?" she murmured, her voice barely audible above the music, pitched low. His scent hit her – clean sweat, soap, something uniquely him that always made her insides clench a little.

His head didn't turn. "Focus," he bit out, low and rough, right into her ear, his breath warm against her skin for a split second before he was back to his precise battery, hitting a complicated fill that punctuated the end of the solo.

A tiny thrill, sharp and sweet, shot through her. Focus. Oh, she was focused.

Focused on the way his t-shirt strained across his shoulders when he leaned into a cymbal crash. Focused on the tendons cording his neck. Focused on the promise of later, when the noise died down and the only rhythm left would be theirs.

She took a long swig of water, her eyes laughing at him over the rim of the bottle.

His answering look was flat, unreadable, which only made it hotter. He knew this game. They both did. It was one of their favourites.

The set list was winding down. One more song. Their anthem, the one that always brought the house down. She signalled their bassist, a quick nod, and then launched into it, her voice soaring, more raw now, fueled by the energy of the crowd and the building tension with him. She moved with a freedom that was almost reckless, owning the small stage, dancing closer to the edge, a dare in her eyes.

She imagined his fingers, calloused from the sticks, tracing the curve of her spine right now. How they’d feel gripping her hips. Hard.

His drumming intensified, a driving, relentless force pushing the song, pushing her.

He was working, hard, sweat gleaming on his temples, but his gaze never left her for long. It was a brand.

The final cymbal crash echoed, sustained, then faded into a cacophony of cheers and whistles. "Thank you! You've been amazing!" she panted into the mic, a genuine smile this time, though the buzz beneath her skin had little to do with the applause.

The lights came up a notch, harsh and yellow. The spell was broken, the pub noise returning to a dull roar of chatter. The other band members were already moving, unplugging guitars, towelling off. She took a deep breath, the adrenaline slowly beginning to ebb, leaving that familiar shaky feeling behind.

Then he was there.

He hadn't rushed. She’d watched him rise from behind the drum kit, methodically placing his sticks in their bag, his movements economical, deliberate. Now, he stood just offstage, partially obscured by a stack of amps, but his presence filled the small space. He just looked at her. No smile. Nothing. Just that steady, assessing gaze.

He didn't say anything about the encore calls trickling from the crowd. Didn't acknowledge their bassist who was trying to ask him something about a broken cymbal stand. His focus was entirely on her.

Her stomach did a little flip. The good kind. Mostly.

"Come" His voice was low, cutting through the general backstage clatter. It wasn’t a question.

She gave a small, airy laugh, reaching for her own discarded towel. "Thought I might actually mingle tonight. Sign a few… well, you know." She made a vague gesture. A part of her genuinely liked the post-gig buzz, the brief flush of local celebrity.

He took a step closer, into her space. The smell of him was stronger now, raw and real. "No."

Just that. "No."

Her eyebrows went up. "No? Who died and made you king?" Teasing, still. But the air around them had shifted, thickened.

His hand came up, not fast, but with an inevitability that made her breath catch. It settled on the small of her back, fingers splayed, firm. Warm through the thin fabric of her top. A claim. "Later," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Now, we go."

His touch was like a spark. Every nerve ending under his palm zinged. Shit.

He didn’t wait for an answer, just applied a gentle, irresistible pressure, guiding her towards the narrow, paint-chipped door that led to the corridor and the rooms upstairs. The pub had a couple of dingy rooms they sometimes used if they played late or wanted to crash. Tonight, it felt less like convenience and more like a pre-ordained destination.

"Hey," she protested, a token resistance, her voice a little breathier than she intended. "My jacket…"

"I'll get it." He didn't even glance back. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her back. A reminder. You’re mine for the taking.

The corridor was blessedly cooler, quieter. The thumping bass from the pub's sound system was a dull, distant pulse here. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the peeling wallpaper. Their footsteps echoed, his heavier, hers trying to match his stride.

Her heart was thumping. A different rhythm now. Faster. Anticipatory. She could feel the heat of his palm seeping into her, a focal point. What was he thinking? His face was still a mask of controlled neutrality, but she knew him. Knew the signs. The almost invisible tension around his mouth, the way his eyes seemed darker, more intense.

He had a key in his other hand. Old, brassy. Room three. The one furthest from the stairs. Of course.

The lock clicked, loud in the sudden stillness. He pushed the door open, his hand still on her back, guiding her in before him.

The room was small, basic. A double bed that took up most of the space, a scarred wooden dresser, a single curtained window overlooking a grimy alleyway. It smelled faintly of dust and stale air. He flicked the main light switch, and the dim, naked bulb overhead flickered to life.

The door shut behind them with a soft, final thud.

Silence.

Or, not quite silence. She could hear her own breathing, a little too quick. His, steady and slow. The distant, muffled beat of music from downstairs.

He hadn't moved from his spot by the door. Just stood there, watching her. His eyes roamed over her, slow, deliberate. From her tangled hair, down her sweat-sheened face, lingering for a moment on her mouth, then lower, over her throat, her chest, the denim shorts. Like he was cataloguing every detail of her earlier performance.

Every flick of her hip, every suggestive lyric.

A shiver traced its way down her spine. Not from cold.

"So," she said, trying for a casual tone, turning to face him fully, hands on her hips. "What was so important it couldn't wait?"

His gaze met hers. There was something in his eyes now, a heat that had been banked down earlier. It was starting to smolder. "You know what." His voice was flat, dangerously soft.

She bit the inside of her lip, a nervous habit she thought she'd kicked. "I have no idea what you're talking about." A lie. A blatant, stupid lie. And they both knew it.

He pushed off from the door, taking one slow step towards her. Then another. He moved with a kind of contained grace, a predatory stillness that always set her teeth on edge in the best, worst way.

"You really want to play this out?" he asked, stopping barely a foot from her. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. Close enough for her to see the tiny muscle jumping in his clenched jaw.

Her pulse hammered at the base of her throat. This was it. The shift. The moment the teasing backfired, or rather, ignited exactly what she’d been aiming for all along. The delicious, terrifying thrill of him taking back control.

"Maybe I do," she whispered, her voice husky. Her fingers itched to touch him, to trace the line of that tight jaw, to feel the coiled strength in his shoulders. But she kept them at her sides, balled into loose fists. Waiting.

His eyes narrowed. A faint smile, humourless and sharp, touched his lips. "Alright."

He didn't reach for her. Not yet. Instead, his gaze dropped to her mouth. She felt it like a touch, her lips parting slightly, an unconscious invitation.

"That song," he said, his voice still low, almost conversational. "The one about going down low."

Her breath hitched. "What about it?"

"You enjoyed singing that one tonight," he stated. Not a question. His eyes lifted back to hers, pinning her. "Especially the… visual aids."

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. Caught. Of course, she was caught. She’d wanted to be. "The crowd liked it." A weak deflection.

"I'm not the crowd."

The simple statement hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. I see you. I know what you’re doing. And underlying it all: And you’re going to answer for it.

His hand finally moved. Slowly. Deliberately. She watched it, mesmerised, as it came up towards her face. Her mind went blank. All she could focus on was the impending touch. The calloused tips of his fingers, rough against her skin.

He didn't touch her lips. Not yet. Instead, his thumb brushed her jawline, once, a feather-light stroke that sent a jolt straight to her core. Then, his fingers slid into her hair, just above her ear, not pulling, just… anchoring. His thumb rested on her temple, stroking softly, a deceptive tenderness.

"You like to push, don't you?" he murmured, his face so close now she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. His other hand came up, mirroring the first, tangling gently in the hair on the other side of her head. He wasn't holding her captive, not really. She could pull away. But she wouldn’t. Couldn't.

"Sometimes," she breathed, her voice barely there. Her whole body felt like it was humming, vibrating from the inside out, a strange kind of invisible shaking caused by something strong.

"And what happens," he continued, his thumbs now stroking her temples in a slow, rhythmic motion that was both soothing and incredibly arousing, "when you push too hard?"

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Just the scent of him, the feel of his hands in her hair, the low timbre of his voice – it was already too much, and not nearly enough. She could feel his chest, an inch from hers. Feel the solid warmth of him. If she swayed forward, just a fraction…

"What do you think happens?" she whispered back, opening her eyes to find his gaze fixed on her mouth again.

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "I think," he breathed, and the warm puff of air sent shivers dancing down her neck, "you like to find out."

His fingers tightened slightly in her hair, not painfully, but enough to make her tilt her head back further, baring her throat. His nose skimmed along her jawline, inhaling. "You smell like sweat and cheap lights."

"Charming," she managed, though her voice was shaky.

"And trouble," he added, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her earlobe. A soft, open-mouthed kiss. Her hands came up, finding his waist, her fingers digging into the firm muscle there, needing an anchor.

"Mmm," she moaned softly as his mouth trailed along her neck. "Is that what this is about? Me being trouble?"

He chuckled, a low, dark sound against her skin that vibrated through her. "Isn't it always?" His teeth grazed her collarbone, a playful nip that made her gasp. "You get them all worked up out there," he murmured, his lips moving against her skin, sending fire wherever they touched. "Flickering your hips, all that… purring into the microphone."

"It's called a performance," she said, her head falling back, giving him better access. Oh god, the way his mouth felt. So hot. So sure.

"Right." He kissed the hollow of her throat. His hands slid from her hair, down her arms, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin on the inside of her elbows before his fingers laced with hers. He brought their joined hands up, pressing them against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in with his body. He wasn't rough, but the move was absolute. Possessive. "And who were you performing for?"

His hips pressed into hers, just a subtle nudge, but enough for her to feel the hard ridge of him against her belly. A jolt, pure electricity, shot through her. Fuck. He was already hard. For her. Because of her. The knowledge was a heady aphrodisiac.

"Everyone," she lied, her voice thick. Her gaze locked with his. The smoky grey of his eyes was almost black now with intensity.

"Liar," he whispered, his mouth hovering just inches from hers. So close. She could taste his breath, feel the heat. Waiting. He was making her wait. The bastard.

"Maybe," she conceded, her voice a thread. Her own hips instinctively pushed back against his, a silent, needy plea. "But you most of all."

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Knew it." He dipped his head, and she braced herself for his kiss, her lips parting, ready.

But he didn't kiss her mouth.

Instead, his lips found the corner of hers, a soft, teasing brush. Then lower, to her chin. He nipped it, gently. Her breath caught, a frustrated little sound.

"Patience," he murmured against her skin. His tongue flicked out, tracing the line of her jaw. "You had your show. Now it's my turn."

His hands, still linked with hers, tightened their grip. He leaned his weight into her, pressing her more firmly against the cool wall. She could feel every line of his body against hers, hard muscle, warm skin through their clothes. The subtle, earthy scent of him, mixed with the lingering traces of soap and his own exertion, was intoxicating.

"What…" she started, but her voice died as his mouth finally, finally, claimed hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hungry, demanding, a release of all the pent-up tension from the stage, from the looks, from the unspoken challenge. His tongue plunged into her mouth, dueling with hers, tasting her, owning her. She moaned into his mouth, a raw, needy sound, her fingers clenching tight around his. He tasted of himself, of faint bitterness from whatever he'd been drinking, of pure, undiluted want.

One of his hands unlinked from hers, fingers spearing into her hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head to the exact angle he wanted, deepening the kiss until she thought she might dissolve. His other hand remained linked with hers, palm to palm, pressing against the wall, a point of solid contact in the swirling chaos he was creating inside her.

He kissed her like he was starving, like she was the only thing that mattered. And in that moment, she was. He devoured her mouth, his teeth grazing her lip, a spark of pain that immediately turned to pleasure. Her body arched against his, seeking more, always more.

The air in the small room was thick with their breathing, harsh and ragged. The dull thud of the bass from downstairs was a distant, forgotten beat. There was only this.

Him. His mouth. His hands. The solid wall at her back and his even more solid body pressed against her front.

Her thoughts were gone. Scattered. There was only sensation. The rough texture of his stubble against her skin. The way his body heat enveloped her. The possessive grip in her hair. The relentless, arousing invasion of his tongue.

She was vaguely aware of her own fingers, the ones still linked with his, trying to grip tighter, as if she could somehow absorb him through her skin. He made a low sound in his throat, a guttural growl of approval, or maybe just pure need, and used his hold in her hair to pull her even closer, if that were possible. The pressure was intense, overwhelming. She felt like she was being consumed, branded from the inside out.

And God, she loved it. Loved this. Him like this. Unrestrained. Focused. Utterly, undeniably in control. Her little performance, her teasing, it had all been leading to this. To him taking the reins and reminding her exactly who set the real rhythm between them.