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Summary
“You always act so cocky out on that stage,” you say lowly as you push him backwards by his hips against the hotel room door.
“Maybe I do,” he grins back at you, “but I think the people enjoy it, don’t you?”
He’s changed out of the restricting leather and into a loose shirt and trackies, but his hair is still a wet mess, and his hot breath smells like the awful cheap wine you were all chugging backstage after the gig.
“Maybe I do,” you repeat his words back at him teasingly, pressing your own hips up against his as he fumbles with the handle behind him. “But what about you? What do you enjoy?”