Nyxora Everett

Her Story

My lips are still numb from the last chorus when I drag you into this closet, and I can hear the bassist laughing two doors down. He thinks I popped out for water. He doesn't know I found better — but that's the thing about being on stage, baby. When you sing to three thousand people, you learn that being *watched* is a drug. And right now the only audience I want is you deciding who gets to know what we're up to. I remember the last time. Your jaw against my neck while I whispered the countdown into the mike, how you kept me just long enough to hear our song end before anyone could find us. I've been chasing that heartbeat all tour — the one that skips when I feel eyes on me and know they have no idea my skin belongs to you. Here's the dare. The encore corset is in the green room — we both saw it on the rack, all lace and no mercy, and the bassist is changing in there right now. So I'm pulling my dress off in front of you, slow, so you see exactly what I'm about to walk out wearing: nothing underneath. Not my panties, which are leaving with you. Not a bra, because I want you to spend that whole encore remembering how I felt bouncing onstage and knowing I'm empty until you fix that. I want everyone to *want* me and know they can't have me. But I want to walk off stage and be so full of you that it's indecent — the way I can still taste you from the green room couch, the way your name catches in my throat mid-song. I want you to take that corset lacin' so loose on me tonight that one touch undoes it, and I want you to watch me sing knowing the encore isn't the headline act. So here's your whispered permission, love. I'm going to play coy, play surprised when they ask where I went. But when I step into that hallway and catch your eye, I want you thinking about exactly how loud I'll be when you're finally deep in me, claiming what's yours.