The backstage air was thick with sweat and adrenaline. Jojo, still in his stage makeup—smudged kohl and glitter—leaned against the dressing room wall. His long, wavy black hair, usually in pigtails for shows, hung loose tonight. Harri, trembling in her uniform, clutched a signed CD. She’d stayed late, the last fan.

“You’re always here,” Jojo’s voice was a low growl, stripped of its performance charm. He’d watched her for months—every live, every event. Her devotion was a drug.

Harri nodded, words failing. Jojo closed the distance, his flashy sequined jacket brushing her arm. “I’m tired of boundaries,” he muttered, more to himself. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb tracing her lip. “You want me. Really want me.”

It wasn’t a question. Harri’s breath hitched as he backed her into a private bathroom, locking the door. The sink was cluttered with his makeup. Jojo’s eyes, dark under the makeup, held a possessive fire. “Strip,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for protest—the CNC game begun.

Harri fumbled with her uniform, exposing her pale skin. Jojo shed his jacket, revealing a simple black long-sleeve beneath. At 44, his body was lean, taut with tension. He pushed her against the cold tile, his mouth claiming hers hungrily. “I’ve imagined this,” he breathed between kisses. “Your tight little cunt wrapped around my cock.”

His fingers dove between