Chapter 14Ingrid. Halloween, Five years ago #2
Her breath caught the second she spotted him, already fixed on her. He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t lift that maddening brow. He just sat there, calm and infuriatingly composed, drumsticks slipping effortlessly between his fingers.
Meanwhile, Sparkly Dress Girl was having a full-blown religious experience.
She let out an ear-splitting squeal, latched onto her friend’s arm like she’d just been personally invited to join Beyoncé’s inner circle, and then, in a flurry of sheer enthusiasm and even sheerer fabric, bulldozed her way through the crowd.
Ingrid swore she saw someone get elbowed in the ribs. This girl was determined.
Eden, ever the agent of chaos, leaned in. "You’re not seriously gonna let Glitter Bomb Barbie go up there, are you?"
"I don’t–" Ingrid started, but then she saw Beck. Still watching.
And maybe it was the dim stage lighting, maybe it was the fact that the air felt like it had been vacuum-sealed, but she swore she saw it. That barely-there twitch of his lips. The challenge. Oh, hell no.
Her spine snapped straight on instinct. Ingrid didn’t think, she just moved. She shoved her flimsy plastic pitchfork into Eden’s hands and surged forward with the kind of urgency usually reserved for fire drills and last-call margaritas.
Ingrid stepped directly in front of Sparkly Dress Girl, flashing her sweetest, most innocent smile as she grabbed the bassist’s offered hand and climbed onto the stage.
"Thanks," Ingrid said lightly. "This is gonna be fun."
Sparkly Dress Girl made a strangled noise but it was too late. Ingrid was already turning toward Beck. And now, he was definitely smirking. That look sent something hot and reckless careening through her. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with unwavering confidence.
The lead singer barely hid his boredom, adjusting the mic stand like he had better places to be. Meanwhile, the guitarist was eating this up, grinning like he had front-row seats to the best drama of the night.
He flicked a guitar pick between his fingers, eyes bouncing between Ingrid, Beck, and the fuming girl at the edge of the stage. "Damn, this is getting good."
The bassist let out a low chuckle into the mic before turning back to the crowd.
"Alright, let’s make this interesting." He nodded toward Ingrid, then Beck.
"Since our drummer here is stuck in his seat, I think you should make yourself comfortable." A beat. A slow, loaded pause before his smirk sharpened. "What do you say, sweetheart? Think you can handle sitting on his lap while he plays?"
The room detonated. Cheers. Laughter. A few drunken "Do it!" chants from the back.
And Ingrid barely had time to register the challenge before Sparkly Dress Girl shrieked. Clutching her friend’s arm like she was about to collapse from the injustice.
Beck’s head snapped toward the bassist. "What the fuck, Finn?" he muttered.
If they thought Ingrid was the type to back down, they were deeply, comically, tragically mistaken.
Because when Ingrid wanted something, she didn’t hesitate. She decided at five years old she wanted to be a ballerina, and by six, she was pirouetting through grocery store aisles like she had a full-ride scholarship to the Bolshoi.
Ingrid wanted what she wanted. And right now, with her heart pounding, adrenaline spiking, and an entire bar’s worth of people chanting like this was some kind of rock ‘n’ roll gladiator match, She wanted him.
So before she could second-guess herself, she pivoted on her heel and strode straight toward him, her steps unflinching. The smirk on his face faltered. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to know she had caught him off guard.
Without breaking eye contact, she swung her leg over his and sank down onto him. Her thighs bracketed his, her body sliding into place like it was made for him. She looped her arms around his shoulders, fingertips brushing the back of his neck.
The second she settled, she felt the sharp inhale he dragged through clenched teeth, the twitch of his fingers like he was fighting the instinct to grab her. His muscles tensed beneath her, restraint thrumming against her skin.
The guitarist let out a wild whoop, smacking his strings in approval. "Now that’s what I’m talking about!"
Somewhere in the audience, a voice bellowed, "Marry her, bro!"
Eden was losing her goddamn mind in the crowd, waving her plastic pitchfork like the leader of an angry mob.
Beck stayed silent, but the heat pouring off him was scorching. She let her fingers glide slowly along the nape of his neck and he shivered at the soft touch. God, was that satisfying.
Just as the lead singer started to count them in, Beck’s gaze dropped. Low, slow, starving.
His eyes dragged over her bare thighs, lingering shamelessly. Her dress had ridden high with every shallow breath, the hem bunched indecently at the tops of her thighs. Her legs were spread wide over his, stilettos tucked against his calves
He drank her in, every slow drag of his gaze branding her, staking a claim without ever touching her. When he finally looked back up, his lips curled into a slow, wicked smile that made her heart stutter. He leaned in, his breath brushing her cheek, sending a violent shiver down her spine.
"An angel dressed like a devil," he rasped, voice dark, amused . "Think you can keep up with the devil?"
Her pulse kicked hard, reckless and wild. Every stubborn part of her screamed yes.
"Maybe I just want to make the devil beg for heaven." she whispered.
Beck’s answering chuckle was low and rough, the sound dragging over her skin like a slow slide of fingertips. His arms tightened around her waist, yanking her closer, planting her fully in his lap. No space left, no air between them.
The first crack of the snare drum hit, vibrating through her chest, pulsing down her spine.
She hadn't even thought about what it would feel like, sitting in his lap while he played but now she felt everything.
Every flex of Beck’s thighs beneath her. Every controlled ripple of muscle as he commanded the kit like it was an extension of his body. Each movement rolled through her, igniting nerve endings she hadn’t even known existed.
She was trapped in his lap, caged by his arms, helpless against the onslaught of sensation as he rocked her with every thunderous beat. Every roll of the toms. Every flick of his wrist. Every brutal, rhythmic pound of the bass drum vibrated straight into her core.
Her skirt was already scandalously short, but now it bunched indecently high around her hips with every grind of her hips against him, every unconscious push for more. They were mostly hidden by the kit. No one could see. But even if they could, she wasn’t sure she could’ve stopped.
And she wasn’t the only one losing control. Beck’s breathing roughened, his arms tightening possessively around her, his cock thick and hot beneath the denim, pressing directly against the soaked scrap of lace between her thighs.
Then he leaned in, his breath skimming the shell of her ear, a fresh jolt of shivers tearing through her.
"Still having fun?" he muttered, voice low and wicked.
She felt him smirk against her skin. Cocky bastard. He was playing the drums and playing with her, both way too well. She should’ve said something sharp. Something that kept her dignity intact. But the second he shifted his hips, grinding up into her, her mind blanked.
She slid against him, the hard ridge of him grinding right against her swollen, desperate clit.
The music roared around them, the crowd a blur of noise and color, but all she could feel was him.
She could end this slow torture in an instant. Just a tilt of her chin and she’d have his mouth on hers. But she didn’t move. Instead, she shifted her hips forward, dragging herself shamelessly along the rigid line of him. Beck stilled under her, his next snare hit just a beat too late.
"You tell me," she whispered, breathless.
She ground down against him again, slow and merciless, the soaked scrap of her panties doing nothing to shield her from the thick, throbbing ridge of him. She was soaked through, clinging to him, probably leaving a wet mark on his jeans, and she didn’t care.
She was drunk on him, drunk on the reckless, dizzying power of knowing he was seconds from snapping. From tearing her panties aside, shoving her skirt up to her waist, and burying himself inside her, right here, right now, with the whole damn world watching.
Beck’s arms locked tighter around her waist, his drumming growing rougher, sloppier.
The ache between her thighs sharpened, desperate, a sweet, unbearable pressure building with every rock of her hips. And when she rolled her hips in a slow, grinding circle, Beck growled, the sound almost swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
"Something wrong?" she asked, silk and sin in her voice.
Beck’s next hit slammed down like a hammer. His voice was a rasp, almost lost under the pounding music.
"Not so prim tonight, princess?"
The nickname hit her like a spark to dry tinder, sending molten heat streaking straight to her core. Her nails dug into his shoulders without thinking, dragging through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Funny," she murmured against his ear. "I don’t remember needing your permission to enjoy myself."
"Oh, princess," he rasped, dark and ragged, "I'll need permission for the things I’m going to do to you. And I swear to God..." his lips brushed her ear, "you’ll beg me for every second of it."
Her thighs clenched involuntarily around him. He bucked his hips up, just once, but it was enough to make her bite back a moan, enough to feel the desperate, throbbing pulse of him against her. The friction was too much. Not enough.
"Prove it," she whispered, breathless, daring.
She rocked against him again, the solid heat of his cock grinding perfectly against her clit. Beck’s body jerked violently, a raw, choked sound ripping from his chest. His next drum fill was a disaster, a beautiful, glorious collapse of rhythm and noise.