This story is about a fan's experience with a famous musician. Delaney Whitfield, however, lives only in my imagination. It was inspired by a single sentence in an e-mail. I doubt my friend even remembers it. Thanks, SW. It just goes to show that you never know what kind of impact your words will have.
Thanks also to jacuzzigal for her editing assistance.
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I can't believe I'm here. It seems almost surreal that I'm backstage at a Delaney Whitfield concert. As I mentally replay the memory of the outrageous dare issued by my less than sober college pal, to sneak backstage after the show, I wonder once again if I have completely lost my mind. This isn't the first time that I've accepted one of her drunken challenges, but Del Whitfield, for God's sake? She knows he is one of my weaknesses. He's so sexy it should be illegal. What am I supposed to say to him?
Too late to worry about that now, because there's the man himself, still sweaty and breathless from his performance. I follow his movements as he wipes the sweat off his face with a towel hastily thrown to him by a roadie. Settling a masculine hip against a packing crate, he tips a bottle of water to his mouth, draining it in just a few swallows. As he carelessly tosses the empty bottle into a nearby trash can, he notices he's not alone. I can see I've caught his attention.
His eyes are a beautiful, deep blue, the color of the clearest ocean water. I can only imagine the thoughts racing through his mind.
Who is she? Damn, it's been so long. I wonder if she...
I can feel his eyes on the most secret places of my body. The heat from his gaze is almost palpable. Our eyes meet. In those first moments of intimate recognition, I literally feel as though my knees will buckle. I've never felt this aroused this quickly, with only a look.
I know what he wants. The only question that remains is, can I do this? Can I take the chance of a lifetime, and just let go? My body knows what it wants, even as my mind struggles to catch up. I swallow, and return his stare. In those few moments, all the communication we need is silently exchanged.
I want you. Naked.
I know. I want you too.
Will you come with me?
He extends his arm and holds out his hand. I know if I take it, I am agreeing to whatever fate has in store.
You know you want to. Let me make you fly. Let me...
I take one step forward, and offer my hand. He grasps it firmly and leads me to the tour bus idling close by. Up the few steps, through a plush seating area and kitchenette, straight to the back of the bus, to the bedroom.
He pushes me back against the hastily slammed door and immediately clamps his mouth over mine. Neither of us needs the romantic preliminaries, the soft words and kisses. We're going to fuck. Hard, sweaty, rough sex--the kind that will satisfy the primal lust we both feel.
His hands come up to hold my head still for the ravaging sweeps of his tongue in the warm wet cave of my mouth. It's overwhelming. I want to touch him everywhere at once. Arousal screams through my body so fast I can't think. I can only feel.
"You're sure? This would be the time to say no," I hear him say in a voice rough with passion. His eyes are like lasers as they search my face for any sign of hesitation.
"I don't want to say no. I want you to fuck me." I can barely get the words out.
The snarling beast inside each of us is set free. He roughly pulls my head back and feasts on my neck, biting and licking. The few-days' growth of beard that is his trademark chafes the sensitive skin of my throat. His hands are never still, roughly kneading my breasts through my shirt. He chuckles when he encounters a stiff nipple. Deft fingers pluck at it, and make it harder. My nipples have always been so sensitive, and I can feel each firm pinch in the pit of my stomach.
I cry out and pull his head up for another kiss. Strands of dark blond hair, still damp with perspiration, slide through my fingers. This kiss is mine, and I push my tongue deep into his mouth. It's not deep enough or satisfying enough. I want to inhale his essence.