Blake couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the cocky, stage-stealing grin he wore like armor most nights. No—this one was something else. Softer. Sloppier. Like his whole damn soul was grinning and his body just had to deal with it.

Because Willa? Willa was in his lap, chaos incarnate, gorgeous and wild and glitter-eyed and his. She was rambling and cursing and threatening to murder him with affection—and he’d never wanted to slow down time so badly in his life.

Her hands were in his hair, her legs wrapped around his waist, her voice all sharp edges and soft truths—and every single part of her wrecked him.

In the best way.

“Sugar bender?” he echoed, barely choking back a laugh. “You are so lucky I didn’t propose mid-cartwheel. Or in sequined bell-bottoms. I had the means, Willa.”

He let her kiss him, then kissed her right back—deeper, longer, like his entire chest was collapsing into the shape of her mouth.

And when she pulled back with that grin—that grin, the one that had started more world-ending nights than any of his bad decisions—he just shook his head and stared at her like she’d rewritten the laws of physics.

“Room service menu was my backup plan,” he murmured, hands warm on her hips. “If you said no, I was gonna woo you with overpriced fries and a chocolate fountain.”

He dropped his forehead to hers, their noses brushing as he whispered, completely serious:

“Willa Riot Maddox has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

When she teased him about volcano skydiving proposals, he snorted so hard he nearly startled himself.

“Oh, babe,” he said, voice low and already laughing. “Skydiving into a volcano? Please. I already booked us a cursed castle in the Scottish Highlands. The ghosts are very excited for the wedding.”

But then she said it—that quiet, no-armor I can’t believe I get to marry you—and the joke caught in his throat.

Blake stilled.

Looked at her.

And something in his chest cracked open again. That part of him that used to be all noise and static and defense mechanisms—gone. Because this girl, this terrifying, incandescent, sings-too-loud-in-the-shower menace of a soulmate, just said she was his.

Always had been.

Even when she pretended not to be.

He wrapped his hand around hers and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles like they were holy, then murmured against her skin:

“You’ve always been mine, Wills. Even before I knew how to say it. Even when all I had were broken chords and bad metaphors and a heart that didn’t know how to stop bleeding.”

He grinned then, eyes still glassy. Still wrecked.

“But now?” He kissed her again—her palm, her cheek, her mouth. “Now I’m yours too. Forever. Fully. Chaos and all.”

And when she whispered “Now shut up and kiss me again,” he did exactly that.

God, did he.

Hands on her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, mouth slow and reverent like a hymn sung under his breath. He kissed her like he was still on stage, like the whole crowd was watching and he didn’t give a single damn.

Like she was his encore.

And when they broke apart—foreheads pressed together, the world gone quiet—he whispered the only thing that mattered:

“I love you, Willa Riot. Always. Loudly. Stupidly. Forever.”

Then softer, with a grin:

“And for the record? That was not even my final form.”

Willa beamed.

Not smiled—beamed. Like a living sparkler with too much caffeine and too many feelings, grinning so hard it hurt. Her whole body felt like it was buzzing, from her toes to the ends of her hair, and Blake Maddox—this absolute menace of a man—was looking at her like she was the sun, the moon, and every line he’d never gotten right in a song until now.

She kissed him again, quick and breathless, her nose scrunching with delight.

“Okay, first of all,” she said, voice bright and feral, “sequined bell-bottoms and a cartwheel proposal? You can’t just say that like it’s normal. What the hell would I have done? Clapped? Fainted? Filed for emotional damages?”

She fake-gasped. “Wait—is there a version of me somewhere in the multiverse who said no because you did too much? Like glittered yourself into a breakup?”

But then he said Willa Riot Maddox—and her heart just flipped. No warning. No parachute. Just freefall into something that felt dangerously close to perfect.

“I mean, yeah,” she admitted, trying not to melt, “that does sound cool as hell. But I can’t just drop Storme Jameson, babe. That name’s basically a Marvel origin story. People already think danger is my middle name—riot might suit me better, but let’s not undervalue the brand.”

She poked him in the chest, flirty and smug. “I’m thinking hyphenated. Or mashed together. Like a power couple. Willa Storme Jameson-Maddox. Sounds like someone who writes poetry and wins bar fights.”

And oh, his face. That look he gave her when she said she couldn’t believe she got to marry him? It wrecked her. In the best, most undignified way. Her grin faltered, her heart clenched, and suddenly all the chaos was wrapped around something steady and quiet and achingly real.

She kissed his temple, then rested her cheek there like her bones were finally allowed to rest.

“I’ve had a lot of names in my life,” she said softly. “But this one? Yours? This is the first one that ever felt like mine too.”

She let that settle between them for a second—just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to be still.

Then she exploded again.

“Nope, nope, can’t be sappy for more than five seconds,” she declared, shifting in his lap like she was already halfway to launching herself into orbit. “If we don’t make out immediately, I will combust and haunt this bus with horny ghost energy forever. And don’t test me, Maddox—I’ve got poltergeist vibes.”

She grabbed his hoodie, yanked him in, and kissed him so hard he groaned into her mouth. Hands everywhere, laughter spilling between kisses, limbs tangled and the world be damned.

They stayed like that. A mess of denim and declarations. Her fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. His hands never straying far from the curve of her waist.

Their first night as an engaged couple?

Wasn’t fireworks.

It was this.

Heat. Laughter. The smell of stage sweat and perfume. Her boots still half-laced. His voice a rasp against her skin.

Willa tipped her head back, flushed and breathless, and just looked at him.

“My forever’s gonna be loud, you know,” she murmured, thumb brushing the corner of his grin. “Louder than your amps. Louder than your fans.”

A beat. Then:

“You sure you’re ready for that?”

But her eyes were shining like she already knew the answer.

Blake couldn’t breathe.

Or maybe he could, but it was all Willa—filling his lungs, stealing his balance, short-circuiting every logical part of his brain with that beam of hers. Not a smile. Not a smirk. A full-on, soul-bright, heart-punching beam that hit him dead in the chest like she was the encore he’d never stop begging for.

And when she said “glittered yourself into a breakup”?

He wheeze-laughed. No shame. Full body. Nearly folded in half.

“I mean,” he gasped between kisses and cackles, “that would’ve been one hell of a breakup story. ‘Man proposes in sequins and gets left for crimes against sparkle restraint.’ I’d go viral.”

But then she said it—Willa Storme Jameson-Maddox—and Blake went absolutely still.

Because Jesus, that name.

It sounded like a legend.

Like a headline.
Like a war cry and a wedding vow all rolled into one.

“God, that’s so hot,” he whispered, eyes wide, dazed grin spreading slow. “Like… dangerously hot. ‘Writes poetry and wins bar fights’ hot. Like accidentally seduced a city councilman during a protest hot.”

She kissed his temple and meant it, and he felt it all the way to his knees. Which, for the record, were already weak from the chaos of loving her.

And then—because she was Willa and couldn’t sit in a quiet moment for more than two seconds without self-combusting—she declared her poltergeist threat and practically launched at him.

He barely had time to grab her thighs before her mouth was on his again, wild and fierce and full of glittery menace. He groaned into the kiss, hands finding her waist like they were pulled there by gravity.

“I swear to God,” he muttered between gasps, “if you haunt this bus with horny ghost energy, I’ll marry you twice. Once alive. Once undead.”

They kissed like it was a sport. Like their mouths had waited through six entire albums to get to this verse. His hoodie bunched in her fists. Her fingers in his curls. One of them knocking a water bottle off the side table with a sharp clatter neither of them acknowledged.

And when she pulled back, flushed and smirking, to ask “You sure you’re ready for that?”

Blake didn’t hesitate.

Not for a second.

He reached up, brushed his thumb along her cheekbone like he was mapping the coordinates of every stupid lifetime he’d lived without her.

Then, quiet and sure:

“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my entire dumb, chaotic, glitter-filled life.”

A pause.

Then:

“Now come here and kiss your future ghost husband.”

And God, she did.

Loud. Messy. Forever.

Willa kissed him like she meant it.

Like every chaotic, glitter-smeared, middle-finger-to-subtlety part of her had been building to this exact moment since the first night she crash-landed into his world and refused to leave. Her hands fisted in the collar of his hoodie, her mouth hot and laughing against his, the kind of kiss that said you’re mine and I’m yours and if we die like this, we die legendary.

When she finally pulled back—breathless, grinning, cheeks flushed with post-proposal euphoria—she didn't let go. Just leaned her forehead against his and muttered with a smirk, “God, we’re gonna ruin that hotel room.”

Blake choked on a laugh, but she kissed the corner of his mouth like a peace treaty and curled herself tighter into his lap, letting the rhythm of the road and the hum of the bus lull them into a tangled version of calm.

The ride didn’t last forever.

Eventually, the brakes hissed, the outside world creeping in. The familiar jolt of arrival made her lift her head, eyes still half-lidded with joy.

“Back where it started,” she murmured, voice soft. “Our cursed-ass little hotel room.”

Blake just smiled, didn’t say a word. But his fingers traced over hers as the door clattered open and a crew voice called, “Hotel stop!”

Willa reluctantly unwrapped herself, hopping off his lap and adjusting her hair with the grace of someone who knew it looked like they’d been making out on a moving vehicle. (Because they had.)

She grabbed his hand as they stepped into the narrow aisle, the low glow of the bus lights turning everything golden. A few heads turned. Smirks. Winks. Light applause from one of the tech guys that made her roll her eyes.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, though she was beaming. “We’ll do an encore tomorrow. Let us go be gross in peace.”

“Congrats again!” someone yelled. She threw up a peace sign.

Blake gave a salute.

Together, hand-in-hand, they stepped off the bus and into the cool German night.

No screaming fans. No security scramble. Just the quiet hum of the city and the automatic glass doors of the hotel sliding open like they’d been waiting for them.

Willa looked up at him—her dumbass fiancé, her favorite disaster, the man who somehow made her believe in always.

And as they walked through the lobby—still glowing, still grinning, still riding the high of holy shit we’re engaged—she squeezed his hand and leaned in close enough for only him to hear.

“I hope that room’s ready for a riot.”

And Blake?

He just kissed the back of her hand and followed her through the elevator doors like he’d follow her anywhere.

Blake was already gone for her.

Fully. Completely. No seatbelt, no hesitation.

The second she kissed him like that—wild and messy and stamped with every sharp-edged truth they’d never been able to say without laughter or lyrics—he was done. Folded. Wrecked in the way only Willa Jameson-Maddox-probably-hyphenated could manage. Every part of him was buzzing, his hands greedy where they held her like she might vanish if he loosened his grip.

So when she pulled back and grinned, whispering “God, we’re gonna ruin that hotel room,” with her forehead pressed to his and her voice full of sin and sunshine?

Blake snorted so hard he almost lost his breath. “We are banned in advance,” he muttered. “They’re gonna frame our bill like it’s an ancient curse.”

But then she curled in tighter, and for a minute, the world slowed down. Just her in his lap, the bus humming like a lullaby, the night stretching wide and full of promise.

Until it stopped.

Until real life crept back in with the hiss of brakes and the distant shuffle of roadies gathering gear. He felt her shift, her joy still painted across her cheeks as she whispered, “Back where it started. Our cursed-ass little hotel room.”

And yeah—Blake remembered it too.

The door that barely locked. The tiny minibar they turned into a champagne graveyard. The argument about who got the window side of the bed that ended in breathless compromise. It was their origin story, wrapped in peeling wallpaper and cheap linens—and he’d never loved a place more.

He didn’t say a word. Just let his fingers drift over hers like a promise and followed her down the aisle.

Willa was chaos and grace, pulling herself together like she hadn’t just kissed the soul out of him ten minutes ago. She tugged him after her, throwing peace signs and insults in equal measure at their grinning crew. Blake could only laugh and keep pace, hopelessly, helplessly gone.

“We’ll do an encore tomorrow. Let us go be gross in peace.”

Blake tossed a wink over his shoulder. “There’ll be pyrotechnics. And possibly nudity.”

They stepped off the bus and into the kind of night that wrapped around you gently—cool air, faint city sounds, the glow of hotel lights waiting like a stage curtain about to lift.

She looked at him then, with that look.

That don’t you dare look away, this is forever kind of look.

And Blake couldn’t help it.

He leaned down just a little and kissed the back of her hand slow, deliberate—like it was his signature on the biggest promise he’d ever make.

When she whispered, “I hope that room’s ready for a riot,” he didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, baby,” he said, voice low and reverent as the elevator swallowed them whole, “it’s about to get legendary.”

And he meant it.

Every second of it.

Because Blake Maddox didn’t just fall in love with Willa.

He freefell.

And he wasn’t hitting the ground.

He was flying.

Blake watched her the whole way up.

Even with the hum of the elevator and the soft whir of city noise leaking through the cracks of the building, the only sound he really heard was the static under his skin—that electric, low-level buzz he only ever got around her. Still flushed from the show. Still wrecked from the kiss. Still stunned that she’d actually said yes.

She hadn’t let go of his hand since the stage.

He didn’t want her to.

When the elevator dinged and they stepped into the hallway, he glanced down at her fingers laced through his, then tugged her just a little closer. Just because he could now. Because she was his in a way she hadn’t been yesterday. Or maybe she always was—and now the world just knew it too.

They stopped in front of the door. Same room as before. Same scuffed corner of the carpet. Same dull-gold numbers nailed to the wood. But everything felt different.

He slid the keycard. The lock clicked.

He pushed the door open and let her step in first, then followed, quiet.

The room hadn’t changed.

Neutral tones. Warm light over the headboard. That narrow window with the view of the river she used to trace in silence. But now? It held something else. A memory rethreaded with promise. A before-and-after.

He dropped their bags by the armchair, kicked the door shut with his heel, and turned.

She was just standing there. In the middle of the room. Glowing in a way that had nothing to do with the lighting.

Blake crossed to her without thinking. Just went. Hands finding her waist. Forehead to hers.

His voice was low when he finally spoke—barely a whisper, like anything louder might shatter the moment.

“Jesus,” he breathed, lips brushing her skin. “You’re really mine now.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Didn’t need one.

He kissed her slow—like he was signing a contract with his mouth. Like he was making sure she knew exactly what she was saying yes to. His hands roamed under her jacket, up her spine, over the curve of her waist. Mapping her again. Claiming her gently, reverently.

When they broke apart, her eyes were still closed. Her lips still parted.

He tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, then leaned in again—softer this time. A kiss to her temple. Her cheek. Her jaw. His hands never left her body.

They backed toward the bed together—no urgency, no need to rush. Just gravity. Just them.

Blake sat first, pulling her into his lap like he’d done it a thousand times. Her legs folded over his, arms settling around his neck, ring catching the low light.

He looked down at it. Then up at her.

He didn’t speak.

Just kissed her knuckles, one by one.

Then the inside of her wrist.

Then the spot under her jaw that always made her breath hitch.

And when she tilted her head, inviting more?

Blake smiled against her throat.

The kind of smile that said this wasn’t the end of anything.

It was the start.

Willa didn’t answer him with words.

Didn’t need to.

Because the second he pulled her into his lap—slow, reverent, like she was something sacred and electric all at once—her whole body answered for her.

She exhaled like it cracked something open. Like the weight of the day and the lights and the stage and the yes she’d thrown at his heart with both hands finally landed in her chest.

And then?

She moved.

Deliberate. Focused. Her fingers brushed the side of his jaw, then slid into his hair, tugging just hard enough to pull a low sound from his throat. She kissed him—deep, unhurried, tasting him like he was something worth memorizing. Like she had time now. All the time.

Willa twisted in his lap, one knee on either side of his hips, pressing him back just enough to stretch him out beneath her. She didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Just held his gaze as her hands ran down his chest, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, cool fingers tracing every ridge like a lit match leaving trails.

She wanted to burn it all in. Tonight. Him.

The way he was looking at her like she held the sky in her palms.

The way her ring sparkled when she slid her hand against his throat, thumb brushing the edge of his grin before pulling him back into another kiss—this one slower. Hungrier. A promise sealed with tongue and teeth and just the right amount of tease.

She felt him grip her tighter.

Felt the tension in his thighs, the way his hands curled at her waist like he didn’t know whether to anchor her or worship her.

And God, she loved that.

Loved that Blake Maddox—her favorite disaster, her reckless rhythm, her stupidly hot fiancé—still looked at her like that. Like chaos wrapped in silk. Like danger and devotion with glitter under her nails.

Her hips rolled once—slow, sinfully slow—and she smirked when he groaned, head tipping back.

“I don’t think this hotel room’s ready for a riot,” she murmured, lips brushing his ear now. “But I am.”

And then she licked the edge of his jaw, just because she could.

Just because he was hers now.

She kissed her way down his neck, dragged her nails along the back of his shoulders, left a bite against his collarbone he’d still be feeling tomorrow.

And when he tried to say something—anything—she pressed a finger to his lips and leaned in, eyes dark and dancing.

“No talking, rockstar,” she whispered, mouth brushing his. “You’ve got a new setlist now.”

And then she kissed him again.

Wrecked him again.

Loved him like she was staking a claim—gritty, gorgeous, loud.

Because Willa Storme Jameson-Maddox wasn’t the kind of woman who said yes and waited.

She took yes.

And made it hers.

The second her weight settled into his lap, Blake knew he was gone.

Not stage-gone. Not spotlight-gone. Not even the kind of gone he got when the music hit just right and the crowd moved like a wave around him.

No—this was deeper. Quieter. Dangerous in the way only she could make it.

Willa wasn’t just in his lap. She was everywhere. In his breath. In the thrum of his pulse. In the way her fingertips dragged slow trails across his ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake like a melody only she knew how to play.

Her legs bracketed him, warm and firm on either side, and her body curled into his like it had been molded to fit. Like the space between them had never really existed at all.

Blake’s head tipped back against the cushions as her mouth found his again—insistent, claiming, sugar and fire and chaos wrapped in the shape of a kiss. One of her hands slid up the back of his neck, threading into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan low and wrecked against her mouth.

His fingers clenched at her hips, grounding himself in the press of her, the roll of her body against his. She moved like a metronome set to ruin him—slow and steady, hips tilting just enough to keep him chasing, to keep him begging in the way she loved. The way only she could pull from him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a rasp in her ear as she kissed down his jawline, her teeth grazing just enough to make him shudder.

Every inch of his skin felt lit. Like his nerves had been rewired to respond only to her.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him—and that look. God, that look.

Willa Storme Jameson-Maddox: all feral grin and flushed cheeks, eyes dark with want and something far heavier underneath. Something holy. Something true.

He was drowning in it.

In her.

The ring caught the light again as she braced a hand on his chest—white gold gleaming against sweat-warmed skin, a reminder that she’d said yes. That this wasn’t some fever dream conjured by tour fatigue and infatuation. This was theirs.

And Blake?

He couldn’t stop touching her.

His hands roamed—up the strong line of her back, down over the curve of her ass, memorizing the way she fit against him like a favorite chord progression. Familiar. Addictive. Necessary.

“You’re not real,” he muttered against her collarbone, voice hoarse. “There’s no way you’re real.”

But she was.

Oh, she was.

She was the scraped-raw reality he’d built every lyric around. The storm he’d walked into with both arms wide open. The girl who never left quietly, who kissed like rebellion and held him like she knew the worst parts and still stayed.

And now she was grinding down on him with slow, devastating precision—making him forget every note, every lyric, every version of himself that existed before she carved her name into the center of his chest.

Their breaths tangled, messy and uneven.

The room spun. The bus swayed. The world outside didn’t exist.

It was just her.

Hands. Mouth. Heat. Love like a tidal wave, crashing over him again and again, until he didn’t know where she ended and he began.

Blake pressed his forehead to hers, panting, dizzy, his heart trying to punch its way through his ribs.

This wasn’t just sex.

This wasn’t even just love.

This was theirs.

Loud. Beautiful. Devastating.

A riot in every sense of the word.

And as Willa moved against him—every shift, every kiss, every sigh a declaration—he realized something simple, terrifying, and completely undeniable:

He’d never come back from this.

And he didn’t want to.

Willa felt it the moment he tipped his head back—neck exposed, lips parted, hands clenching at her hips like she was the only thing tethering him to gravity. And maybe she was. Maybe that was the whole point.

She moved slow, deliberate, not out of gentleness, but control. Her kind of control. The kind that dared him to lose his mind while she kept hers razor sharp and soaked in want. Her hips rocked against him, silk dragging against denim, friction just shy of maddening. A tease. A promise.

His breath hitched beneath her.

Good.

Her mouth chased the sound, teeth grazing his throat, tongue soothing after. She kissed her way down—jaw, pulse, collarbone—mapping him with lips and hunger. He tasted like salt and adrenaline and everything that had been hers long before tonight.

His hoodie bunched beneath her palms as she pushed it up and over his shoulders, peeling it off like a secret. His shirt followed, her fingers dragging along his torso with reverence and heat. She paused when it caught on his elbow, laughing breathlessly into his mouth as she tugged it free, tossing it somewhere behind them.

Then she sat back on his thighs, looking at him.

Flushed. Bare-chested. Wrecked.

Perfect.

Her own top came off with less grace—arms crossed, yank, gone. She didn’t care. He didn’t either, not with the way his hands flew right back to her waist like magnets. Like he couldn’t stand the half-second of space between them.

She rolled her hips again, slower this time, grinding down with a purpose that made both of them gasp.

And then she kissed him. Harder now. Mouth open. Greedy. Her hands slid down his sides, hooking into his waistband, testing how far she could push before he lost that last thread of control.

The answer?

Not far.

She dragged his belt open with a soft clink of metal, letting it hang loose as she mouthed at the edge of his jaw, her voice a whisper against his skin. Not words. Just breath. Just need.

His fingers were in her hair now, gripping tight, guiding her back to his mouth like he couldn’t go another second without kissing her again.

She let him.

Gladly.

Their pants followed—hers slipping down with his help, legs tangling, her body sliding back into his lap with a hiss of air that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Skin on skin now.

Heat on heat.

Her hands roamed. His did too.

And the sounds—God, the sounds—half-muffled groans and breathless curses and the kind of noises that never made it into setlists but lived between tour stops and closed hotel doors.

They moved to the bed without ever breaking contact. Half stumbles. Full-body laughter. Fingernails dragging. Mouths chasing each other like they were addicted to the taste.

The sheets barely settled before she was straddling him again—bare knees braced on either side, hair wild around her shoulders, eyes heavy-lidded and focused like she was writing scripture with her body.

She leaned down, lips grazing his, and smiled against his mouth—hot, wicked, entirely hers.

And then she moved.

Slow. Deep. Wild.

His hands gripped her thighs. Hers cradled his jaw. Every shift, every grind, every kiss stitched together with sweat and reverence and reckless, unstoppable want.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Because this wasn’t about confessions anymore.

This was about knowing.

About saying I choose you in every sigh, every roll of hips, every beat of shared breath between bodies that no longer remembered how to separate.

And if the walls had ears?

They were about to get one hell of a love song.

Blake didn’t stand a chance.

From the moment Willa pushed him back—eyes dark, movements slow, like she was orchestrating the fall of empires—he was gone. Every thought he might’ve had scattered like ash the second she looked down at him from above, skin kissed by stage light residue and moonlight through the curtains, all heat and history and that fire she never once dimmed for anyone.

She moved like a secret he was lucky enough to be told.

His breath caught when her hands slid down his chest—each fingertip a spark, a claim, a ghost of every night they’d barely survived the wanting. His hoodie had hit the floor, his shirt was god-knows-where, but her hands? They never stopped. She touched him like he was something worth worshipping. Like she already knew every fault line and still wanted to feel the quake.

When she peeled her own top off, all grace thrown to the wind, he swore the world shifted.

She was stunning—hair tousled, flushed from the heat of them, that grin of hers cocky and unrepentant as she rolled her hips again and nearly made him forget his own name. He gripped her tighter, fingers digging into her waist, the ache of her above him eclipsing the ache of every song he’d written before she crashed into his life.

God, she knew what she was doing.

Every kiss, every drag of her mouth along his neck, every twist of her hips was deliberate. Measured. She wasn’t in a hurry. She was crafting a memory. Etching herself into his skin in places no lyric had ever touched.

When her fingers found his belt, he nearly lost it.

The sound of the buckle—the scrape, the metallic clink, the tension that followed—made him groan, low and broken, his head falling forward until his mouth found her shoulder, breathing her in like he’d never get enough.

And he wouldn’t.

He never would.

Their pants joined the chaos—clothes scattered like fallen armor, the only thing left between them the heat and the ache and the years of almost that had finally given way to now.

And when her bare skin slid against his?

He stopped breathing.

Every nerve lit up. Every inch of him tuned to her.

They stumbled to the bed, half-laughing, half-drunk on the gravity of it. But the second she climbed on top again—legs bracketing him, eyes locked with his, hips beginning that slow, soul-wrecking rhythm—he wasn’t laughing anymore.

He was begging.

Not with words. With hands. With breath. With the way his body arched into hers like it was chasing something divine.

And God, she gave it to him.

Her name might’ve been Willa, but right then? She was a fucking storm. All thunder and teeth and reverence, moving above him like she was trying to carve eternity into his spine.

His hands slid up her thighs, traced the curve of her waist, cradled her back as she bent over him again—hair cascading around their faces like a veil spun from the smoke and gold of everything they’d survived.

She kissed him slow.

Deep.

Like it was a vow and a warning all at once.

And he kissed her back, pouring every unsung lyric, every backstage heartbeat, every quiet moment between tour chaos and hotel halls into the press of his lips on hers.

They didn’t speak.

But everything was said.

In the way her nails dragged down his back.

In the way his hand cupped the side of her neck, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw.

In the way she gasped when he shifted beneath her—just right, just enough—and the way she came apart like he was the only person who’d ever gotten her open.

And maybe he was.

Maybe that was the whole point.

Because this wasn’t just lust.

It wasn’t even just love.

This was Willa and Blake.

Riot and rhythm.

Crash and crescendo.

And as the room pulsed around them, filled with nothing but breath and skin and the relentless, quiet promise of forever—

Blake Maddox knew one thing for certain:

There was no encore that would ever top this.

Willa’s pulse thrummed in her throat like a second heartbeat—louder than the distant city noise, louder than the hum of the AC, louder than the soft creak of the mattress beneath them.

Blake was beneath her, bare and burning, and every inch of him was hers to ruin.

And she was going to.

Slowly. Completely.

Her hands dragged up his chest, palms mapping the slope of muscle and heat and history. She moved like she was claiming territory, and in a way, she was—staking her name in the spaces between his ribs and the places he forgot to guard. Her thighs flexed around his hips, body rocking just enough to make him hiss through his teeth, his hands tightening where they held her like he didn’t trust the universe to keep her there.

Good.

Let him burn a little.

She kissed him again, slow and filthy and starved—biting his lower lip before soothing it with her tongue, grinning into his mouth when she felt the way it wrecked him.

Her hips rolled harder now, drawing a groan from deep in his chest, and it lit her up. That sound. That unraveling.

Blake Maddox, stage god and chaos king, was unraveling for her.

She reached between them, freeing what was left between their skin, dragging her fingers with just enough pressure to make his head thud back against the pillow, his breath breaking apart in sharp, wrecked stutters.

“Fuck,” she whispered, the word a confession and a command all at once.

Her body slid against his like it belonged there—slick, scorching, unstoppable. She rocked into him with a slow, brutal rhythm that had nothing to do with mercy and everything to do with control. Her control. Her hands planted on his chest, hair falling around her face in wild, dark waves, she rode him like it meant something.

Because it did.

This wasn’t a post-show fuck or a celebration. This was something bigger.

It was every missed moment finally catching up to them. Every night spent tangled in tension. Every glance, every lyric, every not yet coming undone between their bodies.

Blake’s hands slid up her back, reverent, searching, gripping tight like he needed the anchor. She gave him her mouth, her throat, her gasps—tilting her head when he kissed the spot that made her see stars, dragging her nails down his stomach as her hips snapped harder, hungrier.

He moaned her name like it was the only word he remembered.

Her eyes fluttered closed, breath catching, teeth catching her lip.

She didn’t need a mirror to know she was flushed, wild, glowing.

She felt it.

In the sting of her skin. The way their sweat-slick bodies slid and tangled, the bed creaking beneath them in time with the rhythm she refused to break. The kind of rhythm born in the bones, pulsing louder than any drumline.

Willa leaned down, catching his mouth again, her hands on either side of his head, her body moving with relentless, steady precision.

Every movement a promise.

Every kiss a claim.

Every breathless moan a reminder that he was hers now.

He always had been.

She felt him shift again beneath her, felt the way his muscles tensed, his breath hitched, his fingers dug into her thighs like he was trying to memorize the shape of her from the inside out.

Her forehead dropped to his. Eyes locked.

Breathless.

Burning.

And without a word, she rolled her hips one more time—just enough to make him shudder—and smiled.

Let him fall apart under her.

Let the room remember.

Let the world wait.

Because in this bed, under these hands, in this heat and want and wildfire—

They were infinite.