Her First Taste at the Festival

The thump of bass rolled across the dusty field as dusk painted the sky purple and gold. Lila stood near the edge of the crowd, twenty-two and buzzing on cheap beer, her short sundress fluttering against bare thighs. She was a virgin with a wicked little smile that promised trouble, curious as hell about what she’d been missing. Across the crush of bodies she locked eyes with him—Jax, twenty-eight, guitar case slung over one shoulder, sweat-damp shirt clinging to a lean torso. Musician. Trouble. Instant heat cracked between them like a struck match.

He cut through the crowd without looking away. “You keep staring like that and I’m gonna think you want something,” he said, voice low and rough.

Lila’s smile widened. “Maybe I do.” She let her fingers brush his forearm, light, teasing. “Got a blanket somewhere quieter?”

They found a patch of grass off to the side of the stage, half-hidden by a stack of road cases and the deepening dark. Jax spread an old wool blanket. Lila dropped onto it, knees brushing his. The band launched into a grinding riff. Heat rolled off him. She felt it in her cunt already, a slick little pulse.