The afternoon light slanted through the warehouse windows, turning the dust motes into something worth photographing. Drew Edwards checked his phone for the fourth time in six minutes, then forced himself to set it face down on the conference table. The screen was dark anyway. No texts. No calls. Three months of preparation had led to this moment, and now that it was here, he could not decide if he wanted it to begin or to evaporate entirely.
He had spent a ton of money on the oak table alone. Dark oak, reclaimed from a demolished church in Pasadena, sanded until it felt like silk under the palm. The conference room was glass walled on three sides, industrial minimalism, the concrete floors polished to a sheen that reflected the rigging above. Afterlight Studios began and ended with him. No assistant to greet people in the front room. No interns to fetch coffee. When potential clients asked about his team, he told them the truth: he was the team. Hired hands helped him, he had regular production partners. But the creative work, the ideas, they all came from Drew’s head. Most of them walked. The ones who stayed understood that they were paying for vision unfiltered.
His phone buzzed against the wood. He grabbed it too quickly. A spam text about car insurance. He deleted it and set the phone down again, this time with the screen facing up, the way a man might arrange a mirror to catch a glimpse of something he was pretending not to watch for.
The door opened.
She entered first, which was wrong. He had expected handlers, a wall of security between her and the world, but Ariana Grande walked through the door of Afterlight Studios like she owned the building already, like the professional skirt that went about 5 inches above her knees and the oversized cardigan were armor she had decided not to wear today. Two bodyguards followed, broad and silent, and a woman with a tablet, her assistant, who looked at everything in the room except him.
Drew stood. He was six foot two in his boots, lean from soccer and insomnia, the tattoos on his arms visible because he had worn the black t-shirt she would later tell him to wear again. His hands were steady. He had practiced this.
"Ariana. I'm Drew."
She removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were brown and sharp and evaluating, too large for her face in the way that made cameras love her and made her look, in person, like she was constantly surprised by the world. She was smaller than he expected. They always were. But the presence was massive, filled the room, pushed against the glass walls.
"I know," she said. "I've seen your work, and I’m excited to see what you have for me. I think you’re the right person to take me into this next phase of my career.”
She turned to the bodyguards and assistant. "I'll be fine. Wait outside."
The broad men looked at him, then at her, then at the room with its single exit and its glass walls and its lack of hiding places. They left. The assistant hesitated, then followed. The door clicked shut, and they were alone.
Ariana took in the space. The whiteboards with their choreography diagrams, the inspo boards pinned with fabric swatches and photographs of his grandmother's hands, the desk cluttered with cameras and dance shoes and the debris of a vision that required no committee. She walked to the conference table and ran her finger along the oak, testing it.
"The space is small," Drew said. "But my ideas don’t know that."
She looked at him then, really looked, and he felt the weight of it. Her gaze traveled from his face to his arms, the ink that mapped his history, the muscle definition that spoke of hours spent moving his body through space with precision.
"I can see that," she said.
The heels of her shoes clicked against the concrete as she moved toward the window. The afternoon light caught her ponytail, turned it bronze, and he thought of the way light behaved in the late hours, the golden hour, the time when everything looked like a photograph waiting to be taken. She smelled of vanilla and something else, musk or expectation, the perfume he would later learn was Cloud, the one that lingered in the elevator after she left and made him think of her for hours afterward.
She turned back to him, and the distance between them was exactly the length of the conference table, and neither of them moved to close it.
"Show me what you have," she said.
They walked into the conference room, where the oak table held the future of the tour, or at least the first draft. Drew spread the mock-ups across the surface with the reverence of a man laying out cards for a game he was not certain he could win. The stage designs were beautiful, he knew that much. The lighting plots showed her bathed in gold, then amber, then the soft rose of a sunset that would never actually fall inside an arena. The choreography diagrams pinned her to the stage, safe and grounded and contained. Looking at them now, he could see the problem. They were perfect, but they were also dead.
Ariana stood at the edge of the table, her arms crossed, her weight shifted to one hip in a stance that suggested she was prepared to wait all afternoon if necessary, but would prefer not to. The afternoon light had shifted, casting her shadow long across the concrete floor, and she watched him with an expression he could not quite read. Not bored, though. Assessing. The way a woman might assess a dress in a store window, wondering if the cut would flatter or betray.
Drew stepped back from the table. The presentation was not working, and he knew it, and she knew it, and the knowing sat between them like a third person in the room. He needed to show her, not tell her. The words were failing, had failed before he opened his mouth, and so he did what he had always done when language abandoned him. He moved.
He stepped toward her, and she did not step back. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was the height of her, the way she had to tilt her chin to meet his gaze, the top of her head reaching slightly below his shoulder in the heels she wore. He placed his hand at her waist, his fingers spreading against the fabric of her tank top, and he rotated her, gently, showing her the angle he had drawn on the paper, the way her body would face the audience in the vision he had constructed.
"The stage extends," he said, his voice lower than he had intended, the vibration of it moving from his chest into the space between them. "Into the audience. You're with them. Surrounded by them."
He adjusted her stance, his hand sliding from her waist to the curve of her hip, positioning her weight on the balls of her feet, the way a dancer prepares to move. His thumb pressed into the fabric, feeling the heat of her through the cotton, and he did not remove it. The touch lingered. Professional distance had been breached, and neither of them moved to restore it.
"Intimate," he continued, his eyes on hers now, not on the stance he was adjusting. "But controlled."
She didn’t look away. Her eyes were brown and covered with something darker, and they held on to his with an intensity that made him aware of his own breathing, the pulse in his throat, the tattoo on his wrist that caught her attention a few times, and then returning to his face.
"Is this how you direct all your artists?" she asked. Her voice was quiet, conversational, but there was an edge to it that he felt in his spine.
"Only the ones who challenge me," he said.
Her mouth curved, not quite a smile, something more dangerous than that. "Then you should see me when I'm not being polite."
She stepped back, and his hand fell away, and the air between them cooled where his palm had been. She walked to the edge of the table, her finger tracing the edge of a rendering, the gold light captured in ink that would never match the reality of her under actual bulbs.
"And?" she asked, not looking at him.
"And," he repeated, his voice rougher now, "that's the vision. You. The music. The crowd. Connected as one."
She turned to face him, her arms crossed again, but the posture was different now. Not closed off. Ready. "It's really beautiful," she said. "But It's also safe."
The word landed like a stone in still water. Safe. He had spent months building safe, had constructed it with precision and care, had made something that would not fail, would not embarrass, would not risk. He had built a cage and called it a stage.
"Safe," he repeated, not a question.
"Safe," she confirmed. She stepped toward him again, closing the distance he had opened, and she was close enough now that he could smell the vanilla of her perfume, the warmth of her skin beneath it. "You're careful."
"With you?" He asked.
"With everything." Her eyes held his, unblinking, unafraid. "I want to see you stop being careful."
The challenge sat in the air between them, heavy and alive. He felt it in his chest, the invitation to drop the precision, the control, the safety he had wrapped around himself like armor.
"You have three days," she said, her voice dropping to match his, the register of secrets and bedrooms. "Show me dangerous. Show me what I'd be terrified to do every night. Show me what I can't control. Be courageous and let your mind run wild. That’s the Drew I want to work with."
She turned toward the door, her hand on the frame, and she looked back at him over her shoulder. The light caught her ponytail, turned it bronze, and her eyes were dark with something he could not name but wanted to.
"Also," she lingered, “You're polite.”
Polite. He was taken aback by the adjective. He replied, "I'm professional."
"I want you to stop being both."
The door clicked shut behind her, and he stood alone in the room with the renderings of a tour that was already dead, and the heat of her waist still burned against his palm, and he knew that everything had changed.
———————————————————
THREE DAYS LATER
———————————————————
The blue hour had faded to dark by the time Drew heard the door. He had spent three days rebuilding everything, sleeping in four hour stretches on the couch in his office, waking with choreography diagrams stuck to his cheek and the taste of adrenaline in his mouth. The studio smelled of cedar and coffee and the particular ozone of equipment that had been running too long without rest. He had not changed his clothes in thirty six hours, but he had showered, and he wore the black t shirt again because she had told him to, and because he wanted her to know that he listened.
The door opened.
She entered alone. No bodyguards, no assistant with the tablet, no sunglasses hiding the pop star. Ariana Grande walked into Afterlight Studios wearing a simple slip dress the color of bone or old photographs, and he could see immediately that she wore nothing underneath. The fabric moved against her body as she walked, catching the work lights, revealing and concealing in equal measure. Her hair was down, not the ponytail, and it changed her face, made her look younger and older simultaneously, made her look like a woman who had decided to be seen rather than to perform the act of being seen.
"You came alone," he said. It was not a question.
"We agreed," she said. "No costumes. No audience. Just..." She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to.
Drew moved from behind the table. The mock ups were gone, replaced by a single rendering, larger than the others had been, showing a structure he had designed in the sleepless hours, a rigging system that would allow her to rise above the stage, to float, to surrender the ground and trust that she would not fall. He had built a model from wire and thread, small enough to fit in his palm, and he set it on the table now, a tiny architecture of ascent.
"The last pitch was safe," he said. "This one isn't."
"Show me," she said.
He stepped toward her, and she did not step back. The dress was silk or something like it, cool under his hands when he placed them at her waist. He could feel the heat of her through the fabric, the absence of anything between her skin and the material, and he kept his hands there longer than necessary, longer than professional, long enough to let her feel that this was different.
"You're not just performing songs," he said. His voice was lower than he had intended, rough from lack of sleep and want. "You're telling a story. Personal. Intimate. Yours."
He rotated her gently, showing her the angle of the harness he would build, the way her body would face the audience, open and vulnerable and suspended. His hands moved from her waist to her ribs, spreading to measure, to demonstrate the support he would construct, the rigging that would hold her.
"These visuals let you bring it to life," he said. "The audience doesn't just hear you. They enter the story with you. They rise with you. They fall with you."
His hands slid to her hips, positioning her weight, showing her the stance she would need to trust the harness, to trust him. His thumb pressed into the silk, feeling the bone beneath, the muscle, the life of her.
"The story is you," he said. "The visuals just make it visible."
She was looking at him, not at the model, not at the rendering, but at his face, his eyes, the way he spoke about her work as if it were a living thing he had studied and loved and wanted to serve. Something shifted in her expression, some wall lowering, some recognition dawning that had nothing to do with the rigging or the stage or the tour.
"No one's ever," she said, and stopped. Her voice was different now, not the performer's voice, not the challenging voice, but something raw and surprised. "No one's ever understood it that way before…"
"I see you," he said. "The story. All of it."
The words hung between them, heavier than the demonstration, heavier than the professional distance they had both pretended to maintain. She was looking at him as if she were seeing him for the first time, as if the three days of waiting had been a test he had passed without knowing he was taking it, and now the reward was this, her face open and wanting, but also fearless and anticipating.
"I've never," she said, and stopped again, and he did not ask her to finish because he knew, he could feel it in the heat of her waist under his hands, in the way she leaned into him rather than away, in the charge that had transformed from professional tension into something that would destroy them both if they did not act on it.
Then, he kissed her. Not in a gentle, tender way. It was the collision they had been avoiding since she walked into the studio three days ago, the collision of two people who had been waiting for someone worth matching energy with, and the kiss was filled with hunger.
Her hands gripped at his shirt, pulling him closer, her mouth opening under his, the silk of her dress sliding under his palms as he gathered it, as he lifted her onto the conference table, the same oak where he had spread the safe renderings, and now she was the rendering, she was the dangerous vision, and he was showing her what he had meant by ascension, by surrender, by trust.
He lifted her onto the conference table, the oak cool against her thighs through the silk, and the kiss deepened, became something that would not be contained by mouths alone. Her hands were at his belt, his at the straps of her dress, and they were pulling, urgent, the silk sliding over her head, revealing her to the work lights and the glass walls and him.
He looked at her the way he had looked at the light in the late afternoon, the way he studied things he wanted to remember, and she let him, she did not cover herself, she let him see her as she had never let anyone see her.
"Tell me what to do," she said, and it was not a request for instruction but a challenge, a declaration of who would lead and who would follow.
He understood. He stepped back from the table, his shirt unbuttoned, his jeans undone, and he stood before her, ten inches hard and waiting, and her eyes widened, not with fear but with appetite.
"You like watching?" she asked, sliding down from the table, her knees on the concrete, her hands at his hips.
"I like seeing you take it," he said, his hand moving to her hair, gripping, guiding.
She looked up at him, her mouth inches from him, her eyes holding his, competitive, taking her time. "How much do you want me to take?"
"All of it," he said. "Show how dangerous Ariana Grande can be."
She took the tip of him into her mouth, just the head, her tongue circling, teasing, testing. She pulled back, looked up at him, her hand stroking the length of him. Then she took him deeper, an inch, two inches, her mouth stretching, her eyes beginning to water.
She pulled back, gasped, breathed, and went down again, deeper this time, three inches, four, her tongue working the underside, her hand stroking what she could not yet take. He gently pulled at her ponytail, then pushed her head down to take more each time she swallowed his rock hard staff. As she pulled back, her eyes watered, her lips swelled, and she looked at him with challenge and desire.
“Fuck,” she thought to herself, “I love how he's challenging me. He's turning me on so much.”
She went down again, five inches, six, her throat relaxing, her eyes watering more, her hand gripping his hip for balance. She pulled back, gasped, stroked him, her spit making him slick. Then she took him deeper, seven inches, eight, her throat opening, her eyes streaming now, her nose almost touching his muscular abdomen.
She held there, swallowing around him, her throat muscles working, and he groaned, his hand tightening in her hair, his head falling back. She pulled back, gasping, stroking him, her eyes watering but triumphant, her chest heaving.
"You're really big," she said, her voice rough.
"I've never been this hard," he said, his voice strained. "You're driving me fucking crazy."
Ariana smiled, wicked and pleased, her plump lips swollen and her eyes streaming but triumphant. "You have no idea how much I love hearing you say that. Let me show you what else I can do."
Then she took him again, deeper than before, nine inches this time, her throat opening fully, her lips stretched around him, her eyes watering but determined, and she held him there, all ten inches, swallowed, and he felt the build, the edge approaching, his balls tightening, and he stopped her, lifted her, pulled her up from her knees before he could finish.
"Fuck. Not yet," he said, his voice rough. "I'm not done with you."
“Good, because I want you to fuck me.” Ariana quickly retorted.
He lifted her back onto the table, spread her legs, and entered her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face, watching her eyes open wide, and watching her mouth fall open as he filled her.
“Oh fuck,” Ariana moaned.
Then, he began to move, deliberate, controlled, his hands at her hips, setting the pace, each thrust deep and measured. The sound of his muscular thigh crashing into hers filled the empty conference room. The table vibrated with each thrust.
He started to pump faster, allowing her to get used to his size. He also needed to pace himself, knowing he wanted to savor the feeling of her tight pussy wrapped around his cock for as long as he possibly could.
"Look at me," he said.
"I am," she gasped, her right hand gripping the table edge, her knuckles white. Her left hand moved up to his face, stroking his right cheek and firm jawline.
"Don't look away." He pleaded passionately.
She held his gaze, her eyes dark, her breath coming in ragged gasps as he moved inside her. He adjusted his angle, finding the spot that made her gasp, that made her eyes roll back, and he settled into a rhythm, pounding into that spot, relentlessly, as the table shook beneath them, her breasts bouncing with each thrust.
"Harder," she said, her voice breaking. "Don't hold back."
He pounded even harder, watching her face, watching her build, watching her climb toward the edge. He felt her tightening around him, felt her walls gripping him, felt her climbing higher and higher, and he kept the rhythm steady, merciless, driving her toward the peak.
“Oh, fuck! Yes,” she said, “Right there.”
The chemistry between them was flourishing, every second was building towards a peak that would undoubtedly be satisfactory.
As he continued to pound harder and faster, he noticed her locking eyes with his, almost piercing through him, but inviting him to push her over the edge.
"I could break you," he said, his voice low, dangerous.
"Then break me," she cried, her back arching off the table, her hands gripping his arms, her nails digging in. "I'm yours."
He pounded even harder, faster, relentlessly, watching her face transform, watching her eyes lose focus, watching her mouth fall open in a silent scream, and he felt her right there, right on the edge, and he commanded, "Cum for me. Now."
She climaxed, her body convulsing, her voice breaking into curses, "Oh fuck… Drew… fuck… I'm cumming!!!" and he kept moving through it, not stopping, watching her unravel beneath him, watching her face transform into something raw and undone, and when she had finished, when she was gasping and trembling and limp, he pulled her up to her feet, turned her body around, and bent her over the table.
"You thought you were done?" he asked, entering her from behind, deep, his hand in her hair, pulling her head back.
"Not even close. Give me more." she gasped, her hands flat on the oak, her breasts pressed against the wood, her legs shaking.
He pulled her head back further, kissing her, hard, teeth and tongue and desperation, and she kissed back, hungry, demanding, her mouth open and wanting.
"Fuck me like you mean it," she said against his mouth.
"I mean everything," he said, his hand tightening in her hair, pounding into her, the table shaking, the glass walls reflecting them, his hips slapping against her ass.
"Show me."
"Feel that?" he asked, pounding, relentless, each thrust driving her forward against the table.
"Fuck yes!" she cried. "Oh my god. Please, don't stop." She yelled as her arms reached back to wrap around Drew’s neck.
But he slowed, teasing, denying her the second climax, holding her on the edge, making her wait, making her beg.
"Not yet," he said, his voice controlled, powerful. "Not until I say."
He lifted her, carried her to the chair, sat, and pulled her on top of him, and she began to grind, back and forth, not up and down yet, just grinding, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, moaning, the pleasure building deep and slow, her clit rubbing against him with each forward grind.
"Oh god! Fuck. You feel so deep," she moaned, her hands on his shoulders, her nails digging in.
"Open your eyes," he commanded. "Look at me."
She opened her eyes, arching her back, and the work light caught her, illuminated her slender body, the curve of her throat, the arch of her spine, her breasts lifted toward the light, and she was beautiful, she was ascended, she was the vision he had been trying to build.
All Drew could do was put his hand on her face, stroking her jawline gently with the care of a passionate protector, but the hunger of a lustful lover.
"I'm close," she gasped, her grinding becoming more urgent, more desperate.
She fully engulfed him and started to rock her hips back and forth slowly. She closed her eyes, and bit her lower lip, giving Drew the body language he needed to know.
"Don’t cum just yet," he said. "Grind. Take what you need."
She ground harder, moaning, the pleasure building, her hips moving in tight circles, and he watched her, felt her, controlled her pace with his hands at her hips, holding her down when she tried to speed up, forcing her to slow, to savor, to wait.
Drew leaned his head back, feeling the pleasure of her tight, wet pussy engulfing his rock hard cock, and her hips rotating to give him a feeling he had never experienced before. This was something he didn’t even know he liked, yet Ariana figured it out within their first time together.
"Drew…" she gasped, her voice breaking.
"Now ride me," he commanded. "Up and down. Hard."
She switched, began to ride him up and down, her hips lifting and falling, and he grabbed her hips, meeting her thrusts, pounding up into her, their bodies slapping together, and they found a rhythm, competitive, demanding, both building together toward the edge.
"Like this?" she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders, her breasts bouncing with each downward thrust. “You like it, baby?”
"Exactly like that," he said, his voice strained, his control slipping. "Don't stop."
She rode him harder, faster, her hips slamming down onto him, and he felt her tightening, felt her climbing, felt his own edge approaching, the pressure building in his spine, his balls tightening.
"I'm about to…" she cried, her voice breaking.
"Wait for me," he commanded, his hands gripping her hips, forcing her to slow, to hold, to stay with him. "I want us to cum together."
"I can't… Oh fuck… Drew..." she gasped, her body trembling, right on the edge, her orgasm threatening to break through.
"Yes, you can, do it for me, I’m right there." he said, thrusting up, meeting her, holding her hips down, forcing her to wait, to hold, to stay with him, their bodies joined and trembling. "Hold it. Hold it…"
"Now…" she cried, "Drew, I'm cumming, fuck, I'm cumming… Don't stop, please don't stop…Ohhhh my goddddd!"
"Ariana… Fuck. I… I’m cumming!!!" he yelled out immediately after.
They climaxed together, her body convulsing, her walls clenching around him in waves, pulsing, and he pulsed into her, holding her down, both of them crying out, mutual, devastating, their figurative ascension complete.
Afterwards, they were tangled, sweating, the work lights harsh above them, the city dark outside. Their breathing slowed in unison, chests rising and falling together, his hand still gripping her hip, her fingers still curled against his shoulder. She traced his tattoos with her finger, learning the ink, the map of his body, and he watched her face in the harsh light, the softness there that had not been there before.
"Stay," she whispered, not opening her eyes.
"I'm here," he said.
"Don't go."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He pulled her closer, their legs tangled, their sweat cooling between them, and he thought that he had never felt this, had never been seen this way, had never wanted to be seen. He knew that everything had changed, and at this moment, at least, they were perfect, they were the only thing that mattered.
She turned her head, her eyes opening, finding his in the harsh light. "The tour," she said, her voice soft but certain. "I want this. I want everything you showed me. The floating, the story, all of it. You're the right person. You see what I can't see in myself."
He kissed her forehead, his heart still hammering. "I'll build it for you. Whatever you need."
"Build it with me," she said. "Not for me. With me."
He nodded, holding her tighter, and they lay tangled in the work lights, the vision alive between them, their immediate future waiting.
Topic: Imperfect For You (Ft. Ariana Grande) (Read 232 times)