Oh yeah

The bass rattled her chest, every beat reverberating through her body until it no longer felt like she was moving to the music—she was the music. Sweat dampened the thin cotton of her tanktop, making it cling in every valley and curve, her nipples stiff and obvious against the fabric.

The boy in front of her grinned lazily, his hands guiding her hips as though she were a puppet. Each shift drew her pelvis into his, their thighs brushing, the swell of his crotch pressing against her belly when they ground close. His lips hovered near her ear, hot with beer, murmuring nothing more than filthy encouragements.

Behind her, the second boy molded himself to her back, his body firm, insistent. He held her steady with one arm banded across her waist, his hand splayed wide on her stomach, tugging her against him. She could feel the hard ridge of his cock straining in his jeans, pressed tight against the curve of her ass.

Emily shuddered, caught between them.

His other hand slid up, higher than before. Fingers brushed the underside of her breast, lingered there, pressed just enough to make her gasp, then retreated—like he was daring her to object. She didn’t. Her lips parted, head tipping back on his shoulder as if to bare her throat.

The boy in front noticed. His grin widened, one hand slipping lower, over the swell of her hip, thumb tracing the waistband of her jeans. He pressed his thigh forward between hers, forcing her to straddle it slightly as the three of them rocked together in the rhythm of the crowd.

She bit down on a moan, but it came out anyway—soft, shaky, lost under the music.

Her arms, which had been tense at her sides, lifted almost without thought, draping around the neck of the boy in front. His chest was slick with sweat, bare beneath his open shirt. She felt his heartbeat against her palms, heavy and fast, matching her own.

Behind her, the boy’s breath grazed her ear. “Fuck… feelin’ good?” His hips rolled harder, grinding his bulge against her ass, his grip on her stomach tightening like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

Emily’s thighs trembled, heat slicking between them, jeans suddenly unbearable. The tanktop clung like a second skin, riding up in the back, exposing more of her waist every time their bodies collided. She told herself this was just dancing, just a crowd, just a moment. But every graze, every grope, every shameless press of hard flesh against her body screamed otherwise.

And she let it happen.

Her body rocked between them, sweat-slick, aching, her breath shallow and uneven. The crowd barely noticed—just another trio grinding in the crush of music and light—but Emily knew. Every brush of fingers over her tits, every deliberate grind of cock against her ass, every time their hands tested how far she’d let them go—she knew, and she melted for it.