← Back to overview

IKRRR

The Afterglow of War

The silence of the dressing room was thick, heavy with the scent of sweat, expensive cologne, and the undeniable musk of their sudden, violent collision. Stella lay draped over the vanity, her cheek pressed against the cool marble, watching a stray lipstick tube roll slowly toward the edge of the counter. Her body felt like it had been recalibrated, every nerve ending humming with a residual electricity that made her skin twitch at the slightest touch.

Martin didn’t move for a long time. He remained anchored inside her, his heavy chest rising and falling against her damp back. The dominance he had exerted just moments ago hadn't flickered out; it had simply settled into a simmering heat. He shifted, his weight pressing her further into the marble, and she let out a soft, broken moan that was half-protest and half-plea.

"Don't get too comfortable," she breathed, though her voice lacked its usual sharp edge. "Someone is going to come looking for me eventually."

Martin’s response was a low, vibrating chuckle against her neck. He finally withdrew, the loss of his heat leaving her feeling strangely hollow. Stella shivered as the air-conditioned room hit her sensitized skin. She heard the rustle of fabric behind her—Martin pulling up his trousers, the metallic click of his belt being cinched back into place. It was a sound so mundane, yet after what they had just done, it felt like a declaration of war ending.

"Let them look," Martin said, his voice returning to that arrogant, self-assured timber. He grabbed a handful of paper towels from a dispenser and stepped back toward her. "You’re the one who locked the door, Princess. I just made sure you didn't regret it."

Stella pushed herself up, her legs feeling like jelly. She turned around, her hair a chaotic halo of dark strands, her lips swollen and bruised from his kisses. She looked at him—really looked at him. He looked ruffled, his expensive dress shirt hanging open, but he still possessed that infuriating Getty confidence. He didn't look like a man who had just lost control; he looked like a man who had conquered a kingdom.

He reached out, his large hand cupping her chin to tilt her face up. His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, lingering there. "You have a look in your eyes right now," he whispered. "Like you want to kill me and thank me at the same time."

"I'll settle for the killing part," Stella retorted, though she didn't pull away.

Martin grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. He dropped the paper towels onto the counter beside her. "Clean yourself up. We have ten minutes before the final bow for the artists' exit. If you walk out there looking like this, the Dispatch headlines will write themselves."

Stella snatched the towels, her face flushing. She turned back to the mirror, horrified by the sight of herself. Her makeup was smudged, her neck was marked with a faint, darkening hickey, and her breasts—still aching from his rough handling—bore the faint red imprints of his palms. She looked thoroughly, deeply used.

"You're a bastard," she muttered, scrubbing at a smear of eyeliner.

"And you're a goddess," he countered, leaning against the doorframe, watching her with predatory intensity. "A loud, demanding, beautiful goddess who likes to be told what to do."

Stella froze, the towel halfway to her face. She looked at his reflection in the mirror. "That was a one-time thing, Martin. The tension was high, the adrenaline... it was just a release. Don't think this changes anything between H2H and Getty. Or between us."

Martin walked over, stepping into her space until his chest was inches from her bare back. He didn't touch her, but the heat radiating from him was enough to make her breath hitch again. He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear.

"Is that what you're telling yourself?" he asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous, gravelly register. "That this was just 'release'? You didn't feel like you were just releasing tension when you were screaming 'Daddy' and begging me to ruin you. You felt like you were finally admitting the truth."

"The truth is that I hate you," she hissed, turning around to face him, clutching the paper towel to her chest as if it could protect her.

Martin’s eyes dropped to her chest, watching the way her heavy breasts heaved with her agitated breathing. "You hate that you want me. You hate that I'm the only one who knows how to handle you. You want a man who isn't afraid of your fire, Stella. And we both know your little 'idol' image is a cage you're dying to break out of."

He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. "I can be the one who opens the door. But only if you stop lying."

Stella felt the familiar spark of anger, but it was tangled with something far more addictive. She looked at his lips, remembering the way they had felt crushed against hers, the way his tongue had tasted of expensive champagne and raw desire. Before she could stop herself, she reached up, grabbing the lapels of his open shirt and pulling him down.

"If I'm a goddess," she whispered, her eyes dark with a renewed hunger, "then start acting like a worshipper."

Martin didn't need another invitation. He scooped her up, her legs instantly hooking around his waist. He slammed her back against the locked door, the thud echoing through the small room. Stella wrapped her arms around his thick neck, her fingers digging into his scalp as he buried his face in her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin.

"I thought we had ten minutes," he groaned against her skin, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, squeezing the soft flesh through her thin skirt.

"Make them count," Stella replied, her voice a low growl of command.

He didn't waste time. He didn't even bother removing her clothes this time, simply shoving her skirt up and pushing her panties aside. He was still hard, pulsing with a need that seemed bottomless. He guided himself to her entrance, his eyes locking onto hers.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Stella obeyed, her vision blurring as he surged into her in one long, agonizingly slow thrust. She gasped, her head hitting the door behind her. He was so big, so solid, filling her until she felt like she might break.

"You like it when I take charge, don't you?" Martin asked, his pace picking up. He began to thrust with a brutal, rhythmic efficiency, his hips slamming against hers with a wet, slapping sound that filled the room.

"Yes," she confessed, the word torn from her throat. "Yes, Martin... please."

He didn't slow down. He increased the intensity, his movements becoming a blur of friction and power. He was punishing her, claiming her, marking her in ways that no camera could see but that she would feel for days. Stella’s world narrowed down to the sensation of him inside her, the strength of his arms holding her up, and the overwhelming scent of him.

She felt the climax building again, faster this time, fueled by the sheer taboo of their situation. The muffled sounds of the party—the bass of a distant song, the faint roar of the crowd outside—seemed a world away. Here, in the dark, they were just two people burning each other alive.

"Martin, I'm... I'm close," she gasped, her body tightening around him, her internal muscles milking him with desperate intensity.

"Not yet," he growled, his grip on her hips tightening until it would surely leave bruises. "Hold it. Stay with me."

He changed the angle, lifting her slightly higher so he could hit her G-spot with every deep, relentless stroke. Stella’s eyes rolled back in her head, her breath coming in short, jagged hitches. She felt like she was flying and drowning at the same time.

"Now," he whispered, his own voice breaking. "Give it to me now, Stella."

She exploded. A violent, toe-curling orgasm ripped through her, making her scream into his shoulder. Martin followed her seconds later, his body stiffening as he spent himself inside her, his head dropping onto her shoulder as he let out a long, shuddering breath.

For several minutes, the only sound was their labored breathing. Martin slowly lowered her feet to the floor, but he kept his arms around her, holding her steady as her legs trembled.

"Now," he said, pulling back to look at her, his expression unreadable. "We really have to go."

Stella nodded, her mind a haze of endorphins. She felt heavy, satisfied, and strangely calm. She watched as Martin reached for his tie, expertly knotting it while looking at himself in the mirror. He looked like the perfect idol again, the arrogant rapper the world knew. But she knew the monster underneath.

She began to fix her own clothes, her fingers shaking as she hooked her corset back together. She used a heavy concealer from her kit to cover the marks on her neck, her heart still racing every time she caught Martin’s eye in the reflection.

"What happens tomorrow?" she asked, her voice steadying.

Martin paused at the door, his hand on the lock. He turned back, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips. "Tomorrow, we go back to being rivals. We ignore each other in the hallways. We compete for the number one spot."

He stepped closer, leaning in to plant one last, lingering kiss on her forehead. "But the next time we're in a room alone? I'm going to make you scream even louder."

With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving Stella alone in the silence. She leaned against the vanity, her hand trembling as she touched her lips. She hated him. She absolutely loathed him.

And she couldn't wait for the next time they were alone.

She took a deep breath, smoothed her skirt, and checked her reflection one last time. Her eyes were bright, her skin glowing. She looked like a woman who had just won a war.

Walking out of the dressing room, she passed a group of staff members who bowed politely. She kept her head high, her expression cool and professional. She saw the Getty members standing near the stage entrance, Martin in the center, laughing at something one of his teammates said.

He didn't look at her. He didn't even acknowledge her presence.

But as she walked past, she felt his gaze burn into her back, a silent promise that the battle was far from over.

Stella joined her group, her leader, Hana, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. "Where have you been? We’re supposed to be in line for the final bow."

"Just had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction," Stella said smoothly, her voice betraying nothing. "Everything’s under control now."

"You look... energized," Hana noted, leaning in closer. "Did you find some caffeine?"

Stella smiled, a secret, dangerous thing. "Something like that."

As the groups were called to the stage, the bright lights of the arena blinded her. The roar of thousands of fans filled the air, a wall of sound that usually made her feel invincible. Today, it felt different. It felt like a backdrop to the secret she carried beneath her shimmering stage outfit.

She stood on the riser, the members of Getty standing just a few feet away. The cameras panned across them, capturing the smiles and the waves. Martin was standing at the edge of his group, his arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the untouchable star.

When the confetti finally exploded, raining down in a shower of gold and silver, Stella turned her head slightly. For a split second, Martin’s eyes met hers. There was no warmth in them, only a dark, simmering challenge that made her blood boil.

She turned back to the crowd, waving with renewed fervor. The charts would decide who was on top tomorrow. But tonight, she knew exactly who held the power.

And as she felt the faint, lingering ache in her thighs, Stella realized that being enemies had never felt so good. The rivalry wasn't just about trophies and streaming numbers anymore. It was about who could break the other first.

She caught her reflection on the giant LED screen—beautiful, poised, and utterly dangerous. Martin Cortis thought he had conquered her, but he had only opened the door. And Stella had never been one to stay in a cage.

The award ceremony ended, the lights dimmed, and the idols began to file off the stage. In the chaos of the exit, a hand brushed against hers—a brief, searing contact that sent a jolt up her arm.

"See you at the music bank recording, Princess," a low voice murmured in her ear as a tall figure brushed past her.

Stella didn't turn around. She didn't need to. She simply tightened her grip on her microphone, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face.

The war was just beginning.