#fan interaction

"Hey Carson. It's Macklin Celebrini here. Um, I just wanted to say I saw the video of your birthday party — that was awesome. Um, happy belated birthday. I hope you had an amazing day and I'll hopefully see you at the Shark Tank at some point."

He stopped right in front of you.

You didn’t think. This was a once in a lifetime experience. Your hand shot up, palm pressing flat against his chest. The fabric of his red shirt was damp with sweat, his heartbeat strong and fast under your fingers. You felt the heat of him, the solid muscle. Then your hand slid higher. Slow and deliberate, until your fingertips brushed the side of his neck, right under his jaw. His skin was burning. For a split second, you held him there, thumb grazing the edge of his collar.

Benito’s head tilted just slightly. Behind those dark glasses, you knew he was staring. His lips parted as he kept singing, but his gaze dropped to your mouth. No one had ever touched him like that during a show. It was bold, intimate. It hit him hard. Something possessive flickered in his chest. He was lucky the glasses hid how his eyes were kept at your direction.

You pulled your hand back, but not before letting your fingers drag down his chest again. He caught your wrist gently, still singing the chorus straight to you, voice low and rough. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, making it look natural like it was just part of the performance. However the way he held on a second too long told you otherwise. The crowd lost it, phones flashing everywhere, but for that moment it felt like it was only the two of you.

You felt like you were dreaming. Delusions coming to life.

He let go, flashed a half smirk, and kept moving down the barricade, but his head kept subtly turning back toward you. Even as he performed, his gaze found you again and again, like he was scared to lose you in the crowd.

Then security appeared. One of the guards tapped your shoulder and motioned you forward. Next thing you knew, you were being lifted over the barricade and guided up onto the house stage. Your legs felt like jelly. You were physically on the set. A few inches from him. The lights were hotter up here, the music louder, the energy insane.

Someone pressed a red cup into your hand: liquor mixed with what it seemed like fruit punch. You took a sip, the burn mixing with the adrenaline. You danced with the others up there, hips swaying, losing yourself in the rhythm, hair sticking to your neck from the heat. Benito made it look casual, like he’d just randomly picked a lucky fan, but you felt his eyes on you.

The next song switched to something even filthier. “Me Porto Bonito.” The kind of track that makes people dance closely to each other.

At the chorus, he didn’t even pretend to be random anymore.

Benito grabbed your hand, pulling you in smoothly. Your bodies came together like it was choreographed, but it wasn’t. His chest pressed to your back, one hand on your hip, the other still holding his red cup. You were both slightly drunk on the liquor. He sang the chorus low in your ear, voice gravelly and intimate, breath hot against your skin as your hips moved together.

You grind back against him slowly and teasingly, feeling the hard line of his body through his jeans. His grip tightened on your hip, fingers digging in just enough to send tingles in your stomach. He laughed softly into the mic, cheeks flushing a subtle red under the stage lights but there was nothing innocent about the way he rolled his hips with yours, matching your rhythm, letting you feel exactly how much he was enjoying it. The friction was deliberate, slow, sinful. Every grind sent sparks up your spine. His free hand slid a little lower, thumb brushing the waistband of your bottoms, teasing the skin there as he kept singing like it was normal for you to have your idol right behind you.

You tilted your head back against his shoulder, lips brushing his jaw for a second, and you swore you felt him exhale sharply. The crowd was screaming, but up here it was just the two of you in this bubble of heat touches. He kept the red cup in his hand, occasionally bringing it to his lips while his other hand stayed on you, possessive, like he didn’t want to let go.

The song built, and so did the tension, bodies slick with sweat, breaths mixing, that teasing grind never letting up. He leaned down during a break in the lyrics, mouth close to your ear, voice off-mic but still singing the words just for you.