With one more test to see if it holds, I rest my knee on top of the equipment. It doesn’t collapse right away, so I pull the other up to kneel. Between the curtains, I can see over top of the stage and lift the camera. The viewfinder catches some of the crowd, but something seems off. I adjust my position, walking on my knees sideways away from the stairs. My eyes flick between the digital image and the real one.

So fucking close.

I realize too late I’ve run out of fuzzy land. My knee misses the edge and keeps going. I gasp in a breath, losing my balance, and grab blindly for anything to save me. A warm hand clamps around my bare thigh to steady me just as I find something solid to hold onto. The solid moves ever so slightly. I realize it all in rapid fire. Soft fabric below my hand. A hard shoulder beneath that. Fingers flexing into my skin. My heart batters against my rib cage, but it turns into a full-on escape attempt when the hot palm slips higher.

Then it starts again.

The chant. The name.

A barely distinguishable shadow shifts off to the side of me. I can just make out a head rest back, the vagueness of someone sitting on who knows what below.

“Get your shot,” Foster says, voice easy.

Foster. Despite what I said to myself and what an entire arena tells me now, it’s not Adams.

Even with his touch branding me, the chant’s so strong I can’t keep myself from releasing his shoulder and bringing up the camera. I stretch in his direction, still not far enough over. Foster readjusts, sliding his grip to the back of my thigh to hold me stable. I take advantage and lean more, and then it happens.

An angle of the stage covers the bottom third of the frame, leaving the rest to show the crowd. Light shining off animated faces, fists pumping in the air. MARRY ME ADAMS signs, and a FELIX I’M PREGNANT.

Foster’s thumb strokes over my skin, and I suck in air as goosebumps scatter up my thigh.

I stabilize the shot but look down into the shadows at the indistinct outline. It moves, and hot breath teases my naked skin. The sensation travels all the way to my clit.

“Foster,” I breathe, asking a question.

His hand creeps higher, under the bottom of my skirt. And let’s be honest, it’s not that long.

“Keep filming,” he rasps.

The words caress my thigh. I swallow and return my eyes to the viewfinder. Foster’s other hand slides up my calf as I zoom in on a girl. She’s beaming, balanced on a dude’s shoulders, her arms down, his bent up, and their hands linked. I capture another couple, a guy’s arm slung around another’s waist, dragging him against his body.