Paul McCartney Imagines

60

The champagne was still bubbling in your veins as you leaned back on the hotel couch, your heels kicked off, mascara slightly smudged. You looked over at Paul, who was lounging beside you, his tie loosened, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and alcohol.

"God," you muttered, nudging his knee, "you smell like whiskey and stage sweat."

Paul grinned lazily, his voice soft and rich from laughing all night. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not," you said before you could stop yourself.

That earned you a look—a loaded, lingering glance that stretched too long for best friends. But maybe that line had been blurry for a while now. You were his "mate," the one who calmed him down before interviews, the one he dragged onto tour "for the vibes," as John teased. But lately, his touches had lingered, and so had yours.

The room was dim, only the light from the city outside casting a faint gold on his jawline. You looked away first.

"Still can't believe tonight," you mumbled. "The crowd lost their minds."

Paul chuckled and leaned back further. "They always do in New York. You should see what they threw onstage—one of them lobbed a bra right at George's face."

You laughed and leaned your head on his shoulder. Neither of you moved.

It was silent for a long moment. Comfortable. Until your eyes met again.

Then it happened. A kiss—slow, unsure at first, then hungry. Desperate. His hands moved over your waist, yours tangled in his hair, and suddenly you were stumbling back into the hotel bed, giggling as your clothes came off one by one.

"Tell me if you wanna stop," he murmured against your throat.

"I don't," you whispered.

And you didn't. Not when he kissed down your body like he was discovering something sacred. Not when he held you afterwards, both of you still breathless. Not even when he traced your spine with shaking fingers and whispered, "This can stay between us, yeah?"

You hesitated. But you nodded. "Yeah. Just... a drunk thing."

Neither of you looked like you believed it.

⸻

You sat beside him, legs curled beneath you, your head spinning from both the alcohol and how close he was. This wasn't unusual. You and Paul had been close for years—backstage naps together, stolen glances, soft teasing. But tonight? The air felt different. Thicker. Crackling.

"Remember when we used to walk to the chippy in Liverpool at midnight?" you asked, giggling. "Just to avoid your screaming fans."

Paul snorted. "And you used to throw your chips at me when I said something cheeky."

"I still should."

You tossed a pillow at him, and he caught it with one hand, rolling over toward you. His laughter died in his throat when your eyes met—close, too close. And then...

He kissed you.

No hesitation. No apology. Just his lips, warm and a little sweet from champagne, pressing into yours like he'd been holding that urge in for years. You froze for only a second before your body melted into his, kissing him back with a sound that surprised you—a soft whimper against his mouth.

His hands came to your waist, warm and steady, fingers slipping under the hem of your blouse like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.