Page 108 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Fuck.

How am I supposed to sit here and wait for them to come back, knowing what’s going on now?

How the fuck am I supposed to wait and see where this leads?

NINETEEN

Willow

Xander’s mouth tastes like fucking fire.

It’s heat and cut glass, the metallic shimmer of blood and cinder under my tongue, and it jolts through me like a forced confession.

There’s no careful choreography here. He doesn’t wait for me to get my bearings, doesn’t even give a fuck if I do. Xander kisses the way knives are thrown. Hard, exact, aimed for maximum damage.

He tastes like a challenge, and I want to answer it.

We crash together in the darkened hallway, the edges of everything blurring around the perimeter of us.

He brackets my wrists above my head with one hand and presses me flat to the wall, all power condensed to the single line of his body.

My pulse is a stampede. I mouth at the seam of his jaw, drag my tongue up over the skin, and he growls into my mouth. His thigh comes between mine, the dead precise pressure of it, and my knees nearly fail under me as I grind down, chasing more friction than I’ve ever admitted to needing.

He lets me fight for every inch. I dig my nails into his shoulder, the bulk of him impossible to move, and Xander smiles like he’s already won.

Part of me wants to draw blood, just to disturb that composure, but he clamps down harder on my wrists and pins me for real, so that I have to arch and writhe and make a goddamn spectacle of myself to even get a breath.

We’re barely through the first doorway and already he’s laid waste to any pretense. When he surges forward, he lifts me clean off the floor, my thighs cinched around his ribs and my breath punched out in a single involuntary sound.

The feeling is atomic, a leftover pulse from when I was alone with Gabe. My brain is a whiteout. My only thought is more. I want to melt into his bones, fill the cracks. To see how close to the edge I can get before he loses that hard-stop control.

He spreads my knees wide, presses closer, a grind so brutal it refocuses every synapse in my body. He’s all leverage and unforgiving pressure and, when he finally lets go of my wrists, it’s not mercy; it’s a dare.

Like he wants to see if I’ll slap him, claw him, bolt.

I wrap both arms around his neck and haul myself up, the clench of my thighs so tight it must make his lungs ache and hitch my chin to force his mouth back to mine. I lock him there. He’s strong enough to break me in half, but right now he’s just standing in the dark, unmoving, letting me devour him like there’s no tomorrow.

I run one hand across the back of his buzzed skull, the other into the collar of his shirt, and yank so hard he tilts off balance. His hip thunks the door frame. The noise is loud, embarrassing, perfect.

He shifts me up higher, his grip almost impersonal, and then pivots into the guest bedroom.

The lights are off. The door doesn’t even get shut; we’re just a tangle of motion above the piles of clean but unfolded laundry.

Xander dumps me on the mattress, hands still under my ass, and the bounce rockets me up. He pushes me down, the force of it a little savage.

The bedsprings creak with potential energy.

My chest heaves. I expect him to climb on, finish what he started, but he pauses with his hands braced on either side of me, just watching my face with a kind of furious concentration.

“Are you gonna kiss me again or stare at me like a dead thing?” I ask.

His face doesn’t move. “You want it rough or slow?”

I want both, but if I admit that out loud, I’ll lose.

“You think I can’t take rough?” I crook a finger at the front of his shirt, hook it, pop two buttons in one rip. “Try me.”

His mouth splits in a real smile. Then he’s on me again, eating the distance, stealing my breath. He tastes like iron, like near violence; his kisses border on a kind of threat I crave but never admit to. He bites just beneath my jaw, then circles it with his tongue, soothing nothing, and bites again.