Page 111 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Xander is the first to move, the violence in his hands raw and honest as he grabs my knees, dragging me closer to the edge of the bed so my ass is almost slipping off the mattress.

He mouths, “Hold still,” not that I have a choice. The weight of Gabe’s body pins my shoulders back, a careful cage with his arms braced on either side of my face. His eyes are ink black and full of questions I dare him to ask.

Julian’s mouth hasn’t left me, but his fingers are inside, two at first, then curving until I see stars, and then three, a rough stretch that makes me arch up, involuntary.

He holds there until my body stutters its approval, until I hear a wet, satisfied chuckle from him, and then his cock, hot as a soldering iron, pushing in.

The stretch obliterates everything I thought I knew about my body. I swear, loud enough that Xander clamps a hand over my mouth, but I don’t care.

Gabe holds me, words whispered against my cheek, “Yes, Willow, you can take it,” until all I hear is a roar in my head and the pounding of their hearts thrumming through me like a chorus.

Julian fucks me carefully, letting my body learn the rhythm, but Xander isn’t patient. He lines up behind me, spits into his palm, and then there’s an impossible fullness, two cocks prying me open, the pressure so wild I nearly black out.

It’s obscene. It’s too much. It’s exactly, precisely enough.

I writhe, clawing for leverage, trying to bite Xander’s hand. Xander moves his hand just in time, but I howl anyway, bite the pillow instead. I can feel them both, every twitch and throb and scrape, and it’s so fucking good it’s criminal.

Julian is focused, surgical in his pace. He wants to watch me break apart in real time. Xander is brutal, slamming into the contradiction of softness and violence, and I go limp, ruined in the best possible way, because there’s no play acting left.

Every inch of my body is claimed. I’m not even me anymore. I’m just the place where they meet.

And then, Gabe’s mouth, gentle at the shell of my ear, and the first two fingers of his hand, slow at my clit, measured, heartbreakingly careful, like he can sense the overload and wants to draw it out, not let me tip too soon.

I want to laugh, to sob, to scream. I think I manage all three, the pitch sliding from pleasure to desperation to almost grief as the edge builds and builds.

My body is a channel for sensation. It hurts, it’s heaven, it’s everything I’ve ever been denied and every need I have, all at once.

I can’t move. Don’t want to.

I fragment, splintering like a blown glass and loving the violence of it.

Somewhere in me is a voice that says this isn’t real, that it’s all some elaborate fever dream, but the snap of teeth on my shoulder, the dull ache of being stretched so wide I might break, the slick heat of Gabe’s tongue in my mouth, none of it gives an inch to the idea of fantasy.

My ribs creak with every hammering thrust. Xander’s groans start as barely audible rumbles, a storm in his chest, but with every new collision they get harsher, more ragged, until he snarls my name like he wants to wear it down to the marrow.

Gabe guides himself to my mouth, just a hot brand of salt at the tip, and groans as my lips close over him.

He doesn’t even try to be gentle. He growls, not even words, and drives in deep, his hand wrapped around the back of my skull like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

The shock of it, how raw, how immediate, brings tears to my eyes, salt and spit and the drag of his length down my throat. I gag, but he doesn’t let go, not even when my vision stars at the edges.

I flatten my tongue, relax my jaw, and let him use me; I want to be used, to be process and not product, a living instrument for their pleasure. I feel the throb of them in my pussy, my ass, my mouth, all three of them cycling through, working me.

Xander is relentless, and the deeper he pushes, the more my world narrows to the obscene, relentless piston of his hips. A blur that feels like it might actually fuck me apart.

I moan around Gabe’s cock, the sound guttural, frantic, borderline bestial. My jaw aches, I drool down my chin, but the slap and scrape of his cock along my tongue is so satisfying, so right, I want to weep with relief.

Xander is growling now, his nails biting in at my hips. Julian’s hands clench, then slide up my front, keeping me locked in place.

I meet every thrust, greedy for it, uncaring if I rip. The fullness is excruciating and exquisite enough that I don’t care about pain anymore; I want it, I want to be framed by it, to look down at my own body and see the evidence.

Gabe’s cock throbs on my tongue, and from the busted-open sounds he’s making, I know he’s close. I look up at him, eyes rimmed in tears, spit-slicked, and he’s staring back, almost undone by what I’ve become.

I swallow him down harder, daring him, demanding he give in first. He does. His whole body tenses, then shudders, and the hot flood in my mouth is so shocking and intimate I nearly weep. The taste blooms, bitter and oceanic. I drink and let him fuck out the last tremors until he collapses, hands limp, strings cut.

There’s a half-second lull as Gabe shivers with aftershock, but Julian and Xander keep going, keeping me pinned between them, not even pretending to go easy. Xander’s breathing is ragged in my ear, the frame of his body caging me in at the edge of the bed, and I can feel the pulse in his cock ramp up, the stuttered slam of him a perfect counterpoint to the more methodical piston of Julian in front.

It’s pure sensation now: friction, heat, the strain of nerve and muscle and the splitting, the pleasure of being taken, again and again, until language burns away and only the whine of bodies and the blitzkrieg of orgasm matters.