Page 112 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

I come again. Harder than before. Violent, all consuming, the kind of climax that makes the world momentarily white out at the edges. My body seizes and pulses, then collapses, spent and quivering, a rag doll in the hands of men who know exactly what they’re doing. I gasp for air, desperate, and blink sweat and tears and the blur of the universe from my eyes.

Julian’s breathing gets weird, fractured, his hands shaking where they grip my hips. He slams forward a few more times, then, with a snarl that’s more animal than man, jerks my whole body onto him, and I feel it: the heat, the pulse, the slick push of his come inside me.

He holds me there, forehead pressed hard between my shoulders, teeth at my skin, the world reduced to the shaking bed and the hurricane of his release.

The burnt sugar smell of it collides with the sweat and blood and everything else, and it feels like the chemical signature of a new life.

He grunts, the sound punched out of him, then goes slack, falling with his full weight against me. The collapse doesn’t stop things. The friction is just different, the sense memory of being filled, gaping, claimed in every way a body can be.

Xander pulls out, just in time to paint me with his come, all up my back.

The hot slick of it lands across my shoulders and spine, a falling star in a fever dream. The way Xander says my name is like a benediction. Guttural and hoarse, all the letters blunted, emptied out.

He stays locked to my skin for a beat longer, forehead braced to my sweaty back, and then he peels away, laugh shuddering in the ruin he’s made.

I don’t know how things escalated quite to that point, but I do know that despite the burning heat shrouding us, I need to be careful.

This is only a bit of fun, after all.

TWENTY

Xander

Ihaven’t written a song in three years.

There have been fragments. Half lines. Chord progressions I never finished. Melodies that showed up at two in the morning and were gone by daylight because I refused to chase them.

I told myself I was done with that part of my life. That I’d said what I needed to say already. That building this place, this label, this studio, was enough.

It was easier to believe that before Willow.

Now everything feels too close to the surface.

I’m in Studio B alone, door shut, lights low. The rest of the house is quiet for once, or silent enough that it doesn’t reach me in here. There’s a guitar across my lap, my notebook open on the table beside me, pen uncapped, coffee gone cold an hour ago.

I haven’t touched it.

I’m staring at the same page I’ve been filling and crossing out for the last forty minutes, and the thing that should concern me is how fast it’s happening.

The thing that actually concerns me is that it doesn’t feel forced.

Something broke open.

The bottle game should’ve been stupid.

It was stupid. A reckless idea from Julian with too much charm and not enough self-preservation, and I should’ve shut it down the second he said it out loud. Gabe should’ve helped me. Instead, he made it worse by being reasonable about it, which is somehow more dangerous than Julian being obvious.

And Willow…

Christ.

Willow sat in the middle of all of it looking because she knew exactly how insane it was and stayed anyway.

My fingers tighten around the neck of the guitar. I force them loose.

That isn’t where this song starts.

That isn’t what it’s about, not really, even if it’s the thing that cracked the door open.