Page 166 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

I smile faintly. “Deflection’s a survival skill.”

“Mm.”

She doesn’t look away.

Neither do I.

I can hear traffic somewhere farther down Main Street. Music drifting faintly from Tommy Bennett’s bar. The buzz of the diner’s neon sign overhead.

And underneath all of it…

Her breathing.

Mine.

“Willow,” I say softly.

Her breath catches.

There it is. That shift.

The exact moment both of us realize this stopped being harmless a while ago.

She moves first.

My hand comes up, fingers sliding along her jaw, and the second my thumb brushes her cheek she leans into it.

Fuck.

I kiss her before I can talk myself out of it.

Her mouth is warm and surprised and immediately kissing me back hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs.

The sound she makes when I pull her closer nearly ruins me.

She’s climbing into my lap before I can even blink, and she kisses me with a hunger that’s been festering in both of us since I climbed into this car to help her.

We’re all teeth and lips, frantic. But we don’t stop. I grip her waist, breathe her in, and let the world fall away.

Her hands are everywhere: sliding up my shirt, threading through my hair, scraping her nails against the nape of my neck. I groan into her mouth because it feels less polite than screaming.

She tastes of sugar and salt, of the last fry in the bag, and I want to eat her alive.

The van is filling up with heat, sweat, static. My heart’s rattling so loud in my chest I’m convinced she can hear it.

Willow’s laugh breaks between kisses, hot and shaky, and when she grinds against me, fuck, damn, holy hell, my cock is throbbing against my zipper.

She presses down against me again, making a triumphant noise. “Oh shit, is this a gun in your pocket, or are you just displacing your feelings?”

“Both,” I say, and it comes out strangled.

Outside, someone starts up a leaf blower, and it sounds distant, muffled by the condensation clouding on every window.

Willow’s hands have pushed up under my shirt, knuckles grazing the edge of my ribs.

I try to get her closer, to pull her into every hollow in my body, but the center console gets in the way, her knee banging into it with a thunk.

She laughs, breathless, and slides a hand down. “You wanna, uh, move this to the back seat, or are you about to have an aneurysm?”