Page 167 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“I can’t feel my legs,” I admit. “I think I might need medical intervention.”

She grins, more predatory than amused, and her eyes flick to the back seat.

Neither of us moves, tension stretching taut enough to snap, but then she’s climbing over the console, boots scrambling gracelessly, ass arched in the air.

I follow, nearly upending myself, tumbling after her into the cramped shadowed space behind.

We land in a tangle, breathless and laughing. She’s on top of me, hair wild, pupils blown wide.

“We’re about to do the logistical world’s worst,” she says, “but I want you so bad right now. Is that deranged?”

“If it is,” I whisper, “lock me up.”

She kisses me again, and I lose any hope of dignity.

My hands settle on her hips. She’s so fucking soft and curvy, and I’m desperate to taste more skin.

She must feel the shake in my grip because she pulls my hands up, pinning my wrists to the glass as if she’s arresting me right here in the back seat. She leans in, nosing a line from my jaw to the hinge of my neck, then bites hard enough to mean it.

The pain is a lightning bolt. The pleasure underneath is an aftershock.

I drag in a breath. “Jeez, Willow.”

She’s already undoing my jeans. The zipper’s halfway down before it even registers, her hands warm and practiced, unembarrassed by the space or the fact that we’re out of sight, but not completely away from risk.

The risk makes it hotter, somehow.

I reach down and anchor my fingers in her hair, half to steady myself, half to see if she’ll let me. She tilts her head into my palm, the world’s wildest animal, and resumes her feverish exploration of my throat, collarbone, every patch of skin she can reach.

Her hand slips under my waistband, and I shudder, nearly biting through my tongue.

I want to say her name again but my jaw won’t cooperate, all the blood in my body pooling south in a way that’s both humiliating and holy.

She lets go of my wrists, and I clutch at her waist.

There’s nothing pretty about how I touch her, how I pull her down, how I mumble desperate curses while she laughs and wriggles her hand into my boxers.

The first brush of her palm is electric. My cock twitches under her touch, and I’m not sure my nervous system can keep up.

Willow works me with just enough pressure to make me see stars, her other hand braced on my chest, pinning me back against the seat.

For a fleeting, perfect second, I imagine this is every morning for the rest of my life. Willow’s hair falling in my face, her hands greedy, the whole world reduced to the damp ozone of her breath and the static surge of her skin on mine.

I try to talk, and my voice comes out a needy rasp. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me.”

“That’s the dream, sweetheart,” she says, and nips my earlobe to prove she means it.

She’s beautiful when she’s mean. Beautiful when she’s anything.

My pants are open, my boxers yanked down, and my cock is hard and leaking against her fist. I squeeze my eyes shut, just to feel everything at once, her knuckles tight, my body even tighter.

Then Willow’s mouth is on mine again, wild and biting. She’s not content to just make out with me; she’s devouring me, leaving a constellation of bruises and wet, shivering skin in her wake.

Every grind of her hips is a revelation. She rides down into my lap, using the leverage of the narrow seat, and I’m aware of hands, heat, the overwhelming Willowness of her. Her laughter, her teeth, her unapologetic greed.

My cock aches for her, exposed and dripping. I’m desperate enough that when she strips her own shorts down, squirming until she’s bare assed in my lap, I nearly lose it right there.

She pins me with her hands at my shoulders and sinks down.