Page 195 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“He wanted attention. He got it.”

“And if he didn’t?”

Xander looks at me, then. Those ice blue eyes are exhausted and full of things he clearly never says out loud. “It’s easier to hate him than admit I miss him.”

The confession lands heavily between us.

I don’t know what to say to make any of this better.

I don’t think there is anything.

Instead, I do the only thing that feels honest.

I move closer.

My hand slides up into his hair, fingers brushing softly through the longer strands on top.

Xander’s gaze drags over my face before dropping to my mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hand slides along my thigh.

Xander makes a rough sound in his throat before pulling me into his lap.

I gasp softly as his mouth crashes against mine. Needy in a way Xander almost never lets himself be.

His hands grip my waist hard enough to make my pulse jump while I kiss him back, fingers tangling into his hair.

Everything about him feels intense.

My hips rock against him, greedy, already lost to the friction building through the fabric.

He’s so hard beneath me I can feel it even with both of us fully dressed, his arousal blatant and insistent.

Xander kisses as he lives: unapologetically, with every edge and every hungry tenderness mapped directly onto my body. I barely remember to breathe.

His tongue is in my mouth, and his hands are on my ass, and I want to wrap myself around him like a vine.

“Xander,” I gasp, trying to catch up with what’s happening, but he’s already palming my breast, thumb flicking roughly over my nipple through the shirt until it beads tight and aching.

I moan, arching into him, my body embarrassingly eager, all boundaries eaten away by the raw heat in his hands. He’s muttering against my lips, words I can’t make out but from the way he grips my hips, the way he holds me, it’s like he can’t get close enough.

I clench my thighs tighter around him, desperate, dizzy with the intensity.

He tugs my shirt up, raking blunt nails over my ribs. He yanks the hem over my head without ceremony, and goosebumps sweep down my arms.

I’m not wearing a bra, never do for bed, and the way his eyes go dark at the sight of me makes my toes curl.

He runs his thumb over my nipple again, then he bites, just to see me jerk and hiss. I clutch his head to my chest, shoving his mouth harder against my skin.

Some animal part of me wanting to mark him, wanting to be marked.

“Fuck, Willow,” he rasps, the words cracking at the edges. He nips my shoulder, my collarbone, the hollow where my pulse hammers. “You’re so fucking soft.”

His hands slide down, callused palms spanning my hips, my thighs, dragging me down against him.

Words dissolve. The music from somewhere else in the house goes warped and underwater, replaced by the gasping gulp of my own breathing and the frantic, wet sound of his mouth exploring my skin.

He lifts me up and turns, planting me brutally on the mixing desk, the cool metal and plastic biting into my bare ass as he steps in, pressing his hips hard between my open thighs.