Page 198 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

His cock flexes on my tongue, and he hits the back of my throat one last time before he seizes, a growl as he spills himself in me.

I try to swallow, manage most, the rest dripping slick down my chin as he pulls out with a shaking gasp. I’m dizzy, pulse a white noise roar, too far gone for embarrassment, too hungry to care.

Xander’s still pounding me from behind, relentless, and I’m shocked to discover I’m somehow not spent, not even close.

Every few seconds my body shakes with aftershocks, clenching tight around him, and the feral way he mutters my name tells me he’s close, too.

From the floor Julian drags a thumb along my jaw. He wipes the mess from my lips, smears it with obscene tenderness, then leans in and kisses me, tasting himself and tasting me and I think my brain melts when he does it.

He pulls back, still panting, and slides his hands under my arms, lifting me upright so my spine arches and my tits jut forward, flushed and streaked with sweat.

Xander’s cock is still inside me, swollen and angry, and as Julian rises to his feet, he plants a kiss on my shoulder, then kneels to watch Xander wreck me from below, like he can’t look away.

I’m loud, shameless, every word that comes out of my mouth filthier than the last.

“Harder, Xander, fuck me, don’t you fucking dare stop.”

And he doesn’t; it’s like I’m wound on a string, and he’ll snap it if he lets go.

The second ball of pleasure nearly yanks my soul out through my pussy, and I collapse, hands fisting the rug, forehead slammed to the floor.

My vision swims; my hearing goes muffled and poppy like an old VHS tape that’s been recorded over too many times. I’m sobbing, maybe actually screaming, and Xander is relentless, pistoning into me, chasing his own edge now while I shiver and jolt around him.

Julian’s hand cups the back of my neck, anchoring me, thumb tracing gentle circles behind my ear. A weirdly sweet counterpoint to Xander’s deep, brutal pace.

I know I’d melt if Julian weren’t holding me up, my limbs gone to taffy, pulse pounding straight through my skull. Xander’s pace stutters.

When he finally comes, it’s with a spasm so forceful we both crash forward, tangled, sweat-slick, and panting, onto the plush rug.

None of us move, just breathing, limbs twined, my chest pressed between their bodies, skin radiating heat.

I register a small, smug satisfaction at the thought that I don’t have to let them go.

Not quite yet.

THIRTY-SIX

Gabe

Ihaven’t slept well in six days. Because every time I close my eyes, another problem surfaces.

Another article, another video, another headline turning Willow into something consumable.

I’ve spent most of my life learning how to manage everything. Labels. Contracts. Public relations disasters. Addiction spirals. Ego wars. I know how to anticipate damage before it spreads. How to contain it before it becomes fatal.

But this feels different, because it’s not just business anymore, and that changes the math.

My office is dark except for the desk lamp cutting across stacks of papers and open laptops. Streaming analytics crawl across one monitor. Public sentiment tracking across another. Mentions and shares, with incredible engagement spikes.

The numbers are insane.

Objectively, this is working in our favor.

The label name is everywhere now. Redemption Records has gone from industry rumor to unavoidable conversation in less than two weeks.

Artists are reaching out again. Management companies are suddenly “very interested.” Executives who ignored our calls three months ago are pretending they always believed in the move, which should be a victory.

Instead, I might as well be standing in a room that’s burning while everyone congratulates you on how warm it is.