Page 201 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

My pulse kicks harder.

Because this is what she does without even realizing it. She cuts through noise, straight to instinct.

“You know,” I say carefully, “I might know someone.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It usually is.”

She laughs softly.

I continue before I can overthink it. “Friend of mine hosts one of the biggest music podcasts in the country.”

Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“And he’d have you on?”

“He’d tear us apart publicly for an hour first,” I correct. “Then he’d have us on.”

“That sounds less fun.”

“It would get attention.”

I close the notebook. Stand up. Cross the distance between us before I’ve made any conscious decision to do so and kiss her.

She sways into the kiss as I slide her up against the wall, fingers trapping her jaw, her pulse hammering beneath my palm.

She tastes of mint. She tastes of exhaustion and hunger.

“I could get used to this,” she murmurs, lips ghosting my chin.

“What? Me being brilliant and innovative?”

She laughs, head thunking gently against the drywall. “I was going to say you kissing me at one a.m. But sure. Let’s go with yours.”

It’s safer to keep her laughing, safer to keep everything on the surface. But before I can muster another retort, she yanks me closer and kisses me again.

Before I can catch my breath, she’s already kneeling, drawing anticipation down both our spines.

She’s barefoot and so small in that hoodie, hair messy and skin flushed. She looks up at me with pupils blown out and already, already, the way she’s breathing makes me want to consume her whole.

She sits back on her heels, reaching up for the waistband of my joggers, not breaking my gaze as she slides both hands underneath and tugs me out.

The first brush of her palm is hot, unhesitating. She gives an experimental stroke, then another. Testing the weight of me, learning how to make me twitch just to see it happen. I brace one hand hard on the edge of my desk and force myself to watch her, to let her set the pace.

She gives me an exploratory lick, tongue flat and pointed, dragging from base to tip.

Sometimes she plays shy, but when she wants to, Willow is a fucking menace and she knows it. I can see her deciding to go for it, emboldened by the dare.

The next swipe is firmer and wetter. She circles her lips around the head and slides down, deep enough that I feel the catch, the precision of her wanting.

Her tongue works me expertly, playfully, a hot coil of pressure that stutters my breath and knocks logic out of my head. She moans a little, and the vibration nearly takes my knees out.

“Fuck, Willow,” I manage, almost embarrassed how quickly she’s unraveling me.

She smiles around me, lets spit slacken out over her fist, and strokes with purpose now, heat building between us, obscene in how good it feels and how she refuses to break eye contact.