Chapter 13
Finn stood, stripped down in moments, revealing smooth skin and hard muscle and a cock that was already thick and aching for me. He leaned me forward onto the plush rug beneath the piano bench, lifting my hips, positioning himself behind me.
Asher rose, still fully clothed but unzipping his slacks with quiet purpose.
“I want her mouth,” he said, his voice deeper now, rougher.
I moaned, dazed and needy, as Finn slid into me from behind in one powerful thrust.
“Oh my God—” I gasped, nails digging into the carpet.
“Fuck,” he groaned, rocking deeper. “So tight, Jasmine. So goddamn perfect.”
Asher knelt in front of me, one hand cupping my jaw. “Can you take us both again?” he asked. “Or is that too much for our dollface?”
I looked up at him, eyes wild. “Please.”
His cock brushed my lips and I opened for him, taking him inch by inch as Finn thrust deeper, harder behind me.
The stretch, the fullness, it was overwhelming, and it was everything.
They moved in sync, a rhythm of lust and worship. Asher grunted as he slid into my mouth, careful not to push too deep, one hand stroking my cheek as if to soothe me even while he fucked my mouth.
Finn slammed into me from behind, one hand wrapped around my waist, the other gripping my hair.
“You’re ours tonight,” he growled.
My voice was muffled around Asher, but I moaned, the vibrations making Asher curse under his breath. They were everywhere, hands and mouths and skin and heat.
And when my second orgasm built, it was feral, unstoppable. I clenched around Finn with a broken scream, pulling off Asher as I cried out.
“Fuck, she’s coming,” Finn groaned, hips pounding as he spilled inside me.
Asher cupped himself, stroking hard as he watched us, then came with a hiss, hot ropes of release painting my breasts. I collapsed between them, breathless and spent, every nerve ending humming.
Finn cradled me against his chest, brushing hair from my face. “You okay?”
I nodded, still catching my breath. “I should go,” I whispered eventually, needing space to process everything that had happened.
“Stay,” Finn murmured against my shoulder, but I was already extracting myself from their embrace.
“I just need some air,” I said, grabbing my hoodie and laptop. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
In my dramatic exit from the studio, I managed to forget the one thing that would absolutely destroy my dignity. Again.
My tablet. Still open to the document that basically served as my digital diary of thirst.
Those explicit lyrics I’d written about Liam weren’t just words on a screen—they were a full confession of every filthy fantasy I’d harbored about my boss.
Every late-night thought I’d tried to suppress. Every moment I’d imagined his hands on me instead of those stupid recording console buttons.
The realization hit me halfway home like a freight train of mortification.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I could practically see it playing out: Liam returning to his studio, finding my abandoned device glowing like a beacon of my sexual desperation.
Would he close it like a decent human being? Or would curiosity kill the cat and ruin my entire existence?
The mental image of him reading those words made me simultaneously want to vomit and combust.
I pictured that carefully controlled expression he always wore, the one that gave away absolutely nothing while his brain processed whatever chaos was happening around him.
But what would be happening behind those green eyes? Recognition of his pathetic assistant’s obsession? Pity? Or worse—complete professional shutdown?
The possibility that those lyrics might actually mean something to him sent heat flooding through me even as panic tried to eat me alive.
An hour later, I finally worked up the courage to face whatever fresh hell I’d created. The studio should’ve been empty.
Should’ve been just me, my tablet, and the sweet relief of deleting evidence.
Instead, I walked into my personal nightmare.
Liam sat at the console desk, my tablet in his hands like he’d been studying for finals. The screen was dark now, but his positioning screamed ‘I’ve read every single word of your digital confession.’
The silence was so loaded it could’ve powered the entire building.
I could see it in everything—his posture, the way his eyes tracked me as I entered, the tension radiating from him like heat waves.
He knew. He’d read every raw, desperate word I’d written about him.
My face went nuclear, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I came back for my things.”
Without a word, Liam stood and moved to the door. The soft click of the lock echoed through the space, and my pulse went from zero to sixty in approximately half a second.
When he turned back, his presence filled the room like he owned every molecule of air in it.
“You don’t have to hide what you want from me,” he said, voice low and earnest as he approached. “Not anymore.”
I stared at my hands because looking at him felt like staring directly into the sun. “Those lyrics… they weren’t meant for human consumption.”
“But I consumed them anyway.” He stopped close enough that I could feel his body heat, close enough to make my brain malfunction. “And they came from somewhere real, didn’t they?”
I nodded because the speech was apparently beyond my current capabilities.
“How long?” he asked, voice gentle but insistent. “How long have you been carrying this around?”
“Months,” I admitted, the word barely audible. “Since I started working here, maybe before. I kept telling myself it was just… workplace attraction. Nothing serious.”
The air got thick as Liam closed the distance between us completely.
“I’ve been holding back too,” he confessed, voice rough with something that sounded dangerously like need. “Professional boundaries, respect, all that bullshit. But reading what you wrote…”
“I was terrified,” I interrupted, finally meeting his eyes. “Scared of freaking you out, of nuking everything.”
Something dark and hungry flashed across his face.
“Freaking me out?” His hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb stroking across my skin with devastating gentleness. “Jasmine, you have zero idea what you do to me. What you’ve been doing to me.”
My breath caught as his other hand found my waist, pulling me closer. That carefully maintained professional control I’d watched him wield in every meeting was starting to crack like ice on hot pavement.
“The things you wrote,” he murmured, mouth close enough to my ear that I could feel his breath. “The way you want to be watched, claimed, completely consumed.” His lips brushed the sensitive spot just below my ear. “Do you still want those things?”
The question hung between us like a loaded gun. I could barely function, let alone form coherent sentences, but somehow I managed a whispered, “Yes.”
The word had barely escaped when his mouth found mine, the kiss controlled but burning with enough heat to melt steel.
His hands stayed carefully positioned—face, waist—but I could feel the tension in his entire body, the way he was restraining himself.
When he pulled away, we were both breathing like we’d run marathons.
“Not here,” he said, voice strained. “Not like this.”
“Liam—”
“When it happens,” he interrupted, eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made my knees forget their primary function, “I won’t stop. I won’t be gentle or careful or professional. So if we’re doing this, it has to be right.”
The promise in his words sent heat spiraling through every nerve ending, but also something deeper—the knowledge that he was thinking about my comfort even when his own control was clearly hanging by dental floss.
He kissed me once more, softer but no less devastating, before stepping back toward the console.
“I’m keeping this,” he said, holding up my tablet with those lyrics. “And I might add some composition notes of my own.”
The implication made my entire body flush with heat.
“Go home, Jasmine,” he said gently, though his eyes were still dark with promise. “Get some rest.”
I nodded and moved toward the door on legs that felt like jello.
“And Jasmine?” His voice stopped me at the handle. “Next time you want to tell me something, skip the songwriting. Just tell me.”
