"Exactly," Holmes said, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a man who had just played a winning hand. "I saw the numbers on that scene she did with Sasha. It was a goldmine. I knew then that we had to bring her into the fold, one way or another."
I watched Jess on the mattress. She was still locked in that intense rhythm with Willow, her body a masterpiece of slick skin and straining muscles. The way she was using her hips, the sheer raw athleticism of her grind, made it clear why her channel was blowing up.
"I thought she was strictly independent," I said, my voice low as I watched Jess's fingers dig into Willow's oiled thighs. "You must have backed up a literal truck of Monet's cash to get her to sign on the dotted line."
Holmes let out a short, dry laugh. "Oh, make no mistake, Mr. Hart—she's still as independent as they come. She hasn't signed away her soul."
"Then why the hell is she headlining a set in my studio?"
