Page 87 of Claimed By 3 Mountain Men

“JT, you son of a bitch,” Ben growls, his fist clenching and unclenching. "Are you taking notes?”

I snort. “Sure, and tomorrow we can compare them.”

Despite my brave words, I’m jealous. The look on Mac’s face as she orgasms, eyes squeezing shut, her mouth forming a perfect O is enough to drive me crazy.

“Fuck, look at them,” Ben says, his voice thick with arousal.

“I know,” I say, my voice sounding as strangled as I feel.

I want nothing more than to have her pinned beneath me, my cock buried deep inside her, and hear her moans inmyear, not JT’s.

“We’re missing out, man,” Ben says, his voice laced with longing.

“I know,” I growl again, gripping my cock through my jeans. “Come on.” I’m unable to take it anymore. Ben and I head to the kitchen, and opt to crack open a beer. When she gets back, I’m going to be sure to make it clear, it’s not fair to tease either of us when we can’t do anything. It’s downright wicked.

After a few minutes, the heat is starting to dissipate through the room; when my walkie-talkie beeps on the coffee table, both of our heads whip up.

“Guys, we got eyes on what appears to be poachers,” JT’s voice breaks over the speaker. “We’re following them; one of you, stay on the camera, and the other, secure the property.”

Ben and I look at one another.

“I’ll stay on the cameras,” he says, his voice low but determined. “You head out, make sure everything’s locked down.”

I nod, grabbing my jacket from the chair, my heart already pounding in my chest. The adrenaline’s kicking in, the kind that makes your senses sharper, and makes every movement feel more precise. We’ve been waiting for this moment, but now that it’s here, it feels like the ground is shifting beneath our feet.

I strap the walkie-talkie and my knife to my belt and head for the door, my boots tread heavy on the wooden floor. As I reachthe porch, the cold night air slaps me in the face, and I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head. The woods are dark, but that only gives me the advantage.

JT and Mac are out there with the poachers. That thought settles like a rock in my gut, the realization that they’re walking straight into danger makes my skin crawl. I trust JT to handle himself—hell, I trust Mac, too—but the stakes are much higher now.

I don’t know how I’ll react if I lose her.

The trees close in around me, the familiar sounds of the forest now laced with something else—something that feels like danger lurking just out of sight. The wind picks up, rustling the branches overhead, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched.

As I secure the gates, checking the locks on the perimeter, JT’s voice comes through again, quieter this time. “We’re moving toward the northwest ridge.”

When I reach the edge of the clearing, I stop, listening for any signs of movement. The woods are quiet now, too quiet. The feeling of being watched creeps up my spine again. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s nothing there. Just shadows and the cold, biting wind.

I reach for the walkie again, ready to check in with Ben, but before I can press the button, there’s a sound—something off in the distance. Footsteps. Not JT’s, not Mac’s. Too heavy. Too deliberate.

Poachers.

My pulse quickens, and I crouch low, moving towards the sound, my hand instinctively goes to the knife strapped to my belt. I stay close to the trees, the darkness hiding my movements as I inch to the source of the noise. They’re moving towards the lodge.

I can’t let them get there.

The footsteps grow louder, and I know I’m running out of time. I press the button on the walkie, my voice barely above a whisper. “Ben, we’ve got movement. Poachers heading towards the lodge. I’m going to intercept.”

There’s a brief crackle, and then Ben’s voice comes through, tense but focused. “Copy that. Stay low.”

I move quickly now, keeping to the shadows as I follow the trail of footsteps through the trees. My heart pounds in my ears, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, but I keep moving, knowing I’m getting closer.

And then, through the darkness, I see them. Three figures, dressed in dark clothes, rifles slung over their shoulders, moving with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing they’re not supposed to be here—but not caring.

I grit my teeth, my hand tightening around the handle of my knife. I’ve got to stop them before they get any closer.

The hunt’s on. And I’m not letting them win.

I feel a hand press down on my shoulder, immediately my instincts take over.

---