Page 40 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

Holt

Islide into the middle seat just as Hank cranks the engine of his old truck to life, claiming my spot before Wyatt can try. The interior light casts a glow on Ivy's face, her whiskey-brown eyes catching mine. She doesn't hesitate, climbing into my lap with a grin that makes those damn dimples pop.

"Comfy?" I ask, trying for casual. My voice betrays me, sounding rough like gravel.

"Perfect," she says, all soft curves and warmth against me.

I was worried for a minute back there—after she left the dance floor. Wyatt and I weren’t thinking, caught up in old habits, flirting with other women while she was right there, like she didn’t even matter. It wasn’t intentional, didn’t mean anything, but the second she walked away, something in my gut twisted.

She was off during dinner. Not cold, not angry—just…distant. And I don’t like that.

She never talks about what brought her here, but I know running when I see it. I recognize the kind of hurt that leaves someone looking over their shoulder. And I don’t want to be the one to bring her more heartbreak.

But right now? She’s soft, loose-limbed, a little tipsy and full of warmth, pressing into me like she belongs here.

Part of me thinks she does.

Hank pulls onto the road, and the first jolt of the truck sends her hips rolling over my lap, straight into the growing problem in my pants. That dress isn’t helping either—it clings to her like a second skin, leaving little to my imagination. It’s torture, the best kind, and she doesn’t even realize how fucking irresistible she is.

Or maybe she does.

She leans back, her head resting against my shoulder, and I can smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the crisp mountain air coming through the window that’s cracked open. Her voice is low as she sings along to the song on the radio.

I let my hands settle on her hips, trying to anchor myself, but it's a lost cause.

She shifts her hips again.Fuck.

“Careful,” I murmur, voice tight.

She tilts her head, her breath warm against my neck. “Am I distracting you?”

It’s not an innocent question. The little minx knows exactly what she’s doing.

She teases, shifting again, deliberately this time. A laugh bubbles up from her throat, one that says she definitely knows what she's doing.

“Maybe a little.”

The truck rumbles up the winding road, and with every twist, every bump, she presses into me. My control is hanging on by a thread, but she's laughing, carefree.

And God, her body moves in ways that could start a forest fire, even in the dead of winter.

I grip her thighs, fingers flexing against her smooth skin. "Behave," I say, but there's no bite to it. I’m just a man dangling on the edge.

"Or what?" she challenges, the words warm against my neck. She's daring me, and I'm one thread away from unraveling.

"Or we might give Hank a show he didn't sign up for," I reply, keeping my hands firmly in place, though every part of me screams to move them.

She grins up at me, all mischief and moonlight. "Let him look."

She's fire, and I'm drawn in, always in, closer to the flames. My voice drops to a whisper, a teasing lilt to it. "Keep that up, and he'll get more than just a peek."

She laughs, low and husky, and my heart pounds against my ribs.

Hank's grumble barely cuts through the rumble of the truck engine. I catch a flicker in his eyes, a quick dart toward Ivy before he stares straight ahead again.

I let my fingertips wander, tracing invisible lines on Ivy's skin just above her knee. She tilts her head back, catching my eye with a teasing glint.

"Or is that what you want?" The words slip from me like a dare, a challenge to Hank's stoic facade.

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