Page 49 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

But Ivy keeps playing the game. She’s playing with him, teasing him, breaking down those walls little by little. The oversized shirts, the way she leans into him, the casual, unbothered intimacy she gives so freely—it’s all working. Hank won’t hold out forever.

It’s only a matter of time.

Chapter 23

Ivy

Holt and Wyatt have been insatiable. And, honestly? So have I.

There’s not much else to do up here. No internet, no cable, just a handful of paperbacks I picked up in town. And as much as I love a good reread, even I have my limits. After the third time through, the words start to blur, I already know what the ending is, and I find myself closing the book in frustration.

So, sex. And blowjobs. And more sex.

We've been going at it like wildfire consuming dry brush—fast, hot, unstoppable. My body hums, alive with each touch, each kiss. It's all-consuming, this hunger, not just mine but theirs, too.

It’s become our favorite pastime, a way to chase away the boredom, to pass the time until the snow finally lets up. But it’s more than that now. It’s not just about keeping warm or killing time. It’s about pushing boundaries, testing limits, and right now, we’re all focused on one particular limit—Hank.

Holt and Wyatt have come to an unspoken agreement, and I’m right there with them. We’re going to do everything in our power to make him break.

And if that means fucking in full view of him, so be it.

Like right now. I’m spread out on the floor by the wood-burning stove, legs spread, Wyatt’s face buried in my pussy.

Wyatt's tongue is relentless, tracing patterns of fire across my sensitized skin.

I moan and arch into Wyatt's mouth. He's a master at this, as he is with everything else that has to do with sex. His tongue flicks and strokes against me, and I know I won’t last much longer. My thoughts are scattered, lost in the haze of pleasure.

Holt's heated gaze burns into me, never leaving where Wyatt’s tongue is circling my clit. I watch him, his hand moving along his length, lips parted, breath hitching with each stroke.

He reaches into his pockets, the sound of fabric rustling briefly cutting through the haze of desire.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath and then bolts from the room.

From somewhere down the hallway, his frustration echoes with his shout of, "FUCK!" The walls seem to shudder with it.

Wyatt hesitates, his lips leaving me cold for a split second before he dives back in, doubling his efforts. I can't think, can't focus on anything but the sensation swirling in my core.

Another shout, louder, edged with urgency. "Fuck!"

Wyatt doesn't stop—he can’t, not when I'm this close, not when every flick of his tongue sends sparks dancing behind my closed eyelids.

"Keep going," I pant, reaching for Wyatt, urging him closer. His hands grip my thighs, fingers pressing deep, anchoring me to the present as everything else falls away.

Holt's heavy steps thunder back into the room, his face a mix of anger and desperation. He stands there, chest heaving, cock still out, eyes darting between Wyatt and me.

"Condoms," he gasps out, "none in my room, none in Wyatt's. We didn't get more... we didn’t…shit."

He looks at my pussy with a desperate wanting, his face crumpling with frustration as he runs his hands through his hair.

Wyatt’s grip tightens, and when he looks up at Holt, there’s a silent exchange—one heavy with frustration and something else.

I force myself to take a breath, the pulsing need momentarily forgotten.

“None?” Wyatt is incredulous.

“Fucking none,” Holt grits out. “I’d raid Hank’s room, but I doubt Captain Celibate has any.”

Silence settles between us, thick and weighted.

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