Page 51 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

Hands roam my body, lips trace over my skin, but I can’t feel a thing. I’m pretty sure I’m floating. Holy. Shit.

I am so fucked.

Chapter 24

Hank

Istep into the living room, and there she is again. Ivy. She's all legs and soft curves, wearing nothing but one of my shirts. The fabric clings to her like it's got no right to, sticking to places that make my hands itch to touch her. I swallow hard, trying to focus on anything else.

"Hey, Hank," Wyatt calls out, a knowing smirk on his face. He's sitting too close to her on the couch, and Holt's not far off, grinning like an idiot.

"Morning." My voice comes out rough. I don't stop moving, heading straight for the door. Outside. I need air.

The mountain air hits me cold and sharp, but it does nothing to cool the heat raging through my veins. I can still hear her laugh—light, carefree, like she doesn’t have a single worry in the world. Like she belongs here. But she doesn’t.

She’s temporary. A city girl who’ll never stay. She doesn’t belong in this life, in this town. She’ll never be mine. Not really.

But deep down, I know it’s already too late. For me. For Wyatt. For Holt.

I grip the axe handle tighter, splitting logs with more force than necessary. Thwack. Another piece of wood gives way. Thwack. My muscles strain and flex.

Then it starts—the low, sweet moans drifting through the open window. My whole body locks up, blood surging south in an instant.

I know exactly what they’re doing. They’ve been doing it for weeks now. It’s beenweeksof this torture.

I should walk away, but my feet won’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, caught in some kind of cruel limbo between agony and temptation. The sounds wrap around me and squeeze the breath from my lungs. Ivy, coming apart at the seams, Wyatt and Holt right there to pull her back together.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, slamming the axe down into another log. The wood doesn't stand a chance. Neither do I. I'm breaking, bit by bit, every moan chipping away at my resolve.

My cock twitches, hard and aching, pressing against my zipper. I shove the heel of my hand against it, trying to will it away, but it’s no use. When I’m alone at night, it’s her face I see behind closed eyelids, her body I feel beneath my hands. And each time I give in, gripping myself tight, it’s her name that falls from my lips as I chase that high, only to crash back down into this hell I’m living.

My cock is practically raw from how often I’ve fucked my hand the last couple of weeks.

I’ve never been so goddamn frustrated in my life.

And, with the way they’ve been going at it, I’m scared to leave my damn room, lest I walk in on my every fantasy spread out all over the place. On the couch. On the living room floor. On the goddamn dining room table. They ran out of condoms at some point a couple weeks ago. You think that would have slowed them down. If anything, it’s made them worse.

The only place I haven’t found them is outside—because it’s too cold—and in my bed—because I would commit fucking murder if they dared.

I wait until there’s nothing but silence. Until I know they’re tucked away for the night. All three of them in one bed, of course.

I also know they’ll wake up and start fucking at least once before morning.

But, now is my best chance. I slip through the shadows of the cabin, my feet silent on the worn wooden floor.

The air is cool against my skin, a sharp contrast with the fire that's been burning in my veins all day. I need something to quench it, even if it's just for a moment.

The fridge hums as I pull it open, grabbing a cold beer. The light spills out, casting a soft glow across the room. And that’s when I see her.

Ivy.

She’s curled up on the bench by the window, knees pulled to her chest, staring into the night.

I pause, the bottle half-raised to my lips. She looks different like this. Smaller somehow. Fragile. The city girl bravado is gone, stripped away by the shadows.

Why does that twist my insides more than any of her flirtatious glances?

Then I hear it.

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