Page 101 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

I jolt, a strangled sound escaping me as my body protests and begs in the same breath. My body is overstimulated, every nerve ending still on fire, but Hank doesn’t let up. If anything, he doubles down, his tongue working me with slow, deliberate strokes. He groans against me, and Ifeelit everywhere, the deep, possessive satisfaction in the way he devours every trace of our shared pleasure.

I don’t think I can take more. Don’t think I have anything left to give.

But Hank proves me wrong in the best way. His fingers press deep, his mouth sealing over my clit, and I shatter, a sharp, broken cry escaping as he wrings one last orgasm from my exhausted, overstimulated body.

I come apart beneath him, and he holds me through it, dragging out every last aftershock until I have nothing left but him.

He kisses his way up my body. It feels like he’s memorizing every inch of me. Each press of his lips sends sparks skittering across my skin, lighting up nerves that should be wrung out by now but somehow aren’t.

“Want you, Ivy.” His voice is rough and thick with need. “Want you so damn much.”

I open my mouth to say something—maybe to tease him, maybe to reassure him—but then he’s kissing me, and words don’t matter. I taste myself on his lips, feel the desperation, the devotion.

“Was wrong,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “So fucking wrong.”

His hands are steady as he guides himself into me, sinking in slowly, stretching me all over again. Even after everything—after Holt and Wyatt, after being filled to overflowing—it’s a tight fit. He’s just so damn big.

My body trembles as he presses deeper, bottoming out with a rumbling groan. He stills, letting me adjust, his jaw clenched like he’s barely holding on.

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him in as close as possible. “Hank,” I breathe.

His eyes find mine, wide open and unguarded, and I see everything he’s been holding back—the guilt, the longing, the love.

“Love you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid to say it too loud, like he doesn’t trust that I’ll say it back.

I cup his face, pulling him closer, needing him to know. “I love you too, Hank. I love you so much.”

His whole body shudders, his control snapping like a rubber band pulled too tight. He groans—a deep, primal sound that vibrates through me—and then he moves.

The first thrust steals my breath, the slow drag of him pulling out and surging back in. My body clenches around him, greedy, desperate, and he curses, his arms tightening around me like he can’t get close enough.

Stay with me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Please, Ivy.”

Like I could ever be anywhere else.

I’m right there, on the edge, and his words push me over, send me spiraling into the most intense climax of my life. I cry out, the sound raw and ragged as I shatter around him, my body clenching so tight it drags him under with me. He groans,pressing his face into my neck as he follows, his release spilling deep, his whole body shaking with it.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe, tangled together, his weight solid and grounding on top of me.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, and I feel him smile against my skin.

Then there’s movement, a rustling of fabric, and before I can even process it, Wyatt and Holt are there, wrapping us both in a blanket, wrapping all of us in the warmth of what we’ve just done.

I don’t know how this works, howwework, but I know one thing for damn sure.

This is where I belong.

Chapter 46

Ivy

The thing about knitting is that it’s supposed to be relaxing.Supposed to be.

But let me tell you, there is absolutely nothing relaxing about pinching your fingers between the knitting needles for the seventh time in a row. Nothing Zen about having to unravel half a baby beanie because I somehow managed to add an extra ten stitches out of thin air. And it is certainly not stress-free when three large, lumberjack-grade men come crashing into the cabin like they own the place—because, well, they do.

I look up from my tangled mess of yarn, brow furrowed, as Hank, Wyatt, and Holt stomp their way inside, dragging in the crisp scent of pine, sawdust, and all the hard labor they’ve been up to today.

Wyatt’s grinning like he just won the lottery. Holt looks equal parts amused and exhausted. And Hank—well, Hank is Hank. Gruff, broody, so attractive in that“I could chop wood and fix your car and probably wrestle a bear”kind of way.

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