Page 25 of Shootout Daddies
It was better than that.
It was hours of her beneath us. Her voice hoarse from moaning, body slick and eager. Her laughter echoing in the hallway as Rhett lifted her up, her fingers tangled in my hair. Her lips on both of us. Her hand closing around me. Her mouth wet and hungry.
It was the kind of night you replay when you’re supposed to be doing anything else. When you’re on the ice, or in a meeting, or trying to sleep.
“I like that you’re staying over,” Rhett says behind her, his voice still raspy from sleep.
He sounds like he means it.
“Sleep,” he adds. “We’ve got practice in the morning.”
“Oh, right.” She groans, burying her face in my chest. “I’m taking Storm to Brooke’s. I’ll keep him there during the day and bring him back tonight. If that’s okay.”
“That’s more than okay,” I murmur, kissing the top of her head.
Rhett hums in agreement.
There’s a stretch of quiet. Ivy’s breathing slows but doesn’t fully settle. She’s not drifting. I know the difference.
“I can’t sleep,” she says after a minute.
That little grin in her voice is the only warning we get.
I don’t move. But I feel Rhett shift. I feel the electricity crackle between the three of us again—hot and waiting.
I look down at her.
She’s got that look again. Playful. Curious. A little wicked.
“Well, then,” I say, sliding my hand down beneath the sheet. “I guess we’ll have to fix that.”
She giggles softly. And when Rhett groans behind her, curling his fingers around her thigh, I know we’re not sleeping for a while.
And honestly?
I could get used to this.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Landon
My officestill smells like citrus oil from the last cleaning. Polished walnut desk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Chicago skyline, an espresso machine I never use—it’s all supposed to impress clients. Right now, it just feels sterile.
I’m halfway through reviewing a merger contract for a client in San Diego when Leah, my assistant, taps lightly on the glass wall and pokes her head in.
“You’ve been called upstairs,” she says, her voice careful. “Upstairs” never means anything casual. Especially not on a Tuesday.
“Did they say what it’s about?” I ask, setting down my pen.
“Just that Mr. Halpern wants to see you. ASAP.”
My pulse ticks once. Then again.
I glance at my reflection in the glass—gray suit, tie still tight, no breakfast on my shirt. Good enough. “Thanks, Leah.”
She nods and disappears.
I stand, smoothing the front of my jacket. The walk to the executive floor always feels longer than it is. That sterile quiet—the hum of silent wealth—echoes around me as I make my way to the corner office that houses the big man himself.
