Page 8 of Shootout Daddies
“Yes,” I whisper.
Rhett doesn’t waste a second. His hand slides higher up my thigh, fingers firm, callused, dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch is rough in a way that makes my breath catch—like he doesn’t just want to feel me, he wants to leave an imprint. A memory.
His palm rests just beneath the hem of my dress, the tips of his fingers barely brushing where I’m already warm. His knuckles graze the softest part of me. Not quite a touch. More like a promise.
My legs shift, parting slightly on instinct.
He pulls me to the edge of my seat. A low sound escapes me—a whimper I don’t mean to make. It fills the quiet car like smoke, curling in the space between us. Rhett’s eyes darken. His jaw clenches.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, and I swear I feel the word against my skin.
Then Hunter moves.
One arm hooks behind the passenger seat and the other lifts, his hand cradling my jaw like he’s done it a hundred times. Gentle and sure. His thumb skims the corner of my mouth, and I don’t realize I’m leaning toward him until I’m already halfway there.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod. My throat’s too dry to speak.
Hunter leans in. Not fast. Not greedy. Just close enough that I can smell the faint trace of his cologne— bergamot, something sharp and clean that makes my head swim.
His lips brush mine. Soft at first. Just a taste.
He pulls back a breath, watching me.
I chase it.
Our mouths meet again—deeper this time. My hand fists his shirt, dragging him closer as his tongue slides against mine, slow and hot and claiming. He kisses me like he has nowhere else to be. Like this was always going to happen.
Like he already knows exactly how I like it.
Rhett’s hand never leaves my thigh, but his mouth is near my ear now, breath hot as he murmurs, “You look so fucking good kissing him.”
Hunter pulls back just enough to let me breathe, his forehead resting against mine, his thumb stroking my cheek.
“Ivy,” he says, and my name sounds different in his mouth.
“I want this,” I whisper.
Rhett’s lips brush my shoulder, his voice lower than a growl. “Then you’ve got us.”
I melt between them.
It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like this—wanted without hesitation, without fear.
And tonight?
I don’t want to be careful. I don’t want to behave.
I want to be theirs.
CHAPTER THREE
Rhett
The drivethrough the neighborhood is quiet except for the low hum of Hunter’s playlist, some vibey synth-pop that throbs under the silence.
Ivy sits in the backseat, legs crossed, the curve of her calves catching light each time we pass another streetlamp.
