Page 68 of Shootout Daddies
Hunter growls low in her ear, coaxing her through it, murmuring praise against her damp skin while his other hand keeps teasing her breasts.
I can’t stop touching her, can’t stop tasting her, dragging my teeth along her swollen lip while she gasps for air. Her skin is glowing, slick with sweat, her whole body trembling under the intensity of our focus.
We’re so caught up in her—lavishing attention on every inch of her, chasing her moans like addicts—that the sound of the door opening barely registers at first.
It’s only when cool air hits the back of my neck that I stiffen and turn.
Landon.
Standing in the doorway.
Holding two plastic bags that smell distinctly like Thai takeout.
“Oh, shit,” I breathe, jerking back a step.
Hunter reacts faster, diving for the throw blanket draped over the couch and yanking it across Ivy’s bare body. She’s panting, wide-eyed, hair a wreck around her face, but the blush that burns across her skin is immediate.
My jeans hang open, my cock still half out, and I yank them up, fumbling to zip while dragging a hand through my hair in frustration.
Landon’s face is unreadable, his jaw tight. His voice is even, though, which somehow makes it worse. “The food was delivered to my door instead of yours.”
He steps forward, sets the bags on the entryway table, and glances once—just once—toward the couch where Ivy is half-hidden under the throw.
Then his eyes flick to me. Then Hunter. And then back again.
“I knocked and the door was unlocked. Shit. I apologize for intruding,” he says flatly. “I’ll let you… get back to it.”
Before either of us can respond, he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut with finality.
For a beat, the room is silent except for Ivy’s ragged breathing and the hammer of my own pulse.
When I turn back, Hunter’s staring at me, his expression equal parts shock and something else—something raw and heated. Ivy’s wide eyes dart between us, panic and arousal still warring across her face.
“You didn’t lock the door?” Hunter finally asks, voice low.
I drag a hand down my face, groaning. “Fuck.”
And that’s all I can manage. Because the reality of what just happened—of who just saw us—is still settling in, heavy and dangerous and laced with a heat I can’t shake.
Chloe’s cry slices through the air like a blade, high and urgent, echoing down the hall before either of us can say another word.
I flinch. Hunter groans softly, dragging both hands through his hair, his body still tense from the near disaster with Landon. Ivy’s cheeks are scarlet, her chest rising and falling beneath the blanket.
But Chloe’s wail makes her scramble upright, panic etched across her face.
“I’ve got her,” I say quickly, pushing off the wall. My jeans are still half unbuttoned, but I don’t care.
I head for the bathroom, crank the faucet, and scrub my hands with soap and hot water until they sting. By the time I step into Chloe’s room, she’s standing in her crib, fists balled, tears streaking down her cheeks.
“Hey, Chloe,” I murmur, scooping her up and settling her against my chest. “I know. I know. Bad timing, huh?”
She hiccups around a sob, her tiny fingers grabbing my chain, and I sway with her until the cries taper into little whimpers. I kiss the top of her soft hair, breathing her in, letting the steady rhythm of soothing her pull me back into focus. Whatever storm just hit us, this is what matters—her, safe in my arms.
When I return to the living room, the scene has shifted. Ivy’s in a robe, cinched tight around her waist, damp hair pushed back from her flushed face. Hunter’s tugged on a pair of joggers and thrown his shirt over the back of the couch.
The throw blanket is folded neatly, like they’ve both tried to erase what just happened.
Ivy’s perched on the sofa with her knees tucked under her, chewing on her lip. Hunter is plating the food, the smell of basil and spice filling the air.
