Page 82 of Shootout Daddies
He nods once, then offers me the folder. I take it carefully, already thumbing through the pages. My eyes track the clauses, the liability language, the enforcement terms. Solid. Cleaner than I expected.
“You could have drafted this yourself,” he says, his voice low, almost amused.
I glance up. “Maybe. But I’m too close to it. If anything ever came up, conflict of interest could get messy. You’re outside of it and you kind of represent them, so I’m hoping you have their best interest at heart. It carries more weight.”
His eyes soften for a fraction of a second, but then the sharpness returns.
“This looks good,” I murmur, flipping another page. “The doctor you suggested is close by, too. That helps.”
He shifts slightly, leaning against the counter as he watches me. “Why didn’t you tell me Chloe wasn’t yours?”
I freeze, fingers tightening on the paper. Slowly, I close the folder and set it on the counter. “I told you it was complicated. And it is. Besides, it isn’t my story to tell. Not entirely.”
“Everything with you is complicated,” he says quietly. “You use that word like it’s your favorite.”
A flicker of irritation sparks in me. “Maybe because it’s the truth. My life is not neat. It isn’t simple. I’m trying to protect people who matter, and sometimes that means ‘complicated’ is the only accurate word.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing slightly. Then he lifts a hand, almost hesitating, before his fingers brush against my temple. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the touch softer than I expect. My breath catches.
“I googled you, you know,” I whisper.
His hand stills. He stiffens. “And?”
“I work in entertainment. I know what PR can do. What it can twist. If there’s anything you want to tell me about your divorce, I’d rather hear it from you than a headline.”
I see his composure slip. His gray eyes shift, sharp and observant, but also haunted. He swallows, his jaw tightening. Then, instead of answering, he pulls me closer and his mouth crashes onto mine.
The kiss steals my balance. I stumble, bracing my hands against his chest, feeling the solid heat under his shirt. His tongue slides against mine, urgent, rough, like he’s been holding back for far too long.
I gasp against his lips, the sound torn from me without thought, and rise onto my toes to meet him. He’s taller, broader, and I strain upward as though the extra inch of height will make his mouth easier to take.
His hands move with purpose, one sliding down the length of my thigh, dragging the fabric of my leggings with it, the other clamping firmly around my waist. The heat of his palm sears through the cotton, grounding me and cornering me all at once.
His gaze flicks downward as our mouths part for breath, and I know the moment he notices the bruises scattered across my chest. Faint shadows of teeth and lips. His thumb lifts brushing over the tender swell of one mark.
A pulse of pain and pleasure collides beneath his touch, making my breath hitch.
“Did I do this,” he mutters against my mouth, the words vibrating across my lips, “or was it them?”
The question is rough, demanding, not at all casual.
“I’m not really sure,” I manage, my voice thin, shaky. The truth is blurred. Hunter’s teeth. Rhett’s mouth. His fingerprints now layered on top of theirs.
Landon presses harder, testing how much sting I can take, then bends his head. His mouth closes over the bruise, hot and wet, sucking until the ache deepens. Then his tongue soothes the spot with a lick.
The sensation shoots down my spine, spiraling heat low in my belly so fast I nearly buckle against him.
“Holy shit,” I moan, my head falling back.
His teeth catch my earlobe next, tugging, teasing, sending another ripple of shivers through me. His voice follows, a gravelly rumble right against the sensitive shell of my ear. “That’s Landon Shaw to you, sweetheart.”
The arrogance in his tone makes my stomach twist. I barely catch my breath before he’s turning me, urging me with firm hands until my palms flatten against the cool counter. My body bends forward instinctively as his chest presses into my back, his presence all-consuming.
Then his hand slides between my thighs, finding the seam of my leggings. He doesn’t fumble. He rips them open, his fingers diving straight into slick heat. I gasp, biting my lip so hard it hurts, because he finds me too easily, too ready.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” I whisper, my voice cracking, ragged with conflict.
“I’ll be fast,” he says roughly, like a vow. He takes off his glasses and places them on the counter.
