Page 59 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

Liam settles in beside me with popcorn, and Ty shares the nachos.

“These are fantastic,” I tell Gage after sampling his gourmet specialty. “Thank you.”

He lights up like he made me a four-course meal, so Liam throws a handful of popcorn at him.

About forty-five minutes later, the room is filled with us all howling at Meg Ryan’s fake orgasm when Wells walks in.

His eyes skate over us as he stands in the doorway. “What the fuck are you all doing? I told you she needs to train today.”

That pisses me off, but Ty clutches my arm and speaks before I can. “She needs another day.”

Wells looks at me, concern mixed with vexation. “What’s going on?”

“Period party,” Gage chirps, which causes Liam to convulse with laughter beside me while Ty and I do our best to stay composed.

“For all of you?” Wells snaps.

“Moral support.” Gage nods, biting into his banana bread.

Liam smirks. “Making sure everything comes out okay, Chief.”

That’s it. Ty and I burst out cackling.

Wells shakes his head. “Jesus Christ.”

He swipes his hand through his hair and disappears, leaving me to get my fill of junk food, cheesy romance, and men who are starting to feel like family.

WELLS

After the movie day with the guys, Ivy agreed to begin training. We kept it light that first day. She’s a runner, so we had her run five miles, swim several laps—because September has been unseasonably hot and we’ve yet to drain the pool—and started her at the shooting range.

The guys assure me she’s a natural shot, so that’s encouraging. I haven’t witnessed it myself, deciding to hang back for now. The incident at La Lune Noire complicated everything.

For years, there have been two primary groups after Ivy—those who want her safe and well and capable of assuming her elite position, and those who want to prevent that from happening. The latter has hired team after team to find her, and we’ve always been a step ahead, eliminating them whenever possible. But a hit listed on the dark web could have any hit man in the country after her. That’s a far greater challenge.

With so much going on, I don’t trust myself around her right now. I need a clear head, and she gives me anything but.

Today, they pushed her a little harder, so I’m sure she’s sore. She shut herself in her room about an hour ago, no doubt seeking solace in a hot shower.

The thought of the water cascading down her aching muscles, hands grazing over her bare curves, has my cock twitching.

Precisely why I’ve been distancing myself.

And jerking off constantly like a teenage boy.

The guys, whose rooms are all upstairs, have disappeared. So, I find myself alone, in my office, two doors from hers. My bedroom is in between—the proximity was intentional, but maybe a mistake. I should be working, but she has my head completely fucked up. So, I’m sucking on a grape Tootsie Pop, centering myself with a moody chamber music mix, and daydreaming. About all things Ivy.

Her delicious scent that envelops me like a balmy blanket in a raspberry field.

Hungry blue eyes searching mine.

Pouty, pleading lips.

Hot and wet and eager.

A knock startles me into opening my eyes.

“Hey there,” she says, gripping the molding and swinging herself into the office. “I thought … I haven’t seen you much, and I wanted to check in.” She’s so soft right now. Hair wet, face clean, feet bare, wearing my T-shirt from New Orleans, tied in a knot at her naked stomach, and tiny cotton shorts.

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