Page 47 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
I stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to their quiet breathing and the soft sounds of them settling in for the night. The baby monitor crackled softly in my hand, and I knew I had maybe an hour before one of them would inevitably need water or a bathroom trip or reassurance about a bad dream.
Lauren's words echoed in my head as I pulled out my phone to text him. What I needed was to blow off steam, to talk to someone about Mom's worsening condition. I knew it would ease up enough emotional headspace that I could handle the mounting pressure inside my brain. So I texted Duncan.
Ivy: 8:23 PM: Are you free to talk? Could you come by?
The response came quickly, as if he'd been waiting.
Duncan: 8:25 PM: Everything okay?
Ivy: 8:26 PM: Just need to see you.
Duncan: 8:27 PM: On my way.
I grabbed the baby monitor and crept downstairs. Dad was shut away in his study, and I could hear the low murmur of what sounded like a business call. The house felt too quiet, too full of unspoken tensions and secrets that were getting harder to keep.
Twenty minutes later, I saw headlights turn into the alley behind our house. Duncan parked between the garage and the fence, tucked out of sight from the main street. When I slipped outside, he was already retrieving a thick wool blanket from his trunk.
"Thought we might need this," he said, his voice low in the darkness. "It's getting cold."
We climbed into the backseat of his car, and he spread the blanket over both of us. The space felt intimate and separate from all the chaos inside the house, a bubble where we could exist without the weight of everything else pressing down.
"How was your day?" he asked, settling beside me. His presence was immediately calming—solid and warm and reassuringly real.
"Complicated." I leaned back against the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. "Mom's white blood cell count dropped significantly. They're switching her to a more aggressive chemo protocol."
His hand found mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining automatically. "I'm sorry. That must be terrifying for all of you."
"She wants me to help her shave off what's left of her hair before the new treatment makes it fall out. But I couldn't even go see her today because of this fever I've been fighting." My voice cracked despite my efforts to keep it steady. "And Dad's being so moody lately…"
Duncan's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of my hand. "For what it's worth, you're an incredibly strong woman. I've watched you at the office juggling your schedule while trying to balance life at home. You don't give yourself enough credit, Ivy."
The sincerity in his voice made my chest ache. He was so close I could smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from his body under the shared blanket. In the dim light filteringthrough the car windows, his eyes looked almost black instead of their usual sharp blue.
"Duncan…"
He turned toward me, and suddenly the space between us evaporated. His lips found mine, gentle at first, questioning, then deeper as I responded without hesitation. All the stress and fear of the day melted away as his hands framed my face, his kiss patient and thorough and exactly what I needed.
I let myself sink into him, into this moment where nothing existed except the two of us and the connection that had been building. His mouth moved against mine with a hunger that matched my own, and when his hands slipped under my sweater, I didn't stop him. I needed this—needed him—needed to feel wanted and alive and present instead of constantly afraid of the future.
His hands roamed higher, skimming over the fabric of my bra, and I arched into his touch. The ache between my legs intensified, an aching need I'd been ignoring all day. It had been so long since I'd felt this way, desired this much.
Duncan groaned against my mouth, his hands moving lower to cup my breast, kneading the heavy mound through my shirt. Heat pooled between my thighs, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this alive.
"I kinda want you," I breathed against his lips before claiming them again in a searing kiss. My hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his bare skin against mine.
He kissed me harder, and we fumbled together into the back seat, breath tangled and limbs bumping in the tight space. The leather squeaked under us as I straddled him, my knees braced on either side of his thighs. His jacket was already off. My hands skated over his chest, the warmth of his skin, the hard muscle beneath my fingertips; everything about him was so solid, soreal. I pressed closer, craving more contact, more friction, anything to anchor myself in the way he touched me.
His hands were everywhere—my back, my hips, under my sweater again. I leaned into the pressure, desperate for more. Every inch of me was buzzing, keyed up from a day of pretending I was fine.
“Ivy…” His voice was low, ragged. “We don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” I kissed him again, harder this time. “I need this.”
I reached down, unbuttoned my jeans, and shimmied out of them as best I could in the cramped space. He helped, tugging them past my knees, dragging his hands along my bare thighs as I kicked the denim away. The cool air hit my skin, but I didn’t care. I was already pulsing with heat, already wet. Duncan’s hand slid between my legs, cupping me core, and I gasped.
“God,” he muttered, eyes dark, lips parted. “You’re soaked.” His fingers parted my folds and danced through the moisture.
I grinned against his hand, needing more, needing him. “Don’t tease.”
