Page 16 of Shootout Daddies
We move at once.
I catch her by the wrist as she straightens, and Rhett curls an arm around her waist, pulling her gently back toward the bed.
She laughs under her breath but doesn’t resist.
“You’re not bothering us,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Last night was…”
“Wild,” she says softly, finishing the sentence for me.
“Yeah,” I say. “But also... really fucking good.”
She bites her lip.
Rhett speaks next, his voice low and steady. “We’d be interested in doing it again. If you’re open to it.”
Ivy pauses. She looks at us like she’s memorizing the moment—the sweat-damp sheets, the warm tangle of bodies, the softness that lingers even after the high has passed.
“I’m only in Miami for the summer,” she says finally. “It can’t be… more.”
Her words aren’t cruel. They’re just honest. And I respect that.
“We’re not asking for more,” I tell her. “No labels. No complications.”
“Not unless you want it,” Rhett adds.
I nod. “Just breakfast. Maybe another round. And then we give you our numbers, and if you’re ever in the mood to do this again… you hit us up.”
She exhales slowly. Then she smiles.
“That’s fair,” she says. “That’s really fair.”
I grin. “So... one more round?”
She laughs again, the sound sweet and scratchy. “You’re insatiable.”
Rhett leans in, mouth brushing her shoulder. “You bring it out of us.”
She slides back into bed with a soft sigh, curling between us. Her fingers trail down my chest, featherlight. Her mouth finds mine—warm and pliant and tasting like morning and sleep and last night.
We start slow. But we don’t stay there.
Because the truth is, I haven’t had anything like this in years. Something unhurried and electric. Something that burns through the haze of booze and lust and feels clean somehow.
Like we could fuck her a hundred times and still not get enough.
Maybe I should be worried about that, I think to myself… but the moment her hand wraps around my cock, all I can think about is her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rhett
“Doyou need anything else before we go?” I ask her quietly, leaning against the bedroom doorframe with one shoulder, watching her brush out the ends of her hair.
She’s in my sweatpants and an old team T-shirt I must’ve left on the dresser last night—one of those soft, worn things from a rookie year promo run.
On her, it looks obscene in the best possible way. Loose but riding up high, brushing the tops of her thighs when she moves.
Her bare feet skim across the hardwood. Her hair—dark, silky, and damp from the quick rinse she took earlier—falls in slow ribbons over her shoulder as she finishes a stroke with the brush.
