Page 7 of Shootout Daddies
“Is this a Florida thing?” I tease.
He chuckles, voice low and gravel-edged. “Nah. This is a you thing.”
We glide through traffic, the city slipping past in streaks of gold and red. When we hit a red light, Rhett turns fully in his seat, his arm draped casually over the console as he angles his body toward me.
“Can I ask something?”
“Sure.”
His gaze holds mine—curious, but not invasive. “Are you okay with this?”
“This?”
“Letting two guys flirt with you at once.”
Something tightens low in my belly. My skin hums, aware of every inch of space between us.
“I don’t mind it,” I say honestly.
Hunter glances over his shoulder, flashing that lopsided grin. “Has it happened before?”
I open my mouth. Pause. My throat goes dry. “I’ve never— I’ve never been with more than one person.”
“At once?” Rhett’s voice dips, rich and slow.
“At all,” I admit, barely audible. “I thought I was very traditional. The closest I’ve come to out of the norm is kissinga girl during a college dare. And that barely counts. There was tequila involved. And glitter. But I’m finding that I don’t mind this…”
Hunter lets out a low whistle. “We’re definitely gonna need the full story on that sometime.”
Rhett doesn’t laugh. He just watches me. Then his hand reaches back—warm and steady—and lands on my knee.
“We don’t mind sharing, Ivy,” he says, voice soft but firm. “That’s kind of our thing, but only if you want this. You set the pace.”
Hunter nods, his tone light but sincere. “We’re excellent teachers.”
My breath catches when Rhett’s fingertips start to move—barely there, drawing slow, teasing circles just above the crease of my knee. His touch isn’t pushy.
It’s careful. Patient. Like he’s waiting for permission that my body is already screaming to give.
My pulse thrums.
“I feel like I’m already in class,” I murmur, leaning back slightly, the heat in my cheeks mirrored between my thighs.
Hunter makes a sharp turn, pulling onto a quieter street lined with palm trees and high-end condos.
“Forget the salsa club,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“The penthouse.” He says it so casually, like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been the plan. “Unless you’d rather keep pretending you’re not dying for this.”
I glance between them.
Hunter’s jaw is tight. His eyes on me in the mirror are dark now—no more jokes.
Rhett’s hand is still on my thigh, a pressure that anchors me in the moment.
The way they look at me—it’s not greedy. It’s reverent. Like I’m already theirs and they’re just waiting for me to say yes.
