3. Rhett
CHAPTER THREE
Rhett
The drive through the neighborhood is quiet except for the low hum of Hunter’s playlist, some vibey synth-pop that throbs under the silence.
Ivy sits in the backseat, legs crossed, the curve of her calves catching light each time we pass another streetlamp.
Her heels are ridiculous—strappy, metallic, the kind that shouldn’t be able to support a full-grown woman and yet somehow make her walk like sin. Her dress, a slinky wrap of midnight blue, rides high enough that when she shifts, I see a glimpse of smooth thigh I want to press my mouth against.
Hunter’s focused on the road. I’m focused on her.
Her dark brown hair is glossy and loose now, brushed back behind one ear. She smells like blackcurrant and jasmine and something sharper—something crisp, feminine, and dangerous.
The kind of scent that lingers after she leaves a room and haunts you in your sheets. It curls toward me like a dare.
I can’t stop looking at her. Deep blue eyes, pink mouth parted slightly like she’s trying to slow her breathing. She’s trying to play it cool, but I’ve seen that fidget before—the nervous twirl of her fingers on the hem of her dress. She’s jittery. A live wire.
She wants this. She’s just scared of how much.
We pull into the private garage beneath the building—one of those luxury towers right near the beach, where the ocean kisses the city skyline. Our key fob pings the sensor, the gate lifting to reveal concrete lit in warm gold and nothing but expensive quiet.
No barking dogs. No street kids. No chaos. Just security, palms, and money.
Hunter parks in our reserved spot. He gets out and circles to the trunk for our bags. I swing open the rear door and offer Ivy my hand.
She hesitates, like it might shock her. Then she slides her palm into mine.
Her skin is warm. Damp from nerves. I don’t let go.
The ride up in the elevator is silent, except for the soft shuffle of her heels on the tile. She stands between us, arms crossed like a barrier she doesn’t actually want to maintain. Her eyes flit between the brushed metal walls and the tiny screen above the door, counting floors.
“You okay?” I murmur.
She nods, but I feel the tremble in her fingers where they rest against mine.
“Whose place is this?” she finally asks. Her voice is low. Careful.
I squeeze her hand gently. “Ours. We share the penthouse. Hunter and me.”
Her eyes widen just slightly. “You live together?”
“For the last two years.”
“Seriously?”
I shrug. “It’s easier. We travel a lot. It’s a we-didn’t-want-to-live-in-a-hotel situation that turned permanent. It works. We train together, we recover together, and we don’t really get on each other’s nerves. Most of the time. It made sense to just get one space.”
Hunter chimes in with a grin as the doors open. “Speak for yourself.”
We step into the penthouse and Ivy freezes.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap the entire living room, offering a panoramic view of the Miami coast. Moonlight bathes the white oak floors and neutral furniture in a soft glow.
Everything here is sleek—minimalist furniture, dark leather, chrome accents, and abstract art in deep blues and grays. The lighting is warm and recessed, with pendant lights floating above the marble kitchen island.
To the left, a sunken living area with a giant sectional couch and a built-in sound system. To the right, a hallway that leads to our bedrooms, a gym, and the rooftop terrace with an outdoor shower and hot tub.
She turns slowly, mouth parted. “Holy shit.”
Hunter shrugs like this isn’t the most expensive square footage in three zip codes. “You like it?”
She laughs, breathless. “A place like this would cost a fortune in New York.”
I smirk. It costs a fortune here, too, but I’d never say it out loud.
“Want a tour?” Hunter asks, tossing the bags on the nearest bench.
She nods, eyes still wide. Hunter reaches for her hand.
“Wait,” I say.
She turns back to me.
I step closer. Slow. Intentional. My hand slides around the curve of her hip, pulling her just enough that our bodies align. Her breath hitches. My mouth finds hers—soft and careful. Like I’m giving her space to say no.
But she doesn’t.
She melts against me, her mouth opening under mine, her body arching into my chest. Her perfume floods my lungs. Damn, she smells so fucking good. My hand slides down her hip. She makes a tiny noise, a whimper, and it nearly breaks me in half.
When I finally pull away, we’re both breathless.
“I’ll make us a snack,” I rasp. “You two go. I’ll catch up.”
Hunter’s already pulling her toward the stairs. I watch her legs as she climbs—the curve of her ass in that dress, the delicate sway of her hips.
Fuck me.
I force myself toward the kitchen. Wash my hands. Open the fridge. My brain’s still scrambled, but my hands move automatically.
Charcuterie. Good cheese. Thin crackers. Spicy peach preserves from that shop near Wynwood. Olives. Almonds. Prosciutto, folded just right.
I arrange everything on a wooden board, then reach for my drink—the last bottle of my favorite watermelon electrolyte drink.
Except… it’s not there.
I stare. Then curse under my breath.
“Hunter,” I mutter, yanking open the second fridge in the pantry. Nothing. That motherfucker keeps stealing my drinks and never replaces them.
We’ll share a lot of things. Women, beds, workouts. But this? This was mine.
I grab a citrus flavor and carry everything on a tray up the stairs.
They should be back by now.
I hear their voices before I see them—Hunter laughing. I follow the sound to his bedroom: dark walls, industrial accents, giant bed with enough pillows to swallow a person whole.
The door’s open.
Ivy’s perched on the edge of his bed, one knee tucked beneath her. Hunter’s beside her, gesturing wildly as he explains something about Pokémon evolutions. There’s an open shoebox with trading cards fanned out like rare treasure.
I grunt. “He’s kind of a nerd.”
Hunter glares at me. Ivy giggles.
I set the tray on the dresser and nod toward her feet. “You didn’t even take off her shoes?”
Hunter shrugs. “I was distracted.”
I cross the room and drop to one knee in front of her. “May I?”
She lifts her foot slowly, arching it toward me.
I slide off the heel gently. Her toes are painted pale pink, nails neat and glossy. “You’ve got such pretty feet.”
Hunter whistles. “He’s right.”
She blushes.
I reach for her drink and hand it to her. “Sip this.”
She obeys, tipping the bottle to her lips. Her throat moves as she swallows. I watch it, hard as a rock. That mouth could ruin me.
Hunter touches her chin, tilting her face. Her lips part. Their tongues meet.
I step back, letting them have that moment—but my gaze drops.
She’s still sitting on the bed. Her knees fall slightly apart, and I catch a glimpse of lace. Pink. Tiny.
Holy shit.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Hunter breaks the kiss. “What?”
I nod toward her thighs. “Can I see?”
She flushes, then meets my gaze and nods.
Hunter steps aside.
I drop to my knees. Slide her legs open. The lace is see-through, barely covering anything. My mouth waters.
Then she does the unthinkable.
She sets the drink down and glances between us. Lifting her hips slightly, she reaches under her dress and slides the panties down her legs.
She lays them on the bed beside her like a silent offering.
“Holy shit,” Hunter murmurs.
My mouth waters.
I step forward, wedge myself between her knees, and lower myself until my face is level with her bare thighs.
“Wait,” I say, voice rough. “If we start now, we won’t stop.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to stop.”
I growl and press my mouth to her inner thigh. Her skin tastes like salt and heat and want. I lick a path up, savoring the soft catch of her breath, the tremble in her legs.
When I finally reach her, I don’t tease. I devour her.
I reach up, pushing the dress higher. Her hand grabs Hunter’s shirt. She pulls him in for a kiss.
My tongue parts her slowly, then deeper, finding every pulse, every moan. She’s wet and trembling and perfect. Her fingers clutch the bedspread, her hips grinding against my mouth as she comes apart.
Her thighs lock around my head. Her hips buck. She cries out into Hunter’s mouth, and I keep licking until I’ve wrung every aftershock from her body.
Then I stand, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and help her up.
She’s dazed. Breathless. Glowing.
Hunter’s hands slide behind her, unzipping her dress. It falls like water to the floor. She’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts are soft, high. Her nipples pebble instantly.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I mutter, pulling my shirt over my head.
Hunter trails kisses down her chest. My cock is already leaking. I push down my pants and step out of them, leaving my black boxers on.
She’s trembling again, just slightly. Her gaze flicks between us. “Holy fuck,” she breathes.
Hunter brushes her hair from her face. “You okay?”
“I’ve never—” she starts, then laughs. “That was intense.”
“You handled it like a champ,” I say, rising to kiss her cheek.
She grins and slides her arms around both our waists. She’s curves and softness and heat. Naked now, she traces our shirts, whispering, “You both look so good like this. Too good.”
Hunter kisses her again. Deep. When he pulls back, she licks her lips.
“Since Rhett already had a taste, I call first dibs,” he tells both of us.
I smirk. “Fair.”
He quickly undresses, leaving just his briefs on, and then lays her down gently, fingers dipping between her thighs. She arches with a moan.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re still dripping.”
I take her hand. She squeezes mine. Her eyes flutter open. “This feels so good.”
Hunter leans in. “Let us make you feel even better.”