21. Ivy
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ivy
The sink hums with the rush of water, suds clinging to my wrists as I load the final plate into the dishwasher. Yesterday I had abandoned half the dishes, too tired to finish after dinner, but this morning I promised myself I wouldn’t leave the mess sitting.
Chloe had woken up cranky, rubbing her eyes and clinging to Rhett’s shirt, so when the guys offered to take Storm for a walk and bring her along, I decided to work on this instead.
The quiet is rare. I should use it wisely. Finish cleaning, maybe fold some laundry, then stretch out for a nap.
The knock at the door startles me. I wipe my hands quickly on a towel, frowning. When I open the door, my mouth goes dry.
Landon.
Not in a suit this time. No sharp jacket or gleaming shoes. Just gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, a black T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, and wire-frame glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
Somehow, the casualness makes him look more dangerous. Like this is the version no one else gets to see.
He holds up a folder. “I have the NDA ready.”
“That fast?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He nods, stepping in when I move aside. His presence fills the condo as easily as Rhett’s or Hunter’s, but in a different way.
“Where are the guys?” he asks, glancing around.
“Walking Storm. Chloe went with them.”
He nods once, then offers me the folder. I take it carefully, already thumbing through the pages. My eyes track the clauses, the liability language, the enforcement terms. Solid. Cleaner than I expected.
“You could have drafted this yourself,” he says, his voice low, almost amused.
I glance up. “Maybe. But I’m too close to it. If anything ever came up, conflict of interest could get messy. You’re outside of it and you kind of represent them, so I’m hoping you have their best interest at heart. It carries more weight.”
His eyes soften for a fraction of a second, but then the sharpness returns.
“This looks good,” I murmur, flipping another page. “The doctor you suggested is close by, too. That helps.”
He shifts slightly, leaning against the counter as he watches me. “Why didn’t you tell me Chloe wasn’t yours?”
I freeze, fingers tightening on the paper. Slowly, I close the folder and set it on the counter. “I told you it was complicated. And it is. Besides, it isn’t my story to tell. Not entirely.”
“Everything with you is complicated,” he says quietly. “You use that word like it’s your favorite.”
A flicker of irritation sparks in me. “Maybe because it’s the truth. My life is not neat. It isn’t simple. I’m trying to protect people who matter, and sometimes that means ‘complicated’ is the only accurate word.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing slightly. Then he lifts a hand, almost hesitating, before his fingers brush against my temple. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the touch softer than I expect. My breath catches.
“I googled you, you know,” I whisper.
His hand stills. He stiffens. “And?”
“I work in entertainment. I know what PR can do. What it can twist. If there’s anything you want to tell me about your divorce, I’d rather hear it from you than a headline.”
I see his composure slip. His gray eyes shift, sharp and observant, but also haunted. He swallows, his jaw tightening. Then, instead of answering, he pulls me closer and his mouth crashes onto mine.
The kiss steals my balance. I stumble, bracing my hands against his chest, feeling the solid heat under his shirt. His tongue slides against mine, urgent, rough, like he’s been holding back for far too long.
I gasp against his lips, the sound torn from me without thought, and rise onto my toes to meet him. He’s taller, broader, and I strain upward as though the extra inch of height will make his mouth easier to take.
His hands move with purpose, one sliding down the length of my thigh, dragging the fabric of my leggings with it, the other clamping firmly around my waist. The heat of his palm sears through the cotton, grounding me and cornering me all at once.
His gaze flicks downward as our mouths part for breath, and I know the moment he notices the bruises scattered across my chest. Faint shadows of teeth and lips. His thumb lifts brushing over the tender swell of one mark.
A pulse of pain and pleasure collides beneath his touch, making my breath hitch.
“Did I do this,” he mutters against my mouth, the words vibrating across my lips, “or was it them?”
The question is rough, demanding, not at all casual.
“I’m not really sure,” I manage, my voice thin, shaky. The truth is blurred. Hunter’s teeth. Rhett’s mouth. His fingerprints now layered on top of theirs.
Landon presses harder, testing how much sting I can take, then bends his head. His mouth closes over the bruise, hot and wet, sucking until the ache deepens. Then his tongue soothes the spot with a lick.
The sensation shoots down my spine, spiraling heat low in my belly so fast I nearly buckle against him.
“Holy shit,” I moan, my head falling back.
His teeth catch my earlobe next, tugging, teasing, sending another ripple of shivers through me. His voice follows, a gravelly rumble right against the sensitive shell of my ear. “That’s Landon Shaw to you, sweetheart.”
The arrogance in his tone makes my stomach twist. I barely catch my breath before he’s turning me, urging me with firm hands until my palms flatten against the cool counter. My body bends forward instinctively as his chest presses into my back, his presence all-consuming.
Then his hand slides between my thighs, finding the seam of my leggings. He doesn’t fumble. He rips them open, his fingers diving straight into slick heat. I gasp, biting my lip so hard it hurts, because he finds me too easily, too ready.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” I whisper, my voice cracking, ragged with conflict.
“I’ll be fast,” he says roughly, like a vow. He takes off his glasses and places them on the counter.
I try for humor, anything to slow the pounding in my chest. “Not something you should be bragging about.”
His answering chuckle is low, dark. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Ivy.”
My knees weaken as his fingers work me open, skilled and relentless, each thrust calculated to unravel me. My forehead drops against my arm, eyes squeezed shut, body arching into his hand against every better instinct.
I should push him away. I should stop this before it starts. But I don’t. Instead I moan shamelessly as pressure coils inside me, fierce and urgent.
He pulls back suddenly, just long enough to dig into his pocket. A flash of foil catches the light.
“You always carry condoms?” I manage to choke out, breathless, my voice shaking.
His lips graze my ear, a dangerous whisper. “Can’t a guy be hopeful?”
The sound of tearing foil makes my pulse stutter violently. The anticipation stretches me taut.
He roughly pulls my leggings off and then he’s inside me.
The sudden fullness knocks the breath from my lungs. My mouth falls open but no sound comes out at first, only a strangled gasp. He fills me completely, stretching me wide until I’m trembling against the counter, my knuckles white as I cling to the edge.
Then he moves. Hard. Fast. Merciless. Every thrust drives me into the countertop, the wood digging into my hips.
His breath is harsh in my ear, mingling with mine, the sharp slap of skin on skin filling the kitchen. My world narrows to nothing but his rhythm, his heat, his unrelenting claim on my body.
The orgasm slams into me before I can even brace. It rips through me raw and blinding, my body clenching tight around him.
I cry out, the sound breaking against the rush of sensation, the pleasure so sharp it nearly hurts. My legs shake, giving out, and only his arm around my waist keeps me upright.
He follows almost instantly, groaning low into my neck, his body driving hard into mine until he comes.
For a second, the world tilts. My ears ring. Nothing exists but the pounding of my pulse and the heavy weight of his chest pressed to my back.
Then it’s over.
He withdraws slowly, careful despite everything, and disposes of the condom with brisk efficiency. I sag against the counter, still trembling, while he dampens a towel and kneels to clean me up with unexpected gentleness.
His touch now is slow, reverent almost, and it makes my throat ache with a different kind of heat.
He leans in, presses a soft kiss to my forehead, then stands and slips his glasses back on, his composure reassembles like armor. Without another word, he turns and leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand frozen, trying to steady my breathing, my body still buzzing from the storm he left inside me. My thighs are shaky, my pulse scattered.
Finally, I sink to the floor, pressing my palms over my face. My voice cracks out in a whisper meant for no one. “Fuck me.”
But there’s no one to answer.
Minutes tick by before I force myself to stand and dress up. I tug my sweatshirt straight, inhale deeply, and move back to the sink.
The dishwasher beeps, reminding me of normal life, of chores and quiet and order. I reload the cups I had abandoned, press the button again, and listen to the hum of water rushing in.
Steam curls upward, fogging the surface of the counter where only moments ago his hands had gripped me tight.
My body still pulses with the echo of him.
I wake with a start, blinking against the light slanting through the blinds. My neck aches from the way it’s bent against the sofa arm. I sit up slowly, disoriented for a second, and rub at my eyes.
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep here. I meant to close my eyes for just a minute, but the exhaustion must have caught up with me.
“Ivy.” Hunter’s voice is soft at my side. He crouches in front of me, holding out a plate. “Breakfast. You missed round one with us, so I saved you some.”
The smell of toast and eggs makes my stomach growl before I can stop it. I smile at him, sleepy and grateful.
“Thanks.” My voice is husky from the nap, rougher than usual.