18. Holt
Chapter 18
Holt
I slide into the middle seat just as Hank cranks the engine of his old truck to life, claiming my spot before Wyatt can try. The interior light casts a glow on Ivy's face, her whiskey-brown eyes catching mine. She doesn't hesitate, climbing into my lap with a grin that makes those damn dimples pop.
"Comfy?" I ask, trying for casual. My voice betrays me, sounding rough like gravel.
"Perfect," she says, all soft curves and warmth against me.
I was worried for a minute back there—after she left the dance floor. Wyatt and I weren’t thinking, caught up in old habits, flirting with other women while she was right there, like she didn’t even matter. It wasn’t intentional, didn’t mean anything, but the second she walked away, something in my gut twisted.
She was off during dinner. Not cold, not angry—just…distant. And I don’t like that.
She never talks about what brought her here, but I know running when I see it. I recognize the kind of hurt that leaves someone looking over their shoulder. And I don’t want to be the one to bring her more heartbreak.
But right now? She’s soft, loose-limbed, a little tipsy and full of warmth, pressing into me like she belongs here.
Part of me thinks she does.
Hank pulls onto the road, and the first jolt of the truck sends her hips rolling over my lap, straight into the growing problem in my pants. That dress isn’t helping either—it clings to her like a second skin, leaving little to my imagination. It’s torture, the best kind, and she doesn’t even realize how fucking irresistible she is.
Or maybe she does.
She leans back, her head resting against my shoulder, and I can smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the crisp mountain air coming through the window that’s cracked open. Her voice is low as she sings along to the song on the radio.
I let my hands settle on her hips, trying to anchor myself, but it's a lost cause.
She shifts her hips again. Fuck.
“Careful,” I murmur, voice tight.
She tilts her head, her breath warm against my neck. “Am I distracting you?”
It’s not an innocent question. The little minx knows exactly what she’s doing.
She teases, shifting again, deliberately this time. A laugh bubbles up from her throat, one that says she definitely knows what she's doing.
“Maybe a little.”
The truck rumbles up the winding road, and with every twist, every bump, she presses into me. My control is hanging on by a thread, but she's laughing, carefree.
And God, her body moves in ways that could start a forest fire, even in the dead of winter.
I grip her thighs, fingers flexing against her smooth skin. "Behave," I say, but there's no bite to it. I’m just a man dangling on the edge.
"Or what?" she challenges, the words warm against my neck. She's daring me, and I'm one thread away from unraveling.
"Or we might give Hank a show he didn't sign up for," I reply, keeping my hands firmly in place, though every part of me screams to move them.
She grins up at me, all mischief and moonlight. "Let him look."
She's fire, and I'm drawn in, always in, closer to the flames. My voice drops to a whisper, a teasing lilt to it. "Keep that up, and he'll get more than just a peek."
She laughs, low and husky, and my heart pounds against my ribs.
Hank's grumble barely cuts through the rumble of the truck engine. I catch a flicker in his eyes, a quick dart toward Ivy before he stares straight ahead again.
I let my fingertips wander, tracing invisible lines on Ivy's skin just above her knee. She tilts her head back, catching my eye with a teasing glint.
"Or is that what you want?" The words slip from me like a dare, a challenge to Hank's stoic facade.
He doesn't answer, but his jaw clenches. He’s been fighting this so damn hard, but he’s not fooling anyone. He wants her. Just as bad as I do. Just as bad as Wyatt does.
I press my lips to the soft skin of Ivy's neck, my breath warm against her. My voice is a low rumble, just for her ears. "Are you wet for me, CG? Should I check?" The question hangs between us, charged with anticipation.
Without waiting for an answer, I hook my fingers around the hem of her skirt and lift it up high. Wyatt's eyes widen, his gaze riveted as he bites down on his fist in a move to contain whatever thoughts are racing through his mind. He reaches out, grabs her thigh, and gently pries it open further, giving me—and himself—a clear view.
My thumb slides over the delicate fabric of her panties, the moisture undeniable. She's drenched.
“Goddamn, baby.”
I pull the fabric aside, and my fingers slip beneath, teasing her with a featherlight touch. She shivers in response. "Please," she whispers, barely audible over the rumble of Hank's truck.
"Please what, Ivy?" I murmur against her ear, drawing out her need, savoring her desperation.
"More," she gasps, and I oblige, slipping a finger inside her, feeling her clench around me. Wyatt's hand is a vice on her thigh, his eyes locked on where my finger disappears into her pretty pussy. It's like he's trying to hold her together while I'm set on tearing her apart, piece by exquisite piece.
The sounds she makes—God, they're music, raw and real. Little mewls and whimpers, each one stoking the fire within me. The air in the cab thickens, charged with our collective arousal.
Hank's silent through it all, but his body screams tension, every muscle taut as a wire. When I glance at him, I catch the dark look on his face. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
"Look at you," I tease Ivy, my voice gravelly with restraint. "So ready to come undone for us."
She nods, her eyes wide and pleading, gleaming in the half-light. I quicken my pace, relentless now, chasing her climax with the single-minded focus she deserves.
“Come for us, baby.”
I get what I want. With a sharp cry that pierces the night, Ivy arches into my hand, her inner walls fluttering around my fingers. She’s wet, so incredibly wet, and I know I've pushed her over the edge.
Hank's jaw tightens further, if that's even possible, and his shoulders lock up like he's bracing against a storm. But he doesn't speak, doesn't join in. Just drives.
And I can't help but wonder what it'll take to break his silence, to unleash the storm I see brewing behind those stormy gray eyes.
The truck jerks to a stop, gravel grinding under the tires. I barely register it—my pulse is still hammering, Ivy’s cries ringing in my ears. Then the engine cuts off, and silence crashes down hard.
Hank doesn't waste time. His door slams shut with a sound that echoes off the trees, a full stop to whatever just happened here. He stalks off, each heavy step sending jolts through the ground like warning tremors of an earthquake.
"Shit," I mutter, watching his broad back disappear into the shadows that cling to the cabin. The porch light flickers on, throwing a golden halo that Hank walks right through, not even glancing back at us.
"Is he—" Ivy starts, her voice a soft wisp of confusion.
"He’ll be fine," I say, more to myself than her.
Wyatt grunts, shifting beside me, but there's no words between us. We all know Hank's moods like we know the back of our hands—rough, unreadable, best left alone when they turn stormy.