45. Ivy
Chapter 45
Ivy
H ank is kissing me stupid, that’s the only explanation. He has melted the brains right out of my head. Because he doesn’t deserve to even look at me, let alone put his lips on mine. But here he is, doing it anyway, and I’m too shocked to stop him. The worst part is, I don’t even know if I want to stop him.
How messed up is that?
I stand there, my brain lagging five steps behind my body. This is the same Hank who told me I was trying to baby-trap them. The same Hank who can barely look at me without a frown. I should shove him away, tell him he missed his chance. But his mouth is hot and urgent, and I’m melting against him like a snowflake on a damn bonfire.
“Fuck, Ivy,” he groans, the words tumbling right against my lips. His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”
I’m dizzy, and it’s not just from the lack of oxygen. I’ve spent days convincing myself I’m better off without him, that Holt and Wyatt are enough. But now he’s here, all six-foot-whatever of brooding, bearded intensity, and I’m forgetting all the reasons why I was supposed to stay mad.
I try to pull back, but my body has a different agenda. My fingers tangle in his hair, his beard scraping deliciously across my skin. He shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be letting him. But when he cups my ass and lifts me like I weigh nothing, I gasp instead of protest.
“Thought I lost you,” he says, and there’s a rawness in his voice that hits me hard. I want to hit him back, scream that he did lose me, that he threw me away . But then he’s kissing me again, and I can’t find the words.
He’s moving, carrying me out of my room, and I’m too stunned to ask where the hell we’re going. I expect him to take us to his room, but he veers left, heading toward the living room.
Wyatt and Holt look up from where they’re standing in the kitchen, and their eyes go wide.
Wyatt lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “About damn time.”
Holt just stares for a second, then scrubs a hand over his smile. “You really know how to drag shit out, don’t you?”
They’re both moving by their next breath. Wyatt crosses the room in a few easy strides, his hands landing on my hips as he presses a kiss to my temple. “You good, sweetheart?” His voice is soft, but there’s a heat in his eyes.
I nod, still breathless, still spinning. “Yeah.”
Holt presses a kiss to my lips. “You sure?”
I hesitate. Not because I’m unsure about this—about them—but because the past few days have left me shaken in ways I don’t know how to articulate. But then Hank’s lips press against my neck, his breath warm against my skin, and I know.
I meet Holt’s eyes and nod. “I’m sure.”
Hank exhales sharply, his grip flexing on my thighs where he’s still holding me against him. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You two just gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me make this up to her?”
Wyatt chuckles, his hands already moving, while Holt lets out a quiet, knowing hum. “Oh, we’re gonna help.”
And then there’s no more talking. Just hands and mouths and heat. It’s a blur as I try to wrap my head around the fact that this is happening. That they all want this. That I want this. Hank’s mouth is back on mine, and it’s like he’s trying to kiss away every doubt he ever put in my head.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and I barely have time to process it before Wyatt’s behind me, his lips on my neck. Holt’s hands are sliding up my sides, palming my breasts and squeezing.
They’re everywhere, all at once, and I’m drowning in it. Hands in my hair, on my skin, lifting my shirt over my head. I shiver as the cool air hits me, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of their bodies.
Hank places me back on my own two feet but he doesn’t go far. Holt kisses me, his lips softer but just as demanding as Hank’s. Wyatt’s fingers trace the edge of my bra, and I arch into him, wanting more. Needing it. They don’t waste any time. My bra is gone, then Holt’s shirt, then Wyatt’s.
Hank’s hands are on me again, rough and calloused and so damn good. I’m not sure when he took his shirt off, but his skin is hot against mine, and I can feel the tension in his muscles as he holds himself back.
“Hank,” I whisper, and he groans, like my voice is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. He dips his head to my chest, his beard a delicious scrape against my skin as he pulls a nipple between his lips.
“Fuck, baby,” Holt says, pulling my pants down my legs. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my panties, glancing up at me with a mischievous grin. “These too?”
“Yes,” I say, and it comes out more like a moan. They’re off in a flash, and then I’m naked, and they’re still mostly clothed, and it’s the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
Wyatt kisses a path down my spine, and I sag against him, giving in to the overwhelming pleasure of it all. Hank takes my lips, deep and hungry, before handing me off to Wyatt and Holt. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t Hank letting the others have me first.
Wyatt catches me easily, his hands warm and sure as they slide over my skin. He presses his lips to my shoulder. Holt’s hands skim up my sides, his touch softer but just as possessive. “Let us take care of you, baby.”
Wyatt tilts my chin up, capturing my lips in a kiss that’s slow and deep, stealing every last thought from my head. Holt’s mouth moves over my collarbone, nipping and soothing in equal measure. He moves lower, sucking a nipple into his mouth.
“Please,” I gasp, and they both groan, like the word is a shot of adrenaline straight to their dicks.
Wyatt doesn’t make me wait. There’s the hard, insistent press of him at my entrance, a teasing second of unbearable anticipation—then he thrusts in, filling me in one smooth, unrelenting stroke. A ragged cry escapes me, the sensation sharp, overwhelming, pleasure and intensity coiling tight in my core.
Holt is right there, his hands gripping me, steadying me as my body trembles. His lips claim mine, swallowing every sound. And then I feel him, pressing against my ass, a slow, insistent stretch that sends a shockwave through me. My body is a live wire, every nerve alight.
“Fuck,” Holt rasps against my mouth, his voice raw, wrecked, as he pushes in, inch by inch.
And then they move. They set a perfect rhythm. I’ve never felt anything like it, never been this full. I can’t tell where one sensation ends and another begins, can’t separate my own pleasure from theirs. I’m gasping and moaning and begging, and they’re right there with me, bringing me higher and higher.
Hank watches, his eyes dark and stormy, his desire a tangible thing. I can see the strain in his jaw, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides. He’s waiting, holding back, but I can tell it’s killing him.
Wyatt shifts, hitting a spot that makes me see stars, and I shatter, crying out as they drive me through it, their bodies relentless and powerful and exactly what I need. It’s too much, and not enough, and I’m still coming when Holt groans my name and thrusts deep, spilling into me. Wyatt follows, his rhythm faltering as he gives in to his own release.
Wyatt and Holt both ease out of me. Their hands stay on me, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to my shoulders, my spine, anywhere they can reach. I’m still shaking, still breathless, my body thrumming in the aftershocks of everything we just did.
Hank hasn’t moved from where he’s been watching. His gaze is dark and unreadable. I expect him to say something, but he stays silent.
He isn’t angry like I thought he’d be.
If anything, he looks hungry.
Before I can fully process it, Hank is on me, lifting me with ease, pulling me from between them like I weigh nothing. The next thing I know, my back is against the floor, my body stretched out beneath him. His broad hands spread me open, his eyes locked on mine.
A low sound rumbles in his chest—approval, satisfaction, and something deeper. His palm ghosts over my belly, lingering for a moment over the small curve of my baby bump. A hint of tenderness flickers in his expression, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the heat in his eyes as his hand drifts lower.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, voice rough, reverent.
And somehow, those two simple words crack something open inside me.
Then he groans, low and guttural, and then?—
Oh.
Oh, my God.
His mouth is on me.
His tongue is hot. Demanding. Absolutely relentless.
I jolt, a strangled sound escaping me as my body protests and begs in the same breath. My body is overstimulated, every nerve ending still on fire, but Hank doesn’t let up. If anything, he doubles down, his tongue working me with slow, deliberate strokes. He groans against me, and I feel it everywhere, the deep, possessive satisfaction in the way he devours every trace of our shared pleasure.
I don’t think I can take more. Don’t think I have anything left to give.
But Hank proves me wrong in the best way. His fingers press deep, his mouth sealing over my clit, and I shatter, a sharp, broken cry escaping as he wrings one last orgasm from my exhausted, overstimulated body.
I come apart beneath him, and he holds me through it, dragging out every last aftershock until I have nothing left but him.
He kisses his way up my body. It feels like he’s memorizing every inch of me. Each press of his lips sends sparks skittering across my skin, lighting up nerves that should be wrung out by now but somehow aren’t.
“Want you, Ivy.” His voice is rough and thick with need. “Want you so damn much.”
I open my mouth to say something—maybe to tease him, maybe to reassure him—but then he’s kissing me, and words don’t matter. I taste myself on his lips, feel the desperation, the devotion.
“Was wrong,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “So fucking wrong.”
His hands are steady as he guides himself into me, sinking in slowly, stretching me all over again. Even after everything—after Holt and Wyatt, after being filled to overflowing—it’s a tight fit. He’s just so damn big.
My body trembles as he presses deeper, bottoming out with a rumbling groan. He stills, letting me adjust, his jaw clenched like he’s barely holding on.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him in as close as possible. “Hank,” I breathe.
His eyes find mine, wide open and unguarded, and I see everything he’s been holding back—the guilt, the longing, the love.
“Love you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid to say it too loud, like he doesn’t trust that I’ll say it back.
I cup his face, pulling him closer, needing him to know. “I love you too, Hank. I love you so much.”
His whole body shudders, his control snapping like a rubber band pulled too tight. He groans—a deep, primal sound that vibrates through me—and then he moves.
The first thrust steals my breath, the slow drag of him pulling out and surging back in. My body clenches around him, greedy, desperate, and he curses, his arms tightening around me like he can’t get close enough.
Stay with me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Please, Ivy.”
Like I could ever be anywhere else.
I’m right there, on the edge, and his words push me over, send me spiraling into the most intense climax of my life. I cry out, the sound raw and ragged as I shatter around him, my body clenching so tight it drags him under with me. He groans, pressing his face into my neck as he follows, his release spilling deep, his whole body shaking with it.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe, tangled together, his weight solid and grounding on top of me.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, and I feel him smile against my skin.
Then there’s movement, a rustling of fabric, and before I can even process it, Wyatt and Holt are there, wrapping us both in a blanket, wrapping all of us in the warmth of what we’ve just done.
I don’t know how this works, how we work, but I know one thing for damn sure.
This is where I belong.