5. Ivy #2
"God, no."
Knox raises a brow. "Your dad's a senator."
"And?"
"And you're studying public administration."
"Because I want to start a foundation," I say, picking at the edge of the cushion. "Not run for office."
West tilts his head. "What kind of foundation?"
I hesitate. This is the part where I usually deflect. Change the subject. Make a joke.
But they're all looking at me—not pushing, just... listening.
"For victims of bullying," I say finally. "Kids, mostly. Teens. The ones who fall through the cracks because nobody's paying attention."
Knox's grin fades. Not disappears—just softens into something quieter.
Roman doesn't move, but his gaze sharpens.
West says nothing, but his blue eyes don't leave my face.
"Why bullying?" Roman asks.
I shrug, forcing my voice to stay light. "I've always had a soft spot for it."
That's all I'm giving them. Not the full story. Not the nights I spent in high school eating lunch alone in the library because the girls in my class decided I was too quiet, too awkward, too much the politician's daughter. Not the way I learned to build walls so high nobody could see the cracks.
But they hear it anyway. I can tell by the way Knox's jaw tightens, the way Roman's gaze turns assessing, the way West's expression shifts—just barely, but enough.
They don't push. They don't ask for more.
Roman just nods once, and Knox says, "That's a good thing to do."
West's voice is quiet. "You'll be good at it."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. I clear my throat and force a grin. "Can we go back to you stalking my professors? That was less personal."
Knox laughs, and just like that, the moment passes.
The conversation drifts. Knox asks about my friends—real questions, not generic ones.
I tell him about Simone, who's pre-law and has never met a rule she didn't want to break. About Jade, who's studying art history and can talk for an hour about a single painting. About Hana, who's a business major and has already started two side hustles that are somehow both thriving.
West asks what I do when I'm not in class.
"Read, mostly. Go to museums when I can. Hang out with my friends. Try not to let my dad drag me to fundraisers."
"You don't like fundraisers?" Knox asks.
"I don't like performing."
The words hang in the air between us, weightier than they should be. The lightness drains from Knox's face—not completely, but enough that I see the shift.
That careful attention slides back into place, the kind that makes me feel both seen and exposed. Roman's eyes find mine, and there's something searching in his expression, like he's cataloging this moment, filing it away under things Ivy doesn't say out loud.
West doesn't react at all. Just gives one small nod, as if this was exactly what he expected me to say all along. As if he'd already figured it out days ago and was just waiting for me to catch up.
The sun climbs higher, burning away the last cool touch of morning. Light dances across the water in fractured diamonds. Knox lets himself drift toward the shallow end, arms spread wide, face tipped toward the sky.
Roman settles into one of the other lounges, scrolling through something on his phone. West remains where he is—arms folded on the pool's edge, chin resting on his forearms, water lapping gently at his shoulders.
His gaze hasn't moved.
I sink back against the cushion, closing my eyes and letting warmth seep into my skin. The sun feels different here than it does at school—less rushed, less stolen between classes and study sessions.
There's no alarm set for later, no reading I should be doing, no event I need to prepare for. Just heat and light and the distant sound of water disturbed by Knox's lazy movements.
For the first time since Dad dropped the news about the threats, about them, I'm not mentally mapping exit strategies. Not counting down days until I can leave. Not cataloging all the ways this situation is wrong.
I'm just... present. Existing in this moment without fighting it.
It's strange. Not terrible, but strange.
"You're staring," I say, keeping my eyes closed. Let him think I can't feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
"You're worth staring at." West's voice carries across the water, low and matter-of-fact.
I crack one eye open, squinting against the glare. He hasn't moved—still folded over the pool's edge, blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable.
There's no embarrassment in his expression, no trace of being caught. No attempt to play it off as anything other than what it is.
Just simple, unvarnished truth.
"Where's your comeback?" he asks.
"I'm thinking."
"Take your time."
I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the lounge. "You talk a lot for someone who barely says three words at a time."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Close.
Knox and Roman have drifted to the far side of the pool, deep in conversation about something I can't hear. It's just me and West now, the air between us shifting in a way I recognize from last night.
He pulls himself out of the water in one smooth motion and sits beside me on the lounge, close enough that our legs almost touch.
I don't move away.
"You wore that on purpose," he says, voice low.
"Wore what?"
"That."
I glance down at my bikini. "It's a swimsuit."
"It's a dare."
I laugh, but it comes out breathless. "You're delusional."
"Am I?"
His hand finds my hip, thumb brushing the edge of the fabric, and my breath catches.
"West—"
"Right here?" he murmurs, tilting his head. "Where anyone could see?"
"Your brothers are ten feet away."
"They're not looking."
I glance over. He's right. Knox and Roman are still talking, backs turned, completely oblivious.
Or pretending to be.
West leans in, mouth brushing my ear. "You going to stop me?"
I should. I should say yes, not here, not in broad daylight by the pool where anyone could walk outside and see.
Instead, I turn my head and kiss him.
His hand tightens on my hip, pulling me closer, and the kiss turns hard, hungry, nothing gentle about it. I bite his bottom lip and he groans, low and rough, and the sound sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
"Kneel," he growls against my mouth.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You kneel."
He raises a brow.
I grin, sharp and wicked. "I'm gonna make you come in five minutes."
The sun-warmed deck tiles bite into my knees as I slide off the lounge chair and sink down in front of him, the rough texture scraping my skin in a way that only sharpens the ache already throbbing between my thighs.
My pulse hammers in my ears, loud enough to drown out the distant lap of pool water and the low murmur of his brothers’ voices carrying from the patio. Heat crawls up my neck, a dizzying mix of defiance and raw want that makes my stomach twist with nerves and something darker, hungrier.
West’s blue eyes darken to storm-cloud intensity, pupils swallowing the bright ring of color as he stares down at me. “Ivy?—”
“Clock’s ticking,” I whisper, my voice husky, almost foreign to my own ears. My fingers tremble with adrenaline as they hook into the waistband of his swim trunks, the damp fabric clinging to his hips.
He doesn’t stop me. He simply watches, jaw locked so tight I can see the muscle twitch beneath the stubble, chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm.
I tug the trunks down, freeing his cock. It springs heavy and thick against my palm, already rock-hard, the veined length flushed dark and glistening at the tip with a bead of pre-cum that catches the sunlight.
The musky, clean scent of him—chlorine mixed with warm skin and pure male arousal—floods my senses and makes my mouth water. God, he’s huge. The realization sends another rush of slick heat flooding between my legs, soaking the thin bikini bottoms that suddenly feel too tight, too confining.
I glance up at him through my lashes, lips curving into a wicked grin that feels as sharp as the thrill racing down my spine. “That was fast.”
“You’re mouthy.” His voice scrapes out, low and strained, every syllable vibrating through me like a touch.
“You like it.”
“I do.”
The admission sends a fresh pulse of triumph and filthy desire straight to my core. I lean forward, parting my lips, and take the broad head of his cock into my mouth.
The salty tang of him bursts across my tongue—bitter-sweet, intoxicating—and I moan around the thick girth, the vibration pulling another broken, desperate sound from deep in his chest.
It’s raw, almost pained, and the noise vibrates straight down to my clit, making it throb in time with my heartbeat.
I work him slowly at first, deliberate strokes of my tongue along the underside while my hand pumps what I can’t swallow yet.
His cock twitches against my palate, hot and velvet-smooth over steel, stretching my jaw in the most delicious burn.
I test every reaction: the way his breath stutters when I swirl around the sensitive ridge, how his hips jerk involuntarily when I hollow my cheeks and suck harder.
Wet, obscene sounds fill the air—the slick glide of my lips, the quiet pop when I pull back to tease the slit with the tip of my tongue, the low groans he can’t quite swallow.
When I flick my gaze upward again, his head has fallen back, exposing the strong column of his throat and the dark ink curling there. Eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so hard it looks painful, he looks like a man barely clinging to control.
The sight makes something savage uncoil inside me, a wicked satisfaction that mingles with the slick ache between my own thighs. I’m soaked, dripping, the evidence of my arousal cooling against my skin in the open air.
Anyone could walk out here. The thought should horrify me. Instead, it only makes me take him deeper, until he bumps the back of my throat and my eyes water.
“Three minutes,” I manage to murmur against his slick length, lips brushing the taut skin as I speak. The words come out muffled, filthy.
He lets out a breathless, rough laugh that ends on a groan. “You’re going to kill me.”