Jax smelled like sweat and turpentine, his hands rough as he palmed Ivy's ass, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp against Cole's shoulder. Sylvie growled but didn't stop—if anything, her tongue worked faster, punishing—as Jax leaned down to bite the back of Ivy's neck. "Been watching you all night," he rumbled, his free hand already unbuckling his belt with one-handed ease. The leather hissed through the loops, and Ivy shuddered when he pressed his thick cock against her hip, hot even through denim.
Cole laughed darkly, twisting his fingers in Sylvie's hair to drag her mouth away just long enough to watch Jax push Ivy's panties aside with his thumb. "Fuck her," he ordered, but Jax just grinned, pressing two spit-slick fingers into Ivy's mouth instead. "Make her ask for it." Ivy moaned around them, tasting salt and something chemical—gunpowder, maybe, or the oil from the bar's deep fryer. Sylvie's nails bit into her thighs, urging her hips down onto her tongue again, and Ivy realized with dizzying clarity that she wasn't getting away until all three of them were done with her.
Jax didn't wait for permission. He hauled Ivy backward by the hips, his jeans already shoved low enough to free his cock—thick and ruddy in the neon light—and spat into his palm before dragging the head through Ivy's slick. Cole tightened his grip on her waist, murmuring "Breathe" against her shoulder as Jax notched himself against her, pushing in with one brutal thrust that had Ivy's back arching off the wall. Sylvie snarled, clamping her hands on Ivy's ass to hold her open, her tongue darting out to lick where Jax stretched her obscenely.
The bartender's laugh was a rasp against Ivy's spine as he bottomed out, his hips flush against her skin. "Tighter than I thought," he grunted, rolling his pelvis in slow circles that made Ivy's thighs shake. Cole's fingers twisted tighter in Sylvie's hair, forcing her to watch as Jax fucked into Ivy with rough, piston-like strokes, the wet slap of skin drowning out the jukebox's drone. Sylvie's breath hitched—not in protest, Ivy realized, but hunger—as Jax reached around to thumb Ivy's clit in time with his thrusts, his other hand splayed possessively over her stomach.
Then Ivy saw it: the tattoo curling around Jax's forearm—a serpent swallowing its own tail, the ink blurred at the edges from age. Her brother's last drunken confession echoed in her skull: *Got a matching one with Jax down at the Black Dog, sis. Don't tell Ma.* The pleasure flooding Ivy's veins turned to ice. She went rigid, her moan dying mid-breath as Jax's next thrust shoved her harder into Cole's chest.
Jax didn't notice—too busy dragging his teeth along Ivy's shoulder—but Sylvie did. Her tongue stilled against Ivy's clit, dark eyes flicking up to meet hers. "What." Not a question. Ivy's throat worked around the lie she should've told, but her brother's face—bloodshot eyes, split lip from whatever fight he'd lost—flashed behind her eyelids. "That tattoo," she whispered, voice cracking as Jax's grip on her hip tightened. "My brother had the same one as yours."
Cole went very still behind her. A slow, sickening realization crept into his voice. "River." The name landed like a hammer between Ivy's ribs. Jax froze mid-thrust, his cock twitching inside her as a muscle jumped in his jaw. Ivy knew that look—the way men's faces changed when they'd been caught. His breath smelled like peppermint when he hissed, "Fuck," against her temple, but he didn't pull out. Just pressed deeper, his thumb circling Ivy's clit in a mockery of comfort.