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Brady’s hand tightens on the water bottle until the plastic crinkles.

His leg stops bouncing.

He stands up.

Sharp. Sudden. Like a fighter coming off his stool.

We all look at him.

He’s breathing hard. His hands are shaking. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones. His shirt is rucked up on one side. His cock is still out of his jeans, hard again despite having just come.

He stares at Cruz. The way he’s looking at him isn’t anything I’ve seen on Brady’s face before. The careful, polite, deflecting Brady is gone.

What’s left in its place is hunger, and who knows how many years of repression.

Cruz holds his gaze. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps his hands open. Keeps his body soft. The invitation is calm, patient.

Brady takes one step toward him.

Stops.

His jaw locks. His hands fist at his sides. I can see him fighting himself, can see the two halves of him at war. The boy who was taught this was wrong and the man who just came watching another man take me apart.

Cruz waits.

Dakota’s hand is on my arm.

Eli’s holding his breath.

The whole room is watching Brady’s control come apart like the fraying ends of an old rope.

I see the moment it snaps.

His expression shifts, and I see the conflict disappear. What’s left is feral and certain and done with being shoved into a box that doesn’t fit. He looks at Cruz, and it isn’t with hesitation anymore.

It’s with intent. The real Brady is about to be unleashed.

21

DAKOTA

Brady crosses the space in two strides.

His hand fists in Cruz’s hair and yanks his head back, hard. Then Brady’s mouth crashes against his, all teeth and tongue and years of repression finally tearing loose.

I forget to breathe.

Eli’s arm tightens around my ribs. I feel his whole body freeze beside me.

Cruz makes a sound into Brady’s mouth—surprised, delighted, hungry. His hands come up to Brady’s shoulders, not pushing, pulling. Urging him closer. Brady’s other hand finds Cruz’s throat and just holds it there, fingers spanning the column of muscle, claiming the territory without crushing it.

When they break, Cruz’s lower lip is split. A bead of red wells up where Brady’s teeth caught him.

Cruz licks it off, grinning.

“Shit,” Brady’s voice cracks. His hands jerk back from Cruz’s skin like he’s been scalded. The horror is already rising. “I shouldn’t, I don’t know how to… ”

“Williams.” Eli’s authoritative voice. The one that brooks no argument, no negotiation, no escape.