Page 125 of Filled

Eight hours of not touching. Eight hours of Coach Morgan and professional distance. Eight hours of Cruz keeping his hands to himself, and I swear it looked like it caused him physical pain. The door barely latches before Dakota has Brady by the collar, kissing him hard enough to knock him back into the wall, and Cruz is already kissing the back of his neck.

I end up pressed against my own entryway wall, watching my apartment turn into a shipwreck of clothing. Eli’s belt hits the floor. Somebody’s shoe skids into the pile. Brady’s shirt catches on his elbow, and Dakota yanks it free without breaking the kiss.

“Bedroom. All of you. Now,” Eli commands.

“Working on it,” Cruz says against Brady’s neck.

We make it down the hallway in stages, leaving a trail behind us like a trail of evidence. By the time we hit my room, Dakota’s down to skin, Cruz has his jeans around his ankles and is swearing at them, and Eli, who irons his workout shirts, drops the last of his clothes on my floor without a glance.

The bed felt big yesterday. It doesn’t feel big now.

Dakota lands in the center because she always lands in the center. It’s gravitational. Eli follows her down, settles between her thighs, and pauses there with his hands framing her face.

“Missed you,” he says. Quiet. Like the other three of us aren’t in the room.

“Show me.”

He pushes into her in one slow stroke, and the sound she makes stops all of us. Cruz freezes with one leg still trapped in denim. Brady goes still at the foot of the bed. There’s nothing like it, watching Eli claim her first—Daddy taking his girl, laying the foundation the rest of us build on. His hips roll deep and unhurried, and Dakota’s fingers dig into his shoulders like she’s holding onto the only solid thing in the world.

Cruz kicks free of his jeans and crawls up the bed to Dakota’s head, kneeling, angling himself toward her mouth.

“You got room for me, sweetheart?” he asks.

She turns her head and takes him in reply, and Cruz’s whole body bows forward.

“Jesus. Jesus, okay. Clearly that’s a yes.”

The sight of it bolts straight through me. Dakota stretched between them, Eli driving into her while Cruz feeds himself past her lips, her throat working, her hips rising to meet every thrust. Brady drifts to my side of the bed and his hand finds me, wraps around me, strokes slow. Neither of us looks away from her.

“She’s unreal,” Brady breathes.

“She’s ours,” I reply.

Eli’s rhythm never wavers. That’s the thing about him—the control that used to strangle him now serves him, every stroke deliberate, every angle chosen. Dakota moans around Cruz, and Eli’s jaw tightens, his head dropping to hers.

“Princess. Fuck, you feel so good.” He gives her a few more thrusts before easing out of her. “But it’s time to let someone else fuck you.”

Cruz pulls free of her mouth and takes Eli’s place before she’s caught her breath.

“My turn.” He slides into her and his eyes go black. “Goddamn, sweetheart. Your cunt is sucking me in. Do you feel that? Taking my cock so damn well.”

“Cruz!” She squeals.

“Greedy girl.” He hooks her knees over his elbows and drives in hard, nothing like Eli’s control. Dakota’s hands fist the sheets. The headboard knocks the wall.

Brady lets go of me and moves to her head, hesitant for half a second. He’s still asking permission with his eyes even now, and Dakota reaches up and pulls him in by the hip. She takes him sloppy and eager, moaning around him every time Cruz bottoms out, and Brady’s head tips back like a grateful parishioner at Sunday service.

Then Eli moves. He comes around behind Cruz, grabbing his hips and making his rhythm stumble.

“Coach.” Cruz’s voice cracks between the syllables. “You while I’m… ”

“While you’re inside her. Yes.” Eli reaches past me for the lube on the nightstand. “Keep going. Don’t stop for me.”

I’ve heard Cruz cocky. I’ve heard him loud, filthy, laughing through sex like it’s the best joke ever told. What I have never heard, though, is the sound he makes when Eli’s fingers open him up while he’s buried in Dakota. It’s less than a syllable. It’s wrecked and almost pleading. His forearms shake where they’re planted on either side of her.

“Breathe,” Eli tells him.

Cruz tenses. “I am. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Daddy.”