Page 68 of Filled

Just my family.

I put my head down and unwrap my hands, trying to think about literally anything else.

15

DANTE

Cruz can’t sit still in the passenger seat. His hand keeps drifting to my thigh, fingers walking up the inseam of my jeans. He’s already half-hard against his own zipper, the outline obvious under the streetlights flicking past the windshield.

“Eyes on the road.” His palm settles over my dick, gives a slow squeeze that has me gripping the wheel tighter.

“You’re squeezing my cock, Cruz.”

“And?” he asks.

“And we’re doing forty in a thirty-five and Dakota’s place is six minutes out.”

He grins, that lopsided thing that makes the dimple in his cheek deepen. God, he’s so fucking sexy. His thumb works along the seam, finding the ridge of me through the denim. “Let me suck you off real quick. I’ll be fast. You won’t even swerve.”

“Hard pass.”

“Coward.”

“Pragmatist.”

He doesn’t move his hand though, just keeps that maddening pressure, watching me out the corner of his eye like he’s gauginghow far he can push before I crack. “Fine. But I want it on record that I offered and you refused.”

“Noted.”

He shifts, tugging at himself through his shorts, his own dick as if there’s any amount of adjusting that helps. “You think Coach is gonna let me near him?”

“I think Coach is going to be a flight risk if you walk in there with that mouth running.”

“My mouth’s an asset.”

“Your mouth’s a liability when you’re in this mood. So, unless you want him to bolt, and Dakota to castrate you with a fork, you need to keep that mouth in check.”

He laughs, leans his head back against the rest. “Can you imagine it though? Coach. Bent over. A cock in his ass, finally letting go of all that—” he waves his hand vaguely, “all theEliof it. He’s been wound too tight since the day he walked in the gym. Six months of clenched jaw. Imagine him moaning, Dante. Imagine it.”

“Cruz.”

“What? You’re not picturing it?” he asks.

I’m picturing it. Coach with his green eyes blown black, the controlled set of his shoulders finally breaking. The sound he might make. My grip on the wheel turns my knuckles white.

“Cool it before we get there,” I tell him. “We push too hard, he bolts.”

“I’m not gonna push.” Cruz lifts his hand off me at last, settles back. “I’m gonna offer. There’s a difference.”

“With you? Debatable. Pushing is like breathing to you. You never know when to stop.”

He just grins.

Dakota’s apartment building sits behind a row of dogwoods on a side street, the kind of place with a buzzer and a hallway that smells like someone’s dinner. Cruz bounces on the balls ofhis feet beside me while I knock, rolling his shoulders out like he’s stepping into the cage.

“Breathe,” I tell him.

“I’m breathing,” he shoots back.