Page 85 of Filled

And the drills. God, the drills.

Monday she’d been on top of me in mount, rolling her hips forward for the drill, and I’d felt her—the heat of her pussy through the thin fabric of her shorts and mine. The deliberate grinding into me, absolutely intentional torment. I’d gotten hard so fast it was physically painful, and instead of pulling away she’d rocked her hips into me harder, leaned close to my ear and whispered:You should feel how wet I am right now.

Tuesday she’d done it again. Slower that time. More deliberate. Her ass grinding against my cock through our shorts while she held my shoulders pinned, and I’d groaned loudenough that Cruz had looked over. She’d smiled down at me like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Wednesday I could see the wet spot on her gray shorts when she climbed off me. Dark fabric between her thighs, impossible to miss, and she’d caught me staring and hadn’t looked away. Just held my gaze while my hands shook and my dick throbbed. All I could do was try to remember how to breathe.

Thursday she’d rolled her hips in a slow circle on top of me and I’d grabbed her hips without thinking, pulled her down harder, and she’d moaned—quiet, but I heard it. Felt it vibrate through both of us. Then she’d leaned down and whispered:Tomorrow night. My place. Just you and me.

I’ve jerked off thinking about it every night this week. About her weight on me. About the heat of her. About that wet spot on her shorts and what it would feel like to touch her there, taste her, be inside her.

The text last night sealed it.

A location pin. 8 PM. Just you and me.

I knock before I can talk myself out of it.

The door opens and the floor drops out from under me.

She’s barefoot. Hair down, soft around her shoulders. Black leggings and a thin gray T-shirt that hangs just right off her collarbones. No makeup that I can see.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. “I brought wine.”

“I see that.” She takes it from me, glances at the label, lifts an eyebrow. “Fancy.”

“I didn’t know what you.” I stop. Start again. “I wasn’t sure.”

She smiles at me, the kind of smile that doesn’t have a joke in it, and steps back. “Come in.”

I follow her down a short hall into a small living room. Lamp light. The couch is gray, soft-looking, with a folded blanket over one arm. There’s music playing low, something with a woman’s voice and a guitar, and the whole place smells like her shampoo.

“Sit. I’ll grab glasses.”

I sit. I sit too straight. I make myself unclench my hands. Try not to think about her on top of me, grinding down while I held her hips and tried not to come in my shorts.

She comes back with two glasses and the bottle already opened. The way she moves—slow, comfortable in her own body, no rush—almost undoes me before she even sits down. She pours. Hands me mine. Tucks her legs under her and angles toward me so her knee just brushes my thigh.

“To Friday,” she says, lifting her glass.

I clink mine against hers. “To Friday.”

The wine is good, though I barely taste it. I’m too busy trying not to stare at the way her shirt drapes over her chest, remembering how her tits felt pressed against me through her sports bra every time she leaned down during drilling.

“How’s the cut going?” she asks. “Two weeks out, right?”

“One and a half. On pace. Coach has me at one fifty-eight this morning.”

“That’s nothing. You’ll walk it.”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “Hopefully.”

“Not hopefully.” Her knee presses a little firmer. “Brady, you looked sharp today. Your slip-counter combo? You finally stopped overrotating.”

Heat climbs the back of my neck. “You noticed that.”

“I notice a lot.”