But when Arlo flips the first pancake and it lands perfectly, he does a little victory dance that has me laughing so hard I almost fall off the counter. Fox catches me with both hands on my waist, steadying me, and the heat in his eyes says he’s thinking about last night, too.
We eat right there at the tiny table, pancakes stacked high, dripping with syrup, coffees strong and black for Fox, way too much cream and sugar for me and Arlo. Arlo keeps stealing bites off my plate. Fox keeps one hand on my thigh under the table, thumb stroking slow circles that make me shift in my seat.
“So,” I say after a while, licking syrup off my fork. “Last night was… fun.”
Arlo leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “Understatement of the year, baby. You took both of us so well.” He reaches across the table and tucks a curl behind my ear. “You sore?”
“A little,” I admit. “In the best way.” I stuff my face with another bite just as Fox’s fingers start sliding up my inner thigh. “I need a shower,” I mumble, my face heating up as Fox’s fingers continue to move until he’s swiping through the mess of last night on my skin.
“It’s too bad. I would have loved for you to show up at practice full and smelling like us.”
My scent spikes again, sweet peach blooming bright in the small kitchen. Both of them inhale sharply. Just the thought of being claimed like that has my stomach in knots. But we’re not a pack and coach would have my ass smelling like that.
Arlo groans. “Fuck, Parker. You’re gonna kill us.”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “We’re doing this right? Keeping it casual?”
“Casual,” Fox repeats, voice low. His hand stays on my thigh like he can’t bear to let go.
Arlo nods, but his eyes are locked on my mouth. “Totally casual.”
None of us believe it for a second.
The chemistry crackles between us like static before a storm. I can already feel myself getting wet again, smelling how much they want me. But for now, we finish our pancakes, trading easy teasing and inside jokes, pretending this is still simple.
Deep down, I already know it isn’t.
Not even close.
arlo
Thesunisalreadycooking the field by the time I jog out to the mound, glove tucked under my arm and cleats kicking up little clouds of dirt. My body still feels loose and satisfied from last night and every time I catch a whiff of peach-vanilla-citrus drifting across the diamond, my dick twitches like it’s got a mind of its own.
Parker is already at second base, stretching those thick thighs in her tight practice shorts and a sleeveless Knotlocke baseball tee that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide how fucking gorgeous she is. Her dark hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail, a few curls sticking to her neck from the heat. She glances my way, cheeks already pink, and quickly looks back down at the dirt like she didn’t just flood my apartment with slick twelve hours ago.
Fox is crouched behind the plate, mask pushed up on his forehead, tattooed arms flexing as he adjusts his catcher’s mitt.He catches my eye and gives me that tiny, barely-there smirk, the one that says he’s thinking about the same thing I am.
Practice hasn’t even started, and the air already smells like the three of us.
God, it’s always been just the two of us, but the moment Parker stepped onto the field a few years ago, we couldn’t let go of the idea of her between us, on us, and under us.
Coach Ramirez blows his whistle. “Let’s go, ya’ll! We beat Ridgeview once. Doesn’t mean we get to coast. Arlo—warm up. Fox—put your damn mask on. Parker—stay at second and right field today, we’re working on relays.” He continues through the rest of the starters before signaling the last of the team to follow suit.
I roll my shoulders and start my wind-up, but my eyes keep drifting to Parker. She’s crouched in ready position at second, glove open, weight balanced on the balls of her feet. Every time I throw a pitch, she moves like water, smooth, quick, that curvy ass popping as she fields a grounder and fires it to first. Perfect fucking form.
My next pitch is a little wild on purpose. Fox catches it clean and stands up, tossing the ball back to me with a raised eyebrow.
“Focus, pitcher,” he calls, voice low enough that only I can hear.
I grin. “Hard to focus when our girl looks that good bending over for grounders.”
Parker’s head snaps up. Her cheeks go from pink to full-on red. I see the exact second her scent spikes, sweet peach blooming bright and warm across the infield. A couple of the guys on the bench notice too.
“Yo, Ellis,” our shortstop Jamal calls from the grass. “You good? You’re looking a little flushed over there.”
Parker flips him off without looking, but she’s smiling. “Mind your own business, Jamal.”
I throw the next pitch, a clean strike right into Fox’s mitt. He stands slowly, pulling his mask off, and glances toward Parker again. She’s jogging toward right field now, ponytail swinging, thighs flexing with every step.
