Page 121 of Filled

“She tastes incredible.” His eyes move around the circle. “All of us, mixed with her.”

Cruz takes his place with zero hesitation—enthusiastic, noisy, humming against me like I’m dessert, sucking and licking until my hips are grinding against his face.

Then Dante shifts lower, parts me, and puts his mouth on my ass. His tongue presses into me, cleaning out his own release and Brady’s, and the intimacy of it drags a sob out of my chest that somehow isn’t sadness at all.

Brady goes last, trading places with Cruz for one more pass over my pussy before moving down to help Dante, and for asuspended, impossible moment I have two of my men’s mouths on me at once, cleaning every drop from my body, and I shatter one final time.

When they finish, I’m clean and wrung out and made of light.

They close around me like a fist. Gentle now. Cruz pulls me against his chest while Dante drapes a blanket over my legs. Brady presses a water bottle into my hands and watches me drink every sip. Eli wipes my face with a warm cloth, and his eyes never leave mine.

“Talk to us, princess. Was that what you wanted? Was it too much?”

“It was perfect.” My voice is destroyed, and I don’t care. “Exactly what I needed. I feel…” I search for it. “Used and yet cherished at the same time. I didn’t know that feeling both was possible.”

“It’s the only way we’ll ever do it.” Cruz kisses my temple.

They stay through the comedown, all four of them, hands moving over me in long passes, voices low. The shakes hit twenty minutes later, the adrenaline draining out of my body all at once, and Brady wraps himself around my back, and Dante holds my hands, and no one asks me to explain.

Eventually we make it to the shower again, all five of us crowded under water that runs lukewarm before we’re done, washing each other with a gentleness that would be funny if it weren’t so sacred. Eli shampoos my hair. Cruz nearly falls scrubbing Brady’s back and takes Dante down instead, and I laugh until my ribs hurt.

Later there’s food. Eggs and toast at nine at night because it’s the only thing Eli has left in the kitchen. Comfortable clothes. The couch again, all of us piled together, some cooking show playing that nobody watches.

Sunday is almost gone. Tomorrow there’s the gym, and the rules, and the careful distance we perform for the world.

But right now, I’m curled between four men who filled me, cleaned me, and held me through the aftermath without flinching for a single second of it. Cruz’s heartbeat under my ear. Dante’s fingers laced with mine. Brady’s leg hooked over both of ours. Eli’s hand resting on my ankle like a promise.

I spent twenty-eight years fighting alone.

I’m done with that now.

This is a love that doesn’t look away from the filthy or the fragile or the parts of me I thought no one could hold.

The five of us, tangled together, exactly as we’re meant to be.

25

BRADY

Ichanged my shirt three times this morning.

Three times. Standing in front of my closet like the fabric itself might snitch on me, like somebody at the gym would take one look at my gray tee and know exactly where my mouth has been all weekend. I settled on black. Black says nothing. Black is a Monday shirt even if my dick is determined to replay Sunday on repeat.

When I push through the gym doors, Jonah’s voice carries from the far corner where he’s talking to Micah. Micah is nodding along with his gloves half-laced. Heavy bags thud in their familiar rhythm. Weights clang off the platforms.

Normal.

Then I spot Dakota by the mats, and my whole body says to hell with normal.

She’s stretching, one leg extended, folding over it in black leggings and a gray sports bra, ponytail spilling forward. Twelve hours ago I watched her come apart between four sets of hands. I know the sound she makes right before her body surrenders. I know what her skin tastes like at the base of her throat.

And now she’s counting through a hamstring stretch like the world didn’t tilt on its axis this weekend.

I make myself walk to the cubbies. Drop my bag. Start my wraps with hands that feel borrowed.

Cruz arrives loud, no change there. His bag hits the floor hard enough that three fighters glance over, and he’s already grinning. His eyes find mine across the floor.

He winks.