Page 129 of Filled

I watch them in the light bleeding through the curtains. Dante’s face is peaceful, unguarded in a way he never lets it be awake. Cruz’s mouth hangs open, a light snore rumbling low in his chest. Brady’s forehead stays creased, working throughhis dreams the way he works through everything. And Eli looks younger without the weight he carries when his eyes are open.

I’m falling in love with all of them.

The thought doesn’t crash into me. It just settles, quiet and certain, warm in the center of my chest. Eli’s steadiness. Cruz’s ridiculous mouth and the gentleness underneath it. Dante’s way of being the quiet and steady anchor. Brady’s intensity and dominance he’s finally letting breathe.

Two months ago, I climbed onto a Greyhound with a duffel bag, running from a man who wanted to own me in all the wrong ways. Now I’m in a bed with four men who’ve claimed me in all the right ones.

Eli wakes next. I watch the shift in his breathing, the flicker beneath his eyelids and then his eyes open and find my face like they knew exactly where I’d be. His expression softens.

He doesn’t speak. His hand slides over Brady’s hip and comes to rest on my thigh under the covers, one gentle squeeze.

I smile, and his mouth curves in answer.

Then he eases himself out from behind Brady with the care of a man who’s spent his life not waking people, and tilts his head toward the door. I peel myself free of Dante’s arm and Cruz’s leg, inch by inch, holding my breath.

We make it to the hallway before Eli pulls me in. His kiss is tender and yet desperate. His hands cradle my face like I’m breakable, which I’m not, but I let him believe it for a minute.

“You okay?” Barely above a whisper. “Last night was… a lot.”

“I’m perfect.”

“Princess.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “You sure?”

“I’m sure, Daddy.”

The name visibly affects him. He kisses me again, deeper, walking me backward until my spine meets the wall. His body presses full against mine and I feel him hardening against my hip.

“The others are still asleep,” he murmurs against my mouth.

“I know.”

“We could be quiet,” he suggests.

“Could we?” My hand is already sliding into his boxer briefs, wrapping around him.

His breath stutters. “Maybe not.”

He lifts me anyway. I lock my legs around his waist and he carries me into Dante’s bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click. He sets me on the counter and the cold marble bites my bare thighs. I gasp.

This is different from last night. Last night we were starving. This is desperate but with less bite to it. Just the two of us and the light coming through the frosted window.

He strips the oversized T-shirt over my head and his hands map me like he’s memorizing the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips. His mouth finds my collarbone. The hollow of my throat. He takes his time.

“You’re so beautiful.” The words land against my shoulder. “Do you know that? How beautiful you are?”

My throat tightens. “Coach.”

He drops to his knees on the bathroom floor, and the sight of it undoes me a little. Eli Morgan, forty years old, always the one in control, kneeling before me.

He spreads my thighs and puts his mouth on me like it’s worship. Slow, thorough licks, no hurry in him at all. I’m still tender from last night, and the drag of his tongue over my clit jerks my hips off the counter. His hands hold me steady, strong and sure, and he teases me with a patience that borders on cruelty. I bite my fist to stay quiet.

When I come, it rolls through me soft and deep, nothing like the sharp detonations of last night. He gentles me through it, then stands and kisses me so I taste myself on his tongue.

“I love the way you taste. I love making you feel good.”

He settles between my thighs and slides into me in one lazy roll of his hips. We groan into each other’s mouths. I’m sore. I want him anyway. I want the intimacy of just us when we’re usually part of a larger constellation.

He moves slow and deep, forehead pressed to mine, hands framing my face. Every thrust is deliberate. His eyes never leave mine, and I can read everything in them—the love he hasn’t spoken, the fear of losing this, the wonder that I’m his.