Page 114 of Filled

Istand at the foot of my own bed, and my legs won’t stop shaking.

Forty years old. I’ve fought in cages, coached champions, stared down men twice my size without blinking. And right now I’m naked in my bedroom, hard despite the nerves wreaking havoc on my system as my stomach does another flip. I’m about to let a twenty-five-year-old take me apart, and I can’t decide if I’m as prepared as I’m claiming to be.

Behind me, Brady breathes slowly and deliberately. I don’t need to turn around to know what he looks like. I watched it last night, the way his restraint keeps him on edge. An edge he has learned to tread carefully even when it seems that restraint might snap for someone else. Now he’s holding onto it for me, and I would be lying if I said that didn’t make me that much harder.

Dakota is already on the bed, propped against the pillows, bare and golden in the late morning light coming through the blinds. Calm. She’s the calmest person in this room, and she knows it.

She reaches out her hand.

“Come here, Daddy.”

The name settles me. It never misses. I take her hand and let her pull me down between her thighs, into the one position in this whole arrangement I know by heart. Missionary. Her underneath me. My territory, my good girl.

She’s already wet when I slide into her, and the heat of her pulls a breath out of me that I’ve been holding since I admitted that I want this. I drop my forehead to hers.

“There you go,” she whispers. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out lower than I intended. “Yeah, princess.”

The mattress dips behind me. Brady’s knees settle between my calves, his body heat radiating against the backs of my thighs, and every muscle in my back locks up at once.

“Slow.” Dante’s voice comes from the chair beside the bed, steady as a corner man between rounds. He’s got Cruz beside him, both of them naked, both of them watching. “Prep him like you’ve got all day, Brady. Because you do. Talk him through everything.”

“I know.” Brady sounds strained already, like the leash is cutting into his palm. His hand lands warm on the small of my back. “Coach. You ready?”

I don’t lift my head from Dakota’s shoulder.

“Yes.”

The lube is cold. That’s the first thing, the shock of it, Brady’s fingers spreading it between my cheeks, his thumbs opening me, and the exposure of it punches the air out of my lungs. I’ve never let anyone touch me there. Not once in my life.

Dakota’s hands come up and frame my face.

“Stay with me. Right here.”

Brady’s finger circles my entrance. Just circles. No pressure yet, no push, just letting my body learn that the touch exists.

“Okay?”

I nod against Dakota’s neck.

The first finger presses in and my whole body clenches like a fist. The sensation foreign, sending a tendril of unease through me. I try to shake it off, refocus on Dakota as the intrusion to my nervous system has no frame of reference for.

Brady goes still. Completely still.

“Breathe. I’m not moving till you do.”

Dakota kisses my temple. “You’re doing so well. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

I breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth, the same way I teach fighters to when they need to manage a bad position. I feel his other hand, the warmth of his palm just resting on my lower back at first, then his thumb stroking gently against my skin. It’s gentle enough to reset my body’s anticipation of pain to one of pleasure instead. My body unclenches by degrees, and when it does, Brady starts to move his finger inside me again. Shallow. Careful. And somewhere in the third or fourth pass, the taboo fades into presence. Not pleasure yet, but not pain either.

“Can I add another?”

“Do it.”

The stretch announces itself this time. Brady works me open with a patience I didn’t know he owned, and I stay deep in Dakota. Her warmth anchors my mind to the pleasure, while Brady works on rewriting everything that my body had ever perceived as forbidden.

“Curl your fingers,” Dante coaches quietly. “Toward his belly. You’ll know when you find it.”