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Brady curls his fingers and I gasp into Dakota’s shoulder because a bolt of pure sensation just detonated through my pelvis. My cock jerks inside her and she makes a sound low in her throat.

“That’s it,” she breathes. “That’s the spot. Oh, Daddy, you’re going to love this.”

Brady finds it again. And again. Precise strokes against a place inside me I didn’t know existed, and I catch myself pushing back onto his hand, chasing the sensation. My hips moving on their own. My body deciding before my brain gets a vote.

“Third?”

“Yes.” The word comes out breathless. “Do it.”

Three fingers borders on too much. The stretch burns at the edges, but Brady’s other hand stays splayed on my lower back, steady still caressing there with his thumb. Dante murmurs adjustments about angle, and Dakota kisses along my jaw, murmuring praise. She pulses the muscles in her pussy, reminding me that I’m still hard inside her. Rock hard. That simple act proving that my body hasn’t rejected any of this. The opposite. Being inside her while Brady opens me up is a fucking awakening if ever I had one.

Brady scissors his fingers, stretches me wider, and stills.

“Coach.” His voice shakes. “Are you ready for me?”

The question hangs there.

I lift my head enough to find Dakota’s eyes. Hazel, steady, full of a love that doesn’t flinch. She nods once.

“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m ready.”

His fingers withdraw and the emptiness startles me, sudden enough I feel it in my teeth. Then the blunt pressure of him lining up. Thicker than fingers. Real in a way that fingers weren’t.

My body tenses.

Brady’s palm flattens on my spine again. “Breathe. Let your body accept me.” Every word costs him. I can hear it. “Push back when you feel like you can take more. I don’t move until you say.”

Dakota takes my face in both hands.

“Look at me. Stay with me. Let him in, Daddy.”

I push back, and Brady starts to enter, and the stretch is fire and fullness and too much. I stop twice in the first minute, and both times he remains motionless, breathing through his teeth, waiting me out. Inch by inch. He kept his word. No matter how much he may have wanted to, he never moved. He was waiting for me to ask for it.

When his hips press flush against me, we all go still.

Me buried in Dakota. Brady buried inside me. A chain of three, and I expected to feel trapped in the middle of it. I don’t. I feel held, like I belong right where I am.

Nobody moves. My arms tremble where they’re braced beside Dakota’s head. The fullness, the pressure, the sheer vulnerability of it floods my consciousness. Overwhelming, but not wrong. Just new, in a way nothing has been new in decades.

“Coach.” Brady’s voice cracks. “You okay?”

I can feel the effort in his hands, the trembling restraint of a man white-knuckling his own need.

“Yes. Move. Small.”

He withdraws, then pushes back in, and the drag of him across that spot inside me sends a heat straight up my spine. I gasp, my hips jerk forward into Dakota, and she moans underneath me.

He does it again and again. A slow rhythm builds and my body starts answering it, discomfort dissolving into something euphoric, and I’m moving inside Dakota in shallow strokes that follow his lead whether I mean them to or not.

“You’re doing so good,” Dakota whispers against my mouth. “Taking him so well. So brave, Daddy.”

Her praise lands like sunlight on my skin.

Then Brady drags across my prostate at the same moment Dakota clenches around me, and a moan tears out of my throat, loud and involuntary, unfiltered.

The sound snaps Brady’s leash.

His grip on my hips tightens enough to bruise. The next thrust drives deep, no caution left in it, and I gasp at the force. He makes a sound behind me, half groan, half growl, and then his mouth opens and the filth pours out.