Page 76 of Filled

“You are. And that’s okay.” I sit back up, hands still on his shoulders, weight still pinning him. Let him feel all of me. “I’ll wait.”

His hands are still on my hips, thumbs pressing into the bone there like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me.

“Now,” I say, voice steady even though I know I’m soaked through my underwear and aching for him, “roll us. Sweep me. Show me you can still function.”

He blinks, dazed. The command cuts through the haze. His hand finds my wrist, hips bridge, and he rolls us with more force than necessary—like he needs to prove something to himself. I land on my back and he’s in my guard, breathing hard, the worst of the panic replaced by something hungrier.

“Good,” I tell him. “Again.”

We drill for another ten minutes. Every time I end up on top of him, I make sure he feels it. Every bridge of my hips, every shift of weight, every time I lean forward to adjust position and my chest brushes his. He’s hard the entire time. I’m wet and throbbing and trying very hard to look like I’m just training.

By the time Eli calls switch, Brady looks like he’s been through the wringer. His shirt is soaked, his hands are shaking, and he won’t meet my eyes.

But when he stands, he doesn’t bother hiding the obvious tent in his shorts anymore. He just grabs his water bottle and walks to Cruz with his head high.

Progress.

Dante meets me with a knowing look. “You good, baby?”

“Just peachy.”

He doesn’t believe me. His eyes drop briefly to where I’m pressing my thighs together, then back up. One eyebrow rises.

“Later,” I mouth.

He grins. “Yeah. Later.”

We start drilling. Half guard passes. Dante’s hands settle on my hip to adjust the angle, fingers warm through my leggings, and across the mat I hear Brady’s breath catch.

I look.

He’s facing Cruz, framing up for the bow. But his eyes are on Dante’s hand on my hip. Just for a second. Then they jump toEli, who’s walked over to spot Cruz’s posture, his hand resting briefly between Cruz’s shoulder blades. Brady’s eyes track that hand too.

He sees me watching. Looks away fast.

The rest of the session, I watch him watching.

I watch the way his gaze finds Cruz’s hands when Cruz wraps his arm around Eli’s shoulder during a water break, Cruz saying something that makes Eli shake his head and almost smile. Brady’s jaw works.

I watch him when Dante laughs at something I’ve said and tilts his head toward me, that easy public claim. Brady’s eyes flick away like he’s been burned.

I watch him when Cruz pulls his shirt off between rounds because he’s overheated, tattoos rolling across his chest, and Brady stares for one beat too long before he forces his gaze down to his wraps.

I watch him swallow. I watch the line of his throat. I watch his hands shake when he tries to retape his knuckles.

He wants us.

All of us.

I knew Cruz, suspected the rest. But this morning, I see it plain as day. Brady doesn’t just want Cruz. He wants the way Cruz looks at Eli. He wants the way Dante’s hand sits on my hip without apology. He wants the whole picture, and he is so afraid of what that means about him that he can’t even let himself look for more than a second.

My chest goes tight and strange.

We cool down in a loose circle on the mat, all of us pulling on hoodies against the sweat going cold. Cruz is sprawled with his head in Dante’s lap, which is new and Dante allows with a tiny smirk. Eli is sitting cross-legged like a coach is supposed to, except his knee is touching Cruz’s calf and neither of them is moving.

Brady sits a foot further away than the rest of us. He pulls his knees up and rests his arms across them and stares at the floor.

“Same time tomorrow,” Eli says. “Brady, your cardio looked clean today. Stay on the program through Wednesday, then we taper.”