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Eli tilts his head. “And you’re going to feed that hunger.”

Dakota nods. “I’m going to show him it’s okay to be hungry.”

The room holds that for a moment.

Then Eli nods, slow and certain. “Alright. Friday.”

“Friday,” she confirms.

I lean back against the couch, grinning. “Gonna be a hell of a week.”

“For Brady or for us?” Dante asks.

“Both.”

Dakota laughs, and the sound fills Dante’s apartment like sunlight.

I reach for the wine bottle on the coffee table and refill her glass, then Eli’s, then mine. Dante’s still nursing the same pour he started with an hour ago—the man drinks like he’s auditioning to be sober.

Eli clears his throat.

It’s a small sound, but I’ve spent enough of the last weeks tracking every shift in his body to know that little throat-clear means he’s about to say something that costs him.

“I want to talk about something else.”

Dakota’s smile flickers, curious. “Okay.”

He sets his wine down on the floor beside him. Wipes his palms on his jeans like he’s about to step into a cage.

“I’ve been thinking.” He looks at me first, then Dante. “About us. About what I’m—what I’m comfortable with. What I want.”

“Coach.” Dante’s voice has gone soft, the way it does when someone’s standing on a ledge.

“I’m not there yet. With—” his throat moves “—with full penetrative sex. With either of you. I want to be clear about that.”

“No one’s pushing for that,” I say.

“I know. I know you’re not. That’s why I can think about it without—” He breathes out. “Anyway. I’m not there yet. But I want more than what we’ve been doing. I want to—” He stops. Starts again. “I want to experiment. With both of you. Hands. Mouths. Bodies. I want to play.”

The room shifts. I feel it in my dick before my brain catches up.

“Coach,” I say, and my voice has gone rough. “You wanna play with my cock, all you gotta do is ask.”

His green eyes lift to mine. There’s a flush climbing his neck.

“Then I’m asking.”

Dakota makes a small sound against Dante’s shoulder. Heat, that sound. Pure heat.

Eli holds my gaze for one more beat, then his jaw squares the way it does when he’s about to call a round. Coach-voice. Daddy-voice. The voice that’s started to dismantle me in ways I didn’t know I could be dismantled.

“Get over here, Cruz. On your knees.”

“Fuck.”

I’m off the couch before the word is fully out of my mouth, dropping to the rug between his spread thighs. The ottoman puts him at exactly the right height. I look up at him and his throat works.

“Daddy,” I say, and watch him shudder.