chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
Reese
B y the time we gather in the hotel restaurant at seven, the relief from the bus ride is already starting to fade.
The emergency suppressant continues its losing battle against my biology, and I can feel the heat building again beneath my skin. Not the desperate spike from earlier, but a steady simmer that threatens to boil over without careful management.
The restaurant is dimly lit and bustling with other teams celebrating their victories, the noise level perfect cover for any conversations we need to have. Long white tablecloths drape elegantly to the floor, providing exactly the kind of concealment we're going to need.
Coach Bennett has reserved two large tables for our group. The coaching staff claims one with some of the support crew, while our boat gets the other. Perfect separation that gives us privacy to handle whatever the evening brings.
I slide into a chair with my back to the wall, careful positioning that lets me see the entire restaurant while giving me an escape route if things get overwhelming. Tyler immediately takes the seat to my right, while Beckett claims the spot on my left with his usual easy confidence.
"Convenient seating arrangement," I murmur to Tyler as the others settle around the table.
"Strategic positioning," he corrects, adjusting his chair closer to mine. "I can provide assistance without drawing attention."
Across the table, Gray settles directly opposite me, his steel eyes already tracking my every movement with predatory focus. Bo takes the seat beside him, both of them creating an imposing presence that somehow makes me feel protected and hunted at the same time.
The rest of the team fills in around us.
Cameron is at the far end maintaining his usual watchful silence, Jackson at the other keeping careful distance while still remaining part of the group, Eli positioning himself where he can monitor both our table and the coaches, while Zane bounces between conversations with his typical golden retriever energy.
"How are you holding up?" Tyler asks as we look over our menus, keeping his voice low.
"Getting harder to concentrate," I admit, aware of every Alpha scent surrounding me. The medication is wearing off, leaving me more sensitive to their proximity.
"I can help with that." His hand finds my thigh under the tablecloth, touch light but purposeful. "Pressure points to regulate your nervous system. Very discrete."
The contact sends pleasant warmth through me, not sexual but calming in a way that helps center my scattered thoughts. "That works."
"Told you I knew what I was doing." His fingers find a specific point just above my knee, applying gentle pressure that somehow eases the restless energy under my skin.
"What looks good, Cox?" Beckett asks loudly enough to include the whole table, though his hand moves to rest on my other thigh under the tablecloth, gently pulling my leg towards his until they’re touching. The dual contact from both sides creates a buffer zone of calm that I need.
"Everything," I manage, though I'm finding it hard to focus on the menu with Tyler's skilled fingers working pressure points along my leg and thigh and Beckett's warm palm anchoring me on the other side.
"I recommend the salmon," Gray says, his voice carrying that commanding edge that makes my pulse quicken. "High protein content. Good for recovery."
The way he says it, eyes locked on mine across the table, makes it clear he's not just talking about post-race nutrition. Heat pools low in my belly despite Tyler's calming touch.
"Salmon sounds perfect," I reply, proud that my voice stays steady.
Our server approaches, a harried college student with messy hair and bloodshot eyes, who clearly wasn't told he’d be serving a table full of elite athletes. "Can I start you off with drinks?"
Orders go around the table. I ask for water, knowing alcohol would make my situation worse, while the guys opt for various sodas and energy drinks. When the server leaves, conversation flows naturally around race analysis and tomorrow's travel plans.
But underneath the normal team dinner dynamic, something else entirely is happening.
Tyler's fingers work along specific points on my thigh, each touch designed to regulate the biological chaos in my system. It's not overtly sexual, more like therapeutic massage, but the intimate contact in such a public setting sends little thrills through me regardless.
Beckett's approach is different. His hand stays still, just maintaining contact, but his thumb traces small circles against my skin. Soothing rather than stimulating, though the warmth of his palm against my bare thigh creates a constant awareness of his presence.
"So, Callahan," Bo drawls from across the table, his warm brown eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "How's it feel to be the first female cox to win Riverside?"
"Incredible," I answer honestly, though the way he's looking at me makes it hard to think about anything except the way he held me last night. "Best race of my life."
Gray's gaze sharpens, picking up on the subtext. "You called it perfectly. That turn at fifteen hundred, I've never taken it that clean."
The approval in his voice sends heat straight through me. I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the way my body responds to his praise, but Tyler notices.
"Easy," he murmurs, fingers finding a pressure point that helps calm the spike of arousal. "Breathe through it."
"You okay?" Beckett asks, leaning slightly closer. "You look flushed."
"Just warm in here," I deflect, grateful when the server returns with our drinks.
Food ordering provides a temporary distraction, but as soon as the server leaves, the sexual tension ratchets up again.
Gray continues watching me with that dangerous focus, while Bo's lingering glances make me wonder what his hands would feel like on me.
Then I remember what he agreed to do later and heat flashes through me so hard I gasp.
"Tyler," I whisper during a lull in conversation. "I need more."
"More pressure points?" he asks quietly.
"More contact. The heat's building again."
His fingers pause, then slide higher on my thigh, finding the hem of my skirt. "May I?"
I nod, hyperaware that we're surrounded by other diners but desperate for relief. Tyler's hand pushes my skirt higher before slipping underneath, fingers finding bare skin with methodical intent.
The contact is electric. My enhanced sensitivity makes every touch feel magnified, Tyler's skilled fingers sliding between my legs to find exactly where I need him most. The dual sensation of his palm working my clit while his fingers pump inside me makes me bite my lip to keep from moaning.
"Better?" he asks, watching my face carefully.
"Much." I take a steadying breath, grateful for his expertise.
Across the table, Gray's nostrils flare as he catches the shift in my scent. He can tell exactly what Tyler's doing to me under the tablecloth, and his jaw tightens as he watches my face flush with obvious pleasure.
"Something interesting happening over there?" Bo asks, his own enhanced senses picking up on the change. His warm brown eyes darken as he takes in my slightly parted lips, the way I'm gripping my water glass.
"Tyler's helping me with some tension," I manage, voice breathier than intended.
"We can see that," Zane says, playful eyes locked on mine. "You look like you're enjoying his... assistance."
Before I can respond, Beckett's hand slides higher on my other thigh, fingers trailing up until they meet Tyler's. "Room for one more?" he murmurs against my ear.
Tyler doesn't pause in his rhythm, but glances at Beckett with a slight nod. "I think she’d like that."
The casual coordination makes my head spin.
Beckett's fingers join Tyler's between my legs, one hand working my clit while the other pumps inside me in perfect synchronization.
The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pleasure building so fast I have to press my napkin to my mouth to muffle a whimper.
I can only hope the faint squelching sounds are only audible to the table.
"Jesus, she's soaked," Beckett breathes, looking down at the table, his fingers sliding easily through my wetness. "You feel how ready she is?"
"Fuck, yes," Tyler whispers, voice strained with his own arousal. "She's been dripping since we sat down."
Around the table, every Alpha has gone still, their attention fixed on me as I fall apart between Tyler and Beckett's skilled hands. Even Jackson, sitting at the far end, watches with dark intensity despite his usual avoidance.
"Look at her," Eli says, voice rough with want. "Look how beautiful she is when she lets go."
Gray's hands clench into fists on the tablecloth. "You're being too obvious. People will notice."
"Let them notice," Zane says, pupils blown wide as he tracks every micro-expression on my face. "She's ours."
The possessive declaration sends heat straight through me, my inner walls clenching around Tyler's fingers as another wave of pleasure builds. Beckett feels my response and increases his pace, chuckling low as his thumb circles my clit. It seems his bravado wasn’t misplaced after all.
"That's it, sweetheart," he encourages, lips brushing my ear. "Let us take care of you. Let the whole team see how good we make you feel."
Cameron shifts in his seat at the far end, slate eyes burning as he watches me struggle to stay quiet. Even Eli, usually so analytical, looks captivated by the sight of me being pleasured by two of his teammates.
"She's close," Tyler murmurs, fingers curling to hit that perfect spot inside me. "I can feel her getting tighter."
"Then finish her," Gray commands, his captain's voice carrying unmistakable authority. "But keep her quiet."
The order makes something primal in me respond.
I keep my eyes focused on Gray to keep myself together as both men increase their pace, four skilled fingers working me toward climax while eight Alphas watch my every reaction.
The combination of pleasure and exposure, of being cared for so thoroughly by my team, pushes me over the edge.
My orgasm slams through me, thighs trembling and hips lifting off my seat a little as I bite down hard on my napkin to stay silent. Tyler and Beckett work me through it expertly, their fingers gentling but not stopping until I'm completely spent against my chair.
I suck in slow, measured breaths as the entire table watches me with varying degrees of hunger and satisfaction.
My scent has mellowed again, the desperate edge replaced by post-climax calm, but there's something new in the air now.
Something that feels dangerously close to claiming. Like belonging.
"Better?" Gray asks, though his steel eyes suggest he knows exactly how much better I feel.
"Much," I breathe, watching Tyler and Beckett discretely clean their fingers with their napkins. "Thank you. Both of you."
"Don't thank me yet,” Tyler says, his voice low and darker than I’ve ever heard it. "We still have dessert to get through."
As if summoned by his words, the server approaches with the dessert menu. But before anyone can speak, my phone buzzes with a text notification.
I glance at the screen and immediately wish I hadn't.
Having fun at dinner? You look very... close... with your teammates. Shame if someone took pictures.
My face goes pale, eyes automatically scanning the restaurant for whoever's watching us. In the corner booth, partially hidden behind a large plant, I spot a familiar figure with her phone pointed in our direction.
Kinsley Adams. And she's been filming.
"Problem?" Gray asks, immediately picking up on my distress.
"Fuck," I mumble under my breath.
"What's wrong?" Eli asks, blinking as the haze of lust clears.
"Kinsley's here. She's been recording us."
The effect on the table is immediate. Every Alpha tenses, protective instincts firing as they realize we've been under surveillance. Without discussion, they begin the careful process of extracting ourselves from the situation.
"Act sick," Gray says under his breath. "Go upstairs now."
Shouldn’t be hard, considering I feel like my dinner is about to make a repeat performance .
I nod, pressing my hand to my forehead like I'm feeling nauseous. "I think I need to lie down."
"Go," Bo says, voice gentle with concern that's only half-feigned. "I'll be up to check on you in a few minutes."
"I'll handle Coach," Gray adds quietly. "Tell him you're not feeling well after the race."
I nod, but as I stand to leave, I catch Kinsley's satisfied smirk from across the restaurant. She got what she came for. Evidence of inappropriate contact between teammates.
The question is: what does she plan to do with it?
As I move toward the elevators alone, trying to look unsteady on my feet, I realize Kinsley Adams just became a very real threat to everything we've built.
And the night is far from over.