20. Dante #3
Being inside Dakota while being filled by Eli. I don’t have a frame of reference for that yet. Giving and receiving in the same heartbeat was the hottest thing I’ve ever done.
And Cruz. Watching his face while Dakota pushed him off the ledge, that was priceless.
And Brady.
I turn my head on the sheets to look at him.
He’s still sitting there, hands flexing and unflexing on his thighs. Leg bouncing. The same bouncing leg I see in the cage two minutes before a fighter explodes.
I look at Eli. He’s still staring at the ceiling, but his eyes keep flicking to me. To the place his body just was. Then away. Then back.
I know that look too.
He’s just answered one question definitively. Can he be dominant with a man? Yes. Did it feel like himself? Yes. Was it good? The expression on his face says it all.
But he’s already wondering about the other side now. Already curious about surrender. About being on his back for someone.
I don’t push it. He’ll find his way there when he’s ready.
Dakota’s the one who breaks the silence.
“Everyone okay?”
“Sweetheart.” Cruz’s voice is rough. “I have been changed at a molecular level.”
She laughs, soft. Eli huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh too.
“Dante?” she asks.
“Good.”
“Eli?” she confirms.
He swallows. Doesn’t open his eyes. “I can’t,” His voice catches. He tries again. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
“Good.” He opens his eyes and his face is wet too. He doesn’t seem to notice. “In a good way. I feel different. Fundamentally.”
“Welcome.” Cruz’s voice is gentle. “That’s the door, Coach. You just walked through it.”
Cruz, irrepressible, tries to break the spell: “Trains. Trains are my new favorite mode of transit.”
“Don’t ruin it,” I warn.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Dakota lifts her head, looks past me to Brady. “Brady. Are you okay?”
He nods. Doesn’t speak. His leg is still bouncing.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Her voice is so gentle. “Just, if you’re not okay, signal. I’ll come over.”
He shakes his head. Then nods. Then shakes his head again. He doesn’t know what he is.
“You’re safe,” Dakota says.
Eli pushes himself up on an elbow. His voice when he speaks is Coach again, but softer than I’ve heard it.
“Williams.”
Brady’s head comes up at his name.
“Watching is participating.” Eli’s voice is steady. “What you did tonight—being here, holding space for us—that’s not less than. That’s just as much. You understand me?”
Brady’s throat works. “Yes, Coach,” he manages, barely.
Cruz pushes off the bed, naked and unbothered, and pads to the kitchen. Comes back with water bottles balanced in his arms. Drops them on the bed and starts handing them out.
“Drink. All of you.”
Dakota sits up to drink. Eli does too. I push myself upright slowly, every muscle pleasantly destroyed, and accept the bottle Cruz pushes into my hand.
When I lift it, Eli’s eyes catch mine over the rim. We hold each other’s gaze a moment too long. His mouth curves. Just slightly. Just for me.
I tip my bottle toward his and we drink.
Brady accepts a water bottle but doesn’t open it. He sits on the edge of the bed with it cradled in both hands like he’s praying to it.
His leg is still bouncing. Fast. The kind of bounce that’s not nervous energy anymore. It’s containment. Pressure looking for a release valve.
I watch him without making it obvious. His breathing hasn’t settled. His chest is moving too fast. His pupils, when he glances up, have swallowed so much of the irises that his blue eyes look black in the lamplight.
He’s looking at Cruz.
And at Eli.
His eyes track between the two of them, dragging from one to the other like he can’t decide who to land on. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
Cruz notices. I see it the moment he does. His easy posture sharpens. He sets his water bottle down on the nightstand without looking away from Brady. Goes still in a way that’s deliberate.
Dakota’s seen it. Her hand drifts to my forearm and squeezes once, very gently.
Eli’s still riding his own wave, but even he picks it up. His eyes shift to Brady, and he goes quiet.
The room hushes.
Cruz, slow and easy, putting his frat boy demeanor on hold, shifts on the bed. Turns his body to face Brady directly. His hands open at his sides. The invitation is in his shoulders, his throat, the way he just... waits.
Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t push.
Just sits there open for whatever Brady decides he needs.
Brady’s hand tightens on the water bottle until the plastic crinkles.
His leg stops bouncing.
He stands up.
Sharp. Sudden. Like a fighter coming off his stool.
We all look at him.
He’s breathing hard. His hands are shaking. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones. His shirt is rucked up on one side. His cock is still out of his jeans, hard again despite having just come.
He stares at Cruz. The way he’s looking at him isn’t anything I’ve seen on Brady’s face before. The careful, polite, deflecting Brady is gone.
What’s left in its place is hunger, and who knows how many years of repression.
Cruz holds his gaze. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps his hands open. Keeps his body soft. The invitation is calm, patient.
Brady takes one step toward him.
Stops.
His jaw locks. His hands fist at his sides. I can see him fighting himself, can see the two halves of him at war. The boy who was taught this was wrong and the man who just came watching another man take me apart.
Cruz waits.
Dakota’s hand is on my arm.
Eli’s holding his breath.
The whole room is watching Brady’s control come apart like the fraying ends of an old rope.
I see the moment it snaps.
His expression shifts, and I see the conflict disappear. What’s left is feral and certain and done with being shoved into a box that doesn’t fit. He looks at Cruz, and it isn’t with hesitation anymore.
It’s with intent. The real Brady is about to be unleashed.