30. Brady #3
What happens next builds itself. Dakota goes to her hands and knees on my bed, looking back at me over her shoulder with her hair wild and her eyes dark. I slide into her with a groan that comes up from my heels. She’s soaked, ready, and her body takes me like it remembers my exact shape.
Cruz kneels in front of her and she opens her mouth for him without being asked, taking him deep, and the sound she makes around him vibrates through her whole body and into mine.
Then Eli moves behind me and my brain whites out.
Because I understand what’s about to happen a full second before it starts. Not Dante this time. Not Cruz. Eli. The man whose approval I’ve been chasing since the day I walked into Oath.
Daddy.
“Breathe,” he murmurs against my shoulder.
And then his slick fingers are working me open with a patience that stands in violent contrast to the urgency thrumming through every body in this room.
I keep moving inside Dakota while he preps me, and the dual sensation—giving and about to receive—makes the room tilt.
When he finally pushes into me, I make a sound I’ve never made before. Broken. Grateful. His.
“There you go,” Eli breathes. “There you go, Brady.”
“Fuck, Daddy,” I say, unable to care about it.
He moves and I discover I don’t have to do anything at all. Every thrust he drives into me drives me forward into Dakota’s cunt.
I’m the bridge between them, the current running both directions at once, taking and being taken, and it rewires my brain. Every rule my father ever beat into me, every sermon that taught me my body was a shameful thing—it all burns up in the current running through me.
Then the mattress shifts and Dante moves behind Eli, and I hear Eli’s breath catch, feel the stutter in his rhythm as Dante enters him, and I realize what we’re building.
Dante inside Eli inside me inside Dakota, Cruz in her mouth.
Five people, one union, each bleeding into each other until none of us can tell where one of us ends and the next begins.
This is what we are. Not five separate connections. One circuit.
The room fills with sound. Dakota’s muffled moans around Cruz. Skin on skin. My own gasps every time Eli finds the spot inside me that sparks a flare behind my eyes. Eli’s iron grip slipping breath by breath. Dante’s low groans against Eli’s spine. The bed frame protesting under us all.
“Such a good girl,” Eli says, and his voice has gone rough and dark.
“Taking Brady’s cock while you serve Cruz.
Our perfect girl.” His hand grips my hip.
“And you. So proud of you tonight. In that cage and right here. Look how beautifully you take it.” His breath hitches as Dante drives into him.
“All of you. Perfect. Every one of you is perfect.”
Dakota keens. Cruz swears through gritted teeth.
I feel the whole chain tighten, everyone climbing at once, and it’s Dakota who breaks first—her body clamping down around me in waves, her cry vibrating around Cruz—and that’s it, that’s the trigger, I bury myself as deep in her as I can get and come with a shout that empties my lungs, Eli still moving inside me and dragging it out until I’m shaking, until I can’t tell where my orgasm ends and the aftershocks begin.
My body clenches around Eli and pulls him over.
His groan lands against my shoulder blade, muffled and raw, the most uncontrolled sound I have ever heard him make.
Dante follows seconds later, hips stuttering as he groans.
Cruz is last, one hand cradling Dakota’s face like she’s precious even as she swallows everything he gives her.
We ease apart. I end up on my back in the wreckage. Dakota curls against my left side, her cheek over my heart. Eli settles on my right, still catching his breath. Cruz’s hand closes around my ankle from the foot of the bed. Dante’s arm stretches across all of us, fingertips grazing Dakota’s hair.
My body is a ledger of the day. The graze on my temple. The deep ache in my forearms from the choke. The newer, sweeter soreness from Eli. I’ve never felt this good in my entire life.
The thought surfaces through the haze, and it comes out of my mouth before I decide to say it.
“This is family.” My voice is shot—from the fight, from the sex, from everything. “This is what I’ve fought for my whole life.”
Dakota’s lips press against my chest. Eli’s hand finds mine and grips it. Cruz squeezes my ankle once, and from the far side of the pile Dante says, quiet and sure, “Damn right it is.”
Nobody elaborates. Nobody needs to.
We lie there a long time, tangled and sweat-slick, breathing in a rhythm that gradually syncs. Eventually Cruz’s stomach growls loud enough to make Dakota laugh, and someone says the word pizza, and the ordinary machinery of five hungry people starts to turn again.
But I don’t move yet. I stay right here in the center of them, riding the double high—the win in the cage and the bigger one, the one nobody announced, the one where I’m finally exactly where I belong.