I came back the next night like a bitch in heat.

The gym was locked after hours. Cameron had the key. He’d texted me one line: Team’s here. Door’s open. Don’t wear anything under the shorts.

I obeyed.

The lights were dimmer this time, only the emergency strips glowing blue along the floor. The air already smelled like sweat and sex and the sharp metallic tang of the machines. Cameron stood in the center of the free-weight area, shirtless, grey sweatpants tented obscenely. Jax and Mateo flanked him. Behind them, six more bodies—big, hard, football-built, all of them already half-hard or stroking themselves openly while they watched me walk in....