Bryce stood in the doorway, chest bare save for those white athletic straps crisscrossing over his pecs and abs, skin still glistening with sweat from the game. His dark, messy hair fell across his forehead in damp chunks, and those pale hooded eyes swept over her with a lazy kind of appreciation.

"Took you long enough," he said, stepping aside to let her in. His voice was low, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. "We were starting to think you bailed."

The apartment hit her immediately—warm, slightly humid, smelling of sweat and something woodsy underneath. Cedar, maybe. Or just the concentrated musk of three grown men who'd spent the last two hours running up and down a court. The living room was dimly lit, a lamp in the corner casting golden light across the leather furniture. Empty beer bottles crowded the coffee table alongside a half-eaten pizza box and a discarded towel.

D'Angelo was sprawled on the longer couch, legs spread wide, head tipped back against the cushion. His white jersey with the red "21" stretched across his broad chest, rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. A fine sheen of sweat darkened his brown skin, catching the light. He lifted his head when she walked in, dark eyes tracking her movement, and offered a slow nod. A greeting that somehow felt heavier than a hello.

"Yo," he said. Just that. His voice was deep, slightly raspy, like he hadn't used it much since the game ended.

Cole was already moving—leaning forward from the armchair he'd been sprawled in, cap tilted back just enough to reveal sharp blue-gray eyes and an easy grin. He had a white jersey matching D'Angelo's hanging off one shoulder, the other arm free, and he was pointing at her with a beer bottle like it was an accusation.

"Finally! Get in here, shorty. You missed a hell of a game." He scooted over on the couch, patting the cushion between him and D'Angelo. "Sit. Drink. Tell us why you took so long—we were about to start the after-party without you."

Bryce dropped onto the opposite couch, spreading his arms across the backrest. The movement pulled those white straps taut against his chest, highlighting every ridge and valley of his abs. He didn't seem to notice—or maybe he did, and he just didn't care. He grabbed a beer from the table, twisted the cap off with one hand, and took a long drink before offering her one.

"Cole's being dramatic," Bryce said, his mouth curving at one corner. "We barely waited five minutes."

"Ten," D'Angelo corrected quietly, still watching her. Still hadn't looked away.

"Same thing." Cole shrugged, then leaned back, letting his arm rest casually along the top of the couch—right behind where she'd be sitting. "Point is, you're here now. That's what matters."

The three of them exchanged a look. Quick, subtle, the kind of glance that passed between people who'd known each other long enough to communicate without words. Bryce's smile widened just a fraction. Cole's eyebrows lifted. D'Angelo's jaw tightened, and he sat up straighter, resting his elbows on his knees.

Something was shifting in the room. Something unspoken.

Bryce took another sip of his beer, then set the bottle down with a soft clink. He stretched—slowly, deliberately—arms above his head, back arching slightly off the couch. The motion made his abs ripple, sweat catching the light like oil on water. When he relaxed, he was looking right at her, pale eyes half-lidded and warm.

"So," he said, his voice dropping a register. "We were thinking of playing a game. Something... interactive."

Cole laughed, low and knowing. "Oh, here we go."

"Shut up, Cole." Bryce didn't even look at him. His attention stayed fixed on her, steady and unhurried. "You in? Or you gonna make us beg?"

D'Angelo shifted on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him. His gaze flicked to Bryce, then back to her, something intense simmering just below the surface.

"What kind of game?" he asked, though from his tone, he already knew.

Bryce's smile spread slow and easy. The kind of smile that promised trouble. The kind that made the air in the room feel thicker.

"Fuck, Marry, Kiss," he said. "Classic. Simple. And since we've only got one guest—" He gestured toward her with a lazy wave of his hand. "—I'm thinking we make it interesting."

Cole leaned in, grin sharp and hungry. "Very interesting."

Three pairs of eyes waited on her answer.

The first round had been tame. Almost disappointing.

She'd picked Bryce to kiss—just a quick press of lips that he'd turned into something slower, deeper, his hand cradling the back of her neck while those pale eyes watched her reaction from inches away. D'Angelo got marry, which made Cole howl with laughter and D'Angelo's jaw tighten in a way that wasn't quite displeasure. And Cole, ever the wildcard, got fuck—announced with a grin that was entirely too pleased with itself.

But then Bryce leaned back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and tilted his head.

"Alright. Our turn." His voice dropped, rougher now, the casual amusement sharpening into something with teeth. "But we're changing the rules."

Cole sat up straighter, cap rotated backward, interest piqued. "Oh? What'd you have in mind, captain?"

"Simple." Bryce reached for his beer, took a slow sip, then set it down. His eyes never left her. "Instead of assigning categories to each other, we assign them to you. And instead of just saying it—" He paused, letting the silence do the work. "—we act on it."

The room went quiet.

D'Angelo's breath hitched audibly. Cole's grin faltered for half a second before spreading wider, wilder, lighting up his face like someone had handed him the keys to a sports car.

"Wait," Cole said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Wait, wait, wait. You're saying—"

"I'm saying," Bryce interrupted, calm and controlled, "that whoever gets Fuck, fucks her. Whoever gets Marry, gets the night—the whole night, just them and her. And whoever gets Kiss—" His mouth curved, slow and wicked. "—gets to do whatever they want with her mouth. Right here. Right now."

D'Angelo finally moved, shifting his weight forward, dark eyes burning into her. "That's the rule change?"

"Part of it." Bryce stretched again, arms along the back of the couch, abs flexing as he did. "The other part? We don't pick our own categories. She does. She decides who gets what. And then—" He looked at her directly, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "—we follow through. No backing out. No take-backs."

Cole whistled low, dragging a hand over his jaw. "Shit. That's..." He turned to her, and for the first time, there was something underneath the bravado—something genuine, hungry, careful. "You okay with that? Because if you say yes—"

"If she says yes," D'Angelo cut in, his deep voice vibrating through the space between them, "then we play. For real."

The three of them waited. Bryce with his lazy confidence, like he already knew the answer. Cole with his sharp grin and restless energy, practically vibrating in place. D'Angelo with his steady, unblinking gaze, the quiet storm waiting to break.

Bryce lifted his chin slightly, pale eyes catching the lamplight.

"So," he murmured. "Who's what?"

Sheets were ruined.

Twisted, damp, half-dragged off the mattress—bunched somewhere around the foot of the bed like casualties of war. The room smelled of sex and sweat and something headier underneath, musk and heat mingling until the air itself felt fevered.

Bryce was behind her.

She could feel the rigid plane of his chest pressed against her back, those sweat-slicked abs sliding against her spine with every slow roll of his hips. His breath came hot and uneven against the curve of her neck, lips dragging across the sensitive skin just below her ear. One arm was wrapped around her waist, anchoring her against him, while his other hand—

His other hand was between her thighs.

Long fingers moving with devastating precision, unhurried despite the tension coiling in his body. He'd already made her come once with just those fingers, patient and thorough, murmuring filth against her throat while she shook apart. Now he was working her back up, spreading the slick mess of her arousal in slow, deliberate circles, pressing against the swollen bud of her clit just hard enough to make her whimper.

"Told you," he breathed against her shoulder, voice wrecked and smug. "Marry means all night. And I plan to take my time."

Behind him—no, beside her—D'Angelo was a wall of solid heat.

He'd claimed Fuck like a man possessed. The quiet intensity he'd carried in the living room had shattered somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom, replaced by something rawer, darker, hungrier. He knelt beside her now, one large hand wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking himself in slow, tight pulls while he watched Bryce's fingers work her open.

His jaw was clenched. That neat mustache glistened with sweat. Those dark eyes tracked every twitch of her hips, every flutter of her lashes, every desperate little sound she made.

"Stop teasing her," D'Angelo growled, the words scraping out of his chest like gravel. His hand tightened around his shaft, knuckles going white. "She's ready."

Bryce's laugh was dark against her skin, puffing warm across her damp shoulder. "She'll be ready when I say she's ready."

"I'm ready," Cole interrupted from somewhere near the headboard, grinning like a fool despite the flush painting his chest and throat. He was sprawled against the pillows, cap long since discarded, hair a wild mess from where her fingers had dragged through it earlier. His cock lay heavy against his stomach, half-hard and glistening at the tip, still sensitive from the messy, desperate blowjob she'd given him when they'd first tumbled into the bedroom. "For the record. In case anyone's asking."

"Nobody's asking you, Cole." D'Angelo didn't even look at him.

"I'm just saying—" Cole shifted, leaning closer, one hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face with surprising gentleness. His touch lingered on her cheek, thumb tracing the flushed curve of her cheekbone. His voice softened, losing some of its sharp edge. "You're doing so good, you know that? Taking everything we give you."

Bryce hummed in agreement against her neck, and his fingers pressed harder, faster, slick obscene sounds filling the room. Her thighs trembled. Her spine arched. The coil in her belly wound tighter, impossibly tight, threatening to snap at any second.

"That's it," Bryce murmured, teeth grazing her pulse point. His hips rolled again, the thick length of his cock sliding between her thighs, not inside—not yet—but pressing against her entrance with every motion. Teasing. Promising. "Cum on this cock again. Show D'Angelo what he's waiting for."

D'Angelo made a sound. His hand stilled on his cock, squeezing hard at the base, like he was holding himself back through sheer force of will.

"Don't make me wait much longer," he said, and his voice had dropped to something dangerous. Something that vibrated in the marrow of her bones. "I'm not a patient man."

"Could've fooled me," Cole snickered, but his voice was breathless too, his hand sliding down to wrap around his cock again, matching the rhythm of Bryce's fingers. "You've been patient all night, D. Admit it. You like watching."

D'Angelo's gaze snapped to Cole, and for a heartbeat the air between them crackled—competition, challenge, want. Then D'Angelo looked back at her, and his expression softened into something almost reverent.

"I like watching her," he corrected quietly.

Bryce's fingers curled inside her, pressing against that spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids, and his thumb ground down on her clit with ruthless precision.

"Then watch," Bryce said against her ear. "Watch her cum for me."