Chapter 32 Nina
Nina
I wake slowly, aware of warmth on both sides. Chris is propped on one elbow beside me, tracing patterns on my bare shoulder with his fingertips. Wyatt’s pressed against my back, his arm heavy across my waist, breath steady against my neck.
They both showed up last night, separately but within minutes of each other—Wyatt with groceries, Chris with wine.
Like they coordinated without talking about it.
Wyatt took over my kitchen, making some kind of Moroccan dish with cookware I didn’t know I had, while Chris followed his instructions without a single complaint.
I watched them move around each other, this strange domestic ballet that shouldn’t work but did.
Now here we are, the morning of my surgery, tangled together like this is normal. Like this is sustainable.
“Morning,” Chris murmurs, voice still hoarse.
“What time is it?”
“Early. Just after six.”
We need to leave for the surgical center at nine. In a few hours, I’ll be permanently free. The thought brings pure relief, but there’s something else threading through it. The vertigo of finally getting something I’ve wanted for so long that wanting it became part of my identity.
“You okay?” Wyatt asks against my shoulder, apparently more awake than I thought.
“Just thinking.”
“About the procedure?”
“About this is actually happening.” I pause, trying to articulate something that doesn’t quite make sense. “I know it’s irrational, but part of me still feels like—” I stop myself. I know exactly what this feeling is, and I refuse to give it airtime. Not today.
Chris reads my face. “Hey. Your worth has nothing to do with certain biological functions.”
I shift onto my back so I can see them both. They’re beautiful in the morning light filtering through the curtains—Chris all sharp angles and careful control, Wyatt solid and steady. Mine, some possessive part of my brain whispers.
“He’s right,” Wyatt says, his hand sliding up my ribs. “So how about we focus on all the other things your body can do?”
His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, and I arch into the touch.
“Speaking of which,” Chris says, mouth against my shoulder, “we should probably stock you up on orgasms while we can.”
“Stock me up?”
“We researched the recovery timeline,” Wyatt explains, his hand cupping my breast now. “No orgasms for about a week. No penetration for two weeks minimum.”
“You seriously researched my post-op orgasm restrictions?”
“We’re thorough,” Chris says, teeth grazing my collarbone. “Besides, we needed to know exactly how long we’d have to get creative.”
“And how long until you can fuck us properly again,” Wyatt adds, voice dropping.
The blunt words make heat pool low in my belly. “When I can finally fuck again, I want you both to absolutely wreck me so hard I forget my own name.”
Chris groans against my neck. “Jesus, Nina.”
“Two weeks,” Wyatt says, his voice low with promise. “Two weeks and we’ll give you exactly what you want.”
“But right now,” Chris says, already moving down my body, “we’re going to make you come until you can’t think straight.”
They move together with surprising intuition, still learning each other’s rhythms but somehow finding a natural flow. Wyatt’s mouth replaces his thumb on my breast while Chris kisses down my stomach, settling between my thighs with intent.
“I want to make you come on my tongue,” Chris says, pressing kisses to my inner thighs while he presses my legs wider.
He only spares a moment to spread me open, then his mouth finds me, tongue circling my clit slowly.
His lashes flutter closed as if he’s savoring me.
Then his eyes open again, those baby blues intensely focused with a wicked glint.
He takes my clit into his mouth and sucks, the sudden onslaught of pleasure eliciting a sharp cry of pleasure.
Wyatt captures my moans with a kiss, his hand tangling in my hair.
The dual sensation—Chris’s mouth between my legs, Wyatt’s tongue in my mouth—has me arching off the bed.
“That’s it,” Wyatt murmurs against my lips. “Let me watch you make a mess of his face, babe.”
Chris takes his time, teasing with his tongue, drawing circles that make my thighs quiver. Wyatt’s mouth moves from mine to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot where it meets my shoulder.
“Please,” I gasp, threading my fingers through Chris’s hair.
He hums against me, the vibration making me rock against his rhythmic licks, then finally slides two fingers inside while his tongue focuses on my clit. The perfect pressure combined with the way Wyatt murmurs encouragement against my skin is overwhelming.
My mind fractures between the present and the future, imagining how it will feel in two weeks when I can finally take them both inside me again.
The thought of Chris pinning me down while Wyatt watches, or Wyatt’s broader frame covering me while Chris directs us both—or the most erotic of the fantasies, having them both fucking my pussy at the same time until they spill inside me together.
The fantasy combined with Chris curling his fingers exactly right pushes me over. The orgasm rolls through me in waves, my whole body tensing then releasing as Chris works me through it, Wyatt swallowing my cries with deep kisses.
I’m still shaking when Wyatt pulls back, looking down at me with dark eyes.
“Take a breath,” he says, hands resting on my ribs. “Because it’s my turn next.”
I try to steady my breathing while he watches me, his thumbs stroking gentle circles on my skin.
“Been thinking about tasting you all morning,” he murmurs. “My mouth is literally watering for you. Tell me when you’re ready for me.”
The way he says it—patient but hungry—sends tingling anticipation pooling between my legs again despite the orgasm I just had. There’s something about Wyatt’s particular brand of control, the way he waits for permission even when his whole body is tense with want, that undoes me.
“Please,” I breathe. “I want your mouth on me.”
He moves down my body slowly, pushes one knee up and wide, wraps his free hand around my other ankle.
Where Chris was focused and intense, Wyatt is patient and exploratory. He starts with kisses and playful nips to my inner thighs, then just breathes against me, making me squirm. When his tongue finally touches me, it’s barely there—the lightest pressure that has me trying to press closer.
“Stay still,” he says, hands still gripping my knee and ankle to hold me spread wide for him. “Let me enjoy this.”
He takes his time mapping me with his mouth, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me curse. He avoids my clit entirely at first, licking everywhere else until I’m desperate.
“Wyatt, please—”
“Not yet,” he says against me.
Chris is beside me again, propped on an elbow to watch. He leans down to kiss me, swallowing my frustrated whimper with a mouth that tastes like me. “He’s going to take you apart,” he murmurs against my lips. “Just let him.”
When Wyatt finally, finally focuses on my clit, I nearly come off the bed.
He doesn’t use his fingers like Chris did—just his mouth, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and gentle suction that makes me see stars.
The buildup is so slow, so thorough, that when the orgasm finally hits, it rolls through me in waves that seem to last forever, leaving me boneless and gasping.
They give me a moment to recover, pressing kisses to my skin, murmuring praise.
But as the high fades, anxiety starts creeping in.
Any surgery carries risks. Anesthesia, bleeding, infection.
My rational brain knows tubal ligation doesn’t affect hormone production, won’t trigger early menopause, won’t change my cycle.
The ovaries stay intact, keep functioning normally.
But there’s still that anticipatory anxiety, like the moments before takeoff on a plane.
Once we’re in the car heading there, once I’m in pre-op, the fear will fade.
But right now, in this waiting period, my mind catalogues everything that could go wrong.
“Hey,” Chris says, noticing my tension. “Where’d you go?”
“I’m here. Just... thinking again.”
“About what?” Wyatt asks, settling beside me.
“Everything. The procedure. Recovery. Just general pre-surgery nerves.”
“We could distract you some more,” Chris suggests, his hand trailing down my stomach. “Another round might help.”
I try to focus on his touch, on their presence, but my mind won’t settle into the moment. The anxiety isn’t overwhelming, just persistent enough to keep me from fully letting go.
“I can’t,” I say, gently catching his hand. “I’m sorry. You guys have already given me two of the most amazing orgasms I’ve ever had. I just—my head’s not in it.”
They immediately pause the trajectory of their caresses. Wyatt cups my jaw, directing my gaze to his.
“What do you need?” he asks, searching my eyes intently.
I stare back, then glance at Chris, then down to the hard ridge straining inside his black briefs. Wyatt’s own erection radiates heat against my hip. “I want to watch you two. Together.”
They exchange a glance, something unreadable passing between them.
“Nina—” Chris starts.
“Please. I want to see you with each other. Without me in between.” My voice drops. “I want to watch you want each other.”
“You sure?” Wyatt asks, but his eyes have gone dark and hungry.
“Yes.”
They look at each other again, a longer assessment this time.
Then Wyatt reaches out, his hand curling around the back of Chris’s neck, pulling him in slowly.
They meet right over my torso, the first kiss tentative, almost careful.
But then Chris makes a sound—desperate and wanting—and suddenly they’re devouring each other.