Chapter 32 Nina #2
It’s different from when they kiss during sex with me.
This is just them, no divided attention, no performance.
I shift higher up and move my legs to make room and they come together like opposing poles of two magnets right in front of me.
Chris’s hands tangle in Wyatt’s hair, pulling hard enough to make Wyatt groan.
Wyatt grips Chris’s hip, yanking him closer until their bodies are flush.
“Fuck,” Chris gasps when they break for air. “Wyatt—”
“I know,” Wyatt says, voice fractured.
They’re rutting against each other now, still in their boxer briefs, the friction clearly not enough.
Wyatt pushes Chris onto his back beside me, settling between his thighs with predatory grace.
Chris is spread out beneath him, Wyatt’s narrower frame covering him and their position makes something hot coil in my belly.
“Is this okay?” Wyatt asks, grinding down.
“Yes. Fuck, yes.”
Wyatt strips Chris’s underwear off, then his own, and the sight of them—both fully hard, nothing between them—has me pressing my thighs together. Wyatt reaches for the lube on the nightstand, slicking his hand before wrapping it around both their cocks.
“Oh fuck,” Chris moans, his head falling back.
They find a rhythm quickly, Wyatt’s hand working them both while they thrust against each other. Desperate, uninhibited sounds have me sliding my hand between my legs without conscious thought.
“Look at her,” Wyatt tells Chris. “Look at what we do to her.”
Chris turns his head, eyes finding mine, and the heat in his gaze as he watches me touch myself while Wyatt strokes them both nearly undoes me.
“Nina,” he breathes. “Fuck, you’re—”
“Beautiful,” Wyatt finishes. “She’s beautiful.”
I circle my clit faster, chasing the building pressure as I watch them chase their own. Chris comes first, spilling over Wyatt’s hand with a broken moan. Wyatt follows seconds later, Chris’s name on his lips.
They’re sweaty, panting, covered in each other. That’s what pushes me over the edge. My third orgasm of the morning hits hard and fast, leaving me gasping.
No one moves to clean up at first. Then Wyatt reaches for the tissues, cleaning them both with gentle efficiency.
“Come here,” Chris says, voice rough.
I crawl between them, letting them arrange me in the middle. We’re still sticky with sweat and come, but no one seems to care. Chris presses a kiss to my temple. Wyatt’s arm settles across my waist.
“Better?” Wyatt asks.
“Much.”
“Good,” Chris says. “Because we should probably shower before we leave.”
“In a minute,” I say, not ready to leave this moment. The anxiety from earlier has dissolved, replaced by something steadier.
“I should have done this years ago,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Wyatt asks.
“I tried. Five years ago. Made an appointment, did the consultation, everything.” I stare at the ceiling, remembering. “The doctor told me I was too young. That I’d change my mind. That my ‘future husband’ would want children and I’d regret it.”
Chris goes rigid beside me. “He refused?”
“She. And yes. Said no ethical doctor would sterilize a childless woman under thirty.” My laugh is bitter. “I was so defeated I didn’t try again. Didn’t have the energy to fight for something that should have been my choice to begin with.”
“Fucking bullshit,” Chris says, voice sharp with anger.
“That’s...” Wyatt’s arm tightens around me. “I’m sorry. That should never have happened.”
“Well, it won’t happen today.” I turn my head to look at them both. “Dr. Cruz didn’t even blink when I said I was certain. Just scheduled it. No interrogation about hypothetical husbands or future regrets.”
“Good,” Chris says. “Because we’re your actual boyfriends, and we fully support you cutting out your fallopian tubes.”
The casual way he says ‘boyfriends’ makes something warm unfurl in my stomach. “Is that what you are?”
“Among other things,” Wyatt says, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “Partners. Lovers. The men who are going to take care of you for the next two weeks.”
“Just two weeks?” I tease.
“To start,” Chris says. “We’ll renegotiate after you’re cleared for all activities.”
“Speaking of my recovery,” I begin, then pause, uncertain how they’ll take what I have to say.
“What about it?” Wyatt asks.
“I don’t want you two to think you have to wait for me. I mean, you aren’t just my boyfriends, right? You’re each other’s. I want you to—take care of each other too.”
Chris’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. He reaches over and silences it without looking.
The silence stretches as the hold each other’s gazes. Chris’s phone buzzes again, ignored.
Suddenly I realize I incited a standoff I wasn’t prepared to have to referee.
“Guys, forget it…”
Wyatt raises a hand to stall me. “No, I’m glad you brought it up.
” He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing absent circles on my hip.
Then he looks at Chris. “I already know what I want. I want this—all of it. You. Her. Us. I’m not confused about that part.
” He pauses to take a breath. “I just didn’t want to say it first and make you feel like you had to match me. ”
Chris stares at him. Something cracks behind his eyes—not pain, exactly, but the strain of holding something too tightly for too long.
“Fuck, Wyatt.” He looks away, swipes a hand over his face.
When he speaks again, it comes out halting, uncertain.
“It’s just harder for me—to let myself be—what I am.
To be…” He inhales, holds it, then in a pained voice says, “Bisexual. Admitting I want this. All of this. It’s…
” He looks straight at Wyatt. In a smaller voice that’s almost a whisper, he says, “You know why it’s hard for me, man. It isn’t about you.”
Wyatt doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wall up. Just holds Chris’s gaze with the steady calm of a man who’s already decided to weather whatever comes. “Yeah, I know. In your own time. I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not really sure what passed between them, but whatever it was is just that: between them.
Which only proves my point. As much as I’d like to counsel them as I might a couple struggling with the challenges of a relationship, I am far too close to this one and I have a feeling they need to figure this part out on their own.
But there was no mistaking the looks in both their eyes when they were tangled together in pleasure moments ago. They look at me the same way.
The phone buzzes again, finally, blessedly breaking the tension.
“We should get ready,” I say, sitting up.
They don’t argue, but I feel their reluctance.
“I need to check this,” Chris says, finally reaching for his phone. His expression shifts as he reads, something tightening around his eyes. “I’ll join you in the shower in a second.”
Wyatt and I exchange a glance but don’t push. We head to the bathroom while Chris types a response. By the time Wyatt has the water running, Chris appears in the doorway, phone left behind.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fine,” he says, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. “Just work stuff.”
We shower together—efficient this time, hands helpful rather than wandering. They wash my hair, Wyatt’s fingers working shampoo through while Chris rinses, both of them treating me like something precious. Such a small intimacy, but it feels monumental.
By the time we’re dressed and ready to leave, my anxiety has returned full force. My hands shake as I check for my insurance card, ID, the paperwork they told me to bring.
“Hey,” Chris says, taking my hands. “We’ve got you.”
“Both of us,” Wyatt adds. “You’re not doing this alone.”
I nod, throat tight with emotion I don’t have words for.
The drive to the surgical center feels both endless and too quick.
Wyatt drives me in my own car, while Chris follows behind us in his rental.
The morning traffic is light, Southern California sunshine already warming the air.
Halfway across town, Wyatt reaches across to take my hand in his and doesn’t let go.
“After this is over,” Wyatt says, “after you’re recovered, we’re going to take you somewhere. Just the three of us. Somewhere we can just... be.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you want,” he says, glancing over. “Beach, mountains, middle of nowhere. Your choice.”
“That sounds nice,” I say, even though we all know it probably won’t happen. There’s always another crisis, another mission, another reason to postpone happiness.
The surgical center is a gleaming building in Westwood, all glass and clean lines.
Chris pulls in beside us in time to open my door and help me out, and they both walk me in, flanking me like bodyguards.
Or maybe like partners. The distinction feels important, but my anxiety-riddled brain can’t parse why.
Check-in is a blur of forms and wristbands. Then a nurse in cheerful scrubs leads me back while Chris and Wyatt are directed to the waiting room.
“I’ll see you when you wake up,” Chris says, kissing my forehead.
“We’ll be right here,” Wyatt adds, squeezing my hand one last time.
Then I’m following the nurse down a sterile hallway, the sound of my heartbeat loud in my ears. She leads me to a pre-op room, hands me a gown and surgical cap.
“The anesthesiologist will be in shortly to place your IV,” she says with a professional smile. “Any questions?”
“No, I’m ready.”
She nods and leaves me to change. The gown is thin, the room cold. I sit on the gurney and try not to think about my mother, about hospitals, about the last time I was in a medical facility for something reproductive-related.
The anesthesiologist is a kind woman with steady hands who explains everything as she places the IV.
Dr. Cruz comes in next, reviews the procedure one more time.
She doesn’t ask again if I’m certain, a question I’ve had to reiterate on several forms as well as verbally since scheduling this procedure.
Her calm, no-nonsense presence and acceptance of my decision without question finally puts me at ease.
Maybe all it took was another woman’s understanding to validate that I was doing the right thing.
All she asks is “Are you ready?” in a gentle tone.
“I’m ready,” I tell her, and mean it.
They wheel me into the OR, the lights bright overhead. Someone places a mask over my face.
“Count backward from ten,” Dr. Cruz says.
“Ten... nine... eight...”
The last thing I think before the darkness takes me is how strange it is that the three of us found each other again, broken in different ways but somehow fitting together better because of it. Like kintsugi—more beautiful for having been shattered.
Then nothing.