Chapter 49
Nina
I don’t give him time to think. Thinking is what got us here. All three of us trapped in our own heads, circling each other for days while the distance grew teeth. I find the hem of his shirt and yank it upward, and he breaks the kiss just long enough for me to pull it over his head.
His chest is a mess. Bruises layered over bruises, some fresh and angry, others fading to that sickly yellow-green. The evidence of four days spent letting strangers beat the guilt out of him. He sees me flinch at all the damage and cups my cheek, gaze flitting over my face.
“Nina—”
“Later.” I don’t care about what happened before right now. I press my mouth to his collarbone, taste salt and skin. “We’ll deal with all of that later.”
I’m aware of Wyatt not far behind me. Still frozen where he was standing. Still processing like someone hit him in the chest with a two-by-four.
I haven’t forgotten him by a longshot, but right now, Chris is the one who’s been running, and I need him to understand that running stops here.
He slides his hands down my back, finding the zipper of my skirt.
He tugs and the fabric loosens, falls to pool at my feet.
The tunic-style blouse comes off over my head next.
Then he finds my bra clasp, unhooking it with a single flick.
My bra slides off my shoulders, and then that’s gone too, tossed somewhere behind him.
“Fuck.” His voice is rough as he cups my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples. The zing of pleasure from that brief touch is so strong my knees nearly buckle.
Then he spins me.
Before I can process, I’m facing the living room. Facing Wyatt, who’s standing maybe fifteen feet away with the entire space between us, his expression caught somewhere between stunned and starving.
Chris’s chest is warm against my back, his cock a hard ridge against my ass through his jeans. He slides his hands around to cup my breasts again, lifting them, presenting them.
“Look at her.” His voice carries across the room. “She’s been waiting for us. Aching for it.”
He’s not wrong. I have been.
My cheeks flush, but I don’t look away. Wyatt’s gaze drops to where Chris’s hands are kneading my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re tight and peaked. His jaw flexes. His hands clench at his sides.
“Almost two weeks,” Chris continues, rolling my nipples between his fingers.
I gasp, my hips jerking back against him involuntarily.
“So long wanting her and not being able to touch. And she couldn’t even get herself off, could you, Nina?
” His breath is hot against my ear. “Look at her—so responsive. So fucking desperate.”
His hands slide down my stomach. Across the room, Wyatt’s chest rises faster. He shifts his weight.
Chris hooks his thumbs into my panties and drags them down slowly, deliberately. I step out of them when they hit my ankles, still in my heels.
Now I’m naked except for my shoes, standing in the middle of the living room with the massive windows behind us and Wyatt watching from across the space. Chris slides a hand over my hip and between my thighs, fingers grazing against my wetness.
“Open,” he murmurs against my ear. I widen my stance.
His fingers find me slick, swollen. He groans low in his throat. “Christ, you’re so wet.” He slides two fingers through my folds, parting me, and I shudder. “Soaked. You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you, Nina? Imagining exactly this—both of us?”
“Yes.” It comes out breathless, barely a word.
“Tell him.” Chris circles my clit with his fingers, just enough pressure to make me whimper. “Tell him how badly you want us to fill you up.”
Across the room, Wyatt reaches down and adjusts himself through his pants, his jaw tight. I can see the outline of his erection straining against the fabric. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, tracking Chris’s hand between my legs.
“I want—” Chris pinches my nipple with his free hand and I lose the words for a moment, arching back against him. “I want both of you. Inside me. Everywhere. I want you to use me until I can’t think anymore.”
Wyatt makes a rough sound. Chris laughs against my neck, low and satisfied.
“See that? That’s what you do to him. What you do to both of us.” He adds a third finger and I cry out, clutching at his forearm. “Gonna fuck you so full of us you forget what empty feels like.”
He works me for another moment, fingers thrusting, palm grinding against my clit, while I try to stay upright and Wyatt watches with that hungry, desperate expression.
I’m close already, wound tight from days of being close without touching and the sheer obscenity of being finger-fucked while one man watches and another narrates.
Then he withdraws his hand.
I whimper at the loss. He brings his glistening fingers up to my mouth and I take them without being asked, sucking them clean, tasting myself. Wyatt’s breath catches audibly.
Chris steps back, gestures toward the sofa. “Bend over.”
The command in his voice sends fresh heat straight to my core. I brace my hands on the cushioned arm of the sofa and bend.
The leather is cool and smooth under my palms. The arm is the perfect height with my heels still on. Supportive under my hips, the leather warming quickly beneath me. My ass is in the air, my cheek pressed against the seat cushion, and I’m completely exposed. Vulnerable. Aching.
Chris traces a hand down my spine, rough fingertips leaving trails of fire on my oversensitized skin. Over the curve of my ass, squeezing once, appreciative. Between my thighs, where I’m even slicker now, somehow, swollen and desperate.
He slides his fingers through my folds again, parting me, and I shudder so hard it nearly brings me to tears. Too many days aching and empty and wanting, and now his fingers are finally where I need them and it’s almost too much.
“Please—” I don’t even know what I’m begging for. Everything. Anything. “Please, Chris.”
“Remember what you told us?” He slides his fingers deeper, curling against the spot that makes my vision blur. “Said you wanted us to wreck you so hard you forgot your own name.” He leans closer, breath hot against my ear. “We’re going to make good on that.”
“Wyatt.” Chris’s voice is calm. Commanding. “Get over here.”
I crane my neck to look. Wyatt is still standing where he was, but something in his expression has shifted. He’s watching us with naked hunger, one hand pressed against his cock through his pants like he’s barely holding himself back.
“She needs both of us,” Chris says. “And I know you want to. So stop standing there like you’re waiting for permission.”
“I’m waiting for her permission.”
I reach out a hand toward him. “Wyatt. Please.”
He moves then. Crosses the distance in a handful of strides, crouches down to my level, and takes my hand. The fact that he’s fully clothed feels obscene given that I’m bent naked over a sofa arm with Chris’s fingers inside me.
“Are you sure?” Wyatt asks. Always checking. Always careful. He pushes my hair behind my ear and cups the back of my head, looking into my eyes with earnest intensity.
“I’m sure. I’m so sure.” I tug at his shirt. “Take this off. Take everything off. I want to feel both of you.”
Bless him for his lack of hesitation, which is evidence enough of how in sync the three of us really are when we want to be.
He strips efficiently. Shirt revealing the lean planes of his chest, the lightly tanned skin stretched over hard muscle.
Pants, boxer briefs, and then he’s naked too.
His cock juts out from his body, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip, and I want to put my mouth on him so badly I can taste it.
He’s beautiful in a different way than Chris.
Longer, leaner, that rangy build that makes you underestimate how strong he actually is.
But Chris chooses that moment to slide his fingers deeper, crooking them against my front wall, and I cry out, my whole body jerking. After so long of nothing, even this simple touch feels like too much and not enough all at once.
“There she is.” Chris’s voice is low, satisfied. “Stay with me, Nina. Tell me what you want.”
“I want—” He finds my clit with two fingers, circles it with exactly the right pressure, and I gasp so hard I choke on it. “I want you to fuck me. Use me. Both of you. I want to stop thinking.”
“We can do that.” He withdraws his fingers—I whimper at the loss—and I hear his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he frees himself. “But you’re going to have to be patient. I’m taking my time.”
The blunt head of his cock nudges against my entrance, hot and thick, and I push back into it, desperate to be filled. He laughs—actually laughs—and grips my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me still.
“Patient,” he repeats. “You’re going to stay right here, bent over this sofa, and you’re going to take whatever we give you. Understand?”
“Yes.” It comes out like a plea.
“Good girl.”
He pushes in slowly. So slowly I want to scream.
My body stretches around him, the burn of it exquisite, and I feel every inch as he sinks deeper.
By the time he’s fully seated, his hips flush against my ass, I’m shaking with the effort of not moving.
I feel split open. Claimed. Finally, finally full after weeks of emptiness.
Wyatt still has his hand in my hair and bends down closer, forehead pressed to mine.
“Look at me,” he says in a low voice.
I obey and our eyes lock, and then his mouth is on mine, tongue plunging between my lips as Chris spreads me wide open and thrusts in once, gently, as if to test my reaction. All I do is moan against Wyatt’s mouth.
“That’s it. You let me know if anything hurts, got it?” Chris grips my hips, thumbs pressing into the muscle. “Fuck, you feel good. Tight. Like you were always made to take me.”