The power I feel dashes away every last shred of uncertainty and doubt about whether my need, my love, for these two men had any foundation in reality. I want them to shatter for me every bit as much as I came apart for them. And I want us all to fall into bed together and wake up together. I want us to have a life together, no matter what that looks like. No matter what anyone else thinks.
I’m grateful for the wetness on my face that hopefully disguises the tears that have started to fall. Even in the midst of passion I’m overwhelmed by the closeness I feel with them, and it’s only magnified when Wyatt reaches for Chris, hooking a hand at the back of his neck and pulling him into a desperate kiss.
I stroke faster, biting my lip against a fresh surge of arousal at watching them together, at how their kiss is rough and needy and almost violent, at how their hips both begin to buck into my grip, surging to meet each stroke.
Chris is first to let out a grunt and a groan that reverberates inside the shower. He breaks the kiss and clutches a hand at the back of Wyatt’s neck. Their foreheads are pressed together and they both stare feverishly at my hands moving up and down their shafts. Chris’s cock jerks in my grip and he gasps and his head flies back as his climax hits, hot semen shooting up and over my grip to splash against Wyatt’s wet belly.
Wyatt lets out an incoherent curse as he flies over next, the first couple spurts of his cum landing on my breasts and the rest flooding over my fist.
They remain hard and panting for a few more moments, and I keep a loose grip on them both, waiting.
“Jesus,” Chris finally breathes. “I fucking needed that.” He gives me an elated smile, then bends and kisses me. “I fucking needed you, Nina,” he says when he pulls back. They slip out of my grasp when he turns and hauls me into his arms, lifting me up heedless of the mess, the water splashing down around us. He holds me tight, still panting, then kisses me hard.
They wash each other and me more efficiently after that, the mood lighter than it’s been all night. When they step out I stay back. I tell them I need more time to finish washing and conditioning my hair, which isn’t a lie. But I also just want a moment alone to process everything that’s happened tonight.
They’re relaxed and quiet when I step into the bedroom again. Both still with towels wrapped around their waists. Chris is seated on the armchair by the patio doors, Wyatt is reclining against the pillows on my bed. Both men are looking at their phones, which figures.
It isn’t until I climb onto the bed that I notice Wyatt’s not actually looking at his phone, but has picked up my book and started reading the back cover.
“Circe?” he asks, glancing up with raised eyebrows. “Mythology?”
“Madeline Miller,” I say, settling beside him. He tucks one arm around my back. “It’s about a woman who refuses to be what everyone expects her to be. Who chooses transformation on her own terms.”
Chris looks up from his phone. “Sounds familiar.”
He sets his phone aside and joins us on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
The three of us settle into a comfortable quiet, Wyatt still holding the book, Chris’s hand finding mine. The moment settles into peace. No urgency, no desperate need to fill the silence.
But the contentment only highlights what’s been nagging at me since we left the shower.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “About the limitations tonight. I know it’s not... complete.”
Both men go still. Chris’s thumb stops its gentle circles on my palm. Wyatt sets the book aside.
“What do you mean?” Chris asks, his voice careful.
Heat creeps up my neck. “I mean not being able to have actual intercourse. I know that’s probably what you both wanted, and the restriction is only temporary anyway. I’m having surgery in two days to remove my fallopian tubes, so after I recover we won’t need to worry about protection or… s”
I trail off, suddenly aware that both men are staring at me with expressions I can’t quite read.
Did I just make this about logistics when it should be about connection? Did I reduce what we just shared to a checklist of sexual acts?
The silence stretches, and my stomach clenches with the familiar weight of having said too much, too fast, in the wrong way.
28
Chris
She’s sorry?
The words echo in my head as I watch Nina’s face cycle through embarrassment and uncertainty. She thinks she needs to apologize for having boundaries. Thinks what we just shared somehow wasn’t enough because we didn’t penetrate her.
It makes me want to find every person who ever made her feel like her worth was measured by what she could provide rather than who she is, and have a very pointed conversation with them.
I know that look. The way she’s curled into herself, waiting for judgment. It’s the same expression I wore for years—braced for the moment someone decides you’re not worth the effort.
“Nina,” I say, reaching for her hand. “Look at me.”
