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.
