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.”
