I kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, needy, trying to prove something I can’t articulate. Wyatt responds immediately, hands coming up to frame my face, kiss deepening.
We stumble backward until my back hits the wall. Wyatt’s body pressed against mine, solid and real and everything I need right now.
His hands slide under my shirt. My breath catches. This is what I’ve been avoiding—the intensity of wanting him, of being wanted back, without the safety of Nina between us.
I angle my head and deepen the kiss, grind my hips against his.
“Chris—” Wyatt’s voice is rough. “Are you sure?—”
“Don’t ask me that.”
Because if he asks, I’ll have to think. And thinking means remembering what I told him yesterday, remembering what I’m afraid of.
I pull him closer instead. Let need override fear. Let my body respond to his without analyzing what it means.
We’re moving toward the hallway when Wyatt stops.
“Wait. Nina’s sleeping.”
“I know. We’ll be quiet.”
He studies my face. Whatever he sees there must be enough, because he doesn’t argue. Just takes my hand and pulls me down the hall—past Nina’s closed door, past the bathroom, into the room I claimed at the end of the hall.
He shuts the door behind us and locks it. The city sprawls through the big window, all amber and white light scattered across the basin, and for a second I just stand there, chest heaving, trying to recalibrate. Then Wyatt’s hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, and his mouth is on my collarbone, my sternum, tracing the ridge of muscle along my ribs.
“Let me,” he murmurs against my skin. “Just let me take care of you.”
His fingers work my belt while his mouth moves lower. He strips it free, unbuttons my jeans, and pushes them down my hips with my boxers in one motion. I step out of them and sit. He kneels between my legs, and the city lights catch the sharp line of his jaw as he looks up at me.
Something in my chest cracks open at the sight of him there. Wyatt, on his knees, looking up at me with eyes that are dark and completely focused. He wraps one hand around my cock and strokes, slow and firm, his thumb dragging over the head until I’m fully hard and leaking. I hiss through my teeth.
When Nina did this a few days ago, it was play—part of a choreography between the three of us, her mouth on me while Wyatt was inside her, all of us tangled together. That morning was about her. This is different. This is just Wyatt. Just us. No buffer, no triangle to hide behind.
He holds my gaze and lowers his mouth onto me.
Hot. Wet. Deliberate. Not frantic like I was against the wall—this is something else entirely. He takes his time, tongue working the underside of my cock, lips tight around the shaft as he slides down and back up. He finds a rhythm that makes my vision blur and holds it there, and I make a strangled sound—low and raw and borderline desperate.
My hands find his hair. Fingers threading through, grip tightening when he takes me deeper and I feel myself hit the back of his throat. He swallows around me and I stop breathing.
“Fuck—” The word punches out of me. I tug his hair harder than I mean to, but he doesn’t pull back. He moans around my cock—a rough vibration that shoots straight up my spine—and then his hand leaves the base of my shaft, and I hear his zipper. I look down and he’s got himself in his fist, stroking in time with his mouth on me, his cock hard and flushed.
The knowledge that he’s getting off on this—that having me in his mouth is making him hard enough that he can’t wait, that he has to touch himself while he’s on his knees between my legs—I wasn’t ready for what that does to me. My hips stutter forward and he takes it, grip tightening on my cock, his other hand working himself faster. I can hear it, the slick sound of his fist, and it’s obscene and perfect and I want to watch but his mouth is so goddamn good I can’t keep my eyes open.
“Wyatt—fuck—I’m close—” I tug his hair again, a warning. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t even hesitate. Just hollows his cheeks, takes me all the way to the root, and swallows.
I come hard. Hips bucking up into his mouth, one hand fisted in his hair and the other gripping the edge of the mattress so tight my knuckles ache. He takes all of it—every pulse, every shudder—his throat working around me. His own breathing goes ragged against my thigh, his hand moving faster, and then his whole body tenses. He groans around my cock, low and guttural, and spills across the floor between my feet, forehead pressed hard against my hip.
We stay like that. His breath hot against my skin, my hand still in his hair but loose now, gentle, fingers combing through the mess I made of it. The city glitters through the window, fat drops of rain tapping against the glass.
After a minute he lifts his head, presses a kiss to my hip bone, and stands. He tucks his cock back into his boxers, zips his pants up, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The look he gives me is wrecked and tender at the same time, and I’ve never seen anything more honest than his face right now.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yeah.” My voice is shot. I reach for him, pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him. I can taste myself on his tongue and I don’t care.
He cleans us up—warm washcloth, quiet efficiency, wiping the floor up last. Then he starts collecting his shirt from the hallway, heading toward his own room.
