“Like I’ve been lying by omission,” he says. “I know we haven’t been together for months, but I feel like I should have told you sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t know what it meant. Because it happened right after you left, and I was still dealing with the fact that you were gone, second-guessing whether I should’ve let you go.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I say quietly. “It’s not like you cheated.”
“He’s protecting me, is what he’s doing. If he told you, he’d have to also tell you that I ran. Again,” Chris adds, saving Wyatt from having to argue, to accept blame for something that is blameless. “Just like I did after the wedding. Left him to wake up alone and wonder what the hell it meant.”
The pattern is clear now. Chris breaks down, connects, then calculates his escape. Leaves Wyatt to pick up the pieces.
But that’s not all. The way they’re looking at each other now—charged, aware. Like they’re both thinking about skin and breath and the weight of bodies pressed together.
Like they’re thinking about me watching. Did they think about me when they were together in my old bed?
Heat pools low in my belly, sudden and fierce. I remember that night after the wedding. The way Chris had looked when Wyatt pushed inside him—vulnerable and desperate and beautiful.
The way they both looked at me like I was the center of their universe.
“Nina?” Wyatt’s voice cuts through my thoughts, rough with concern and want. “You okay?”
I’ve been staring into my coffee, my breathing shallow. Both of them are watching me now, and I register the exact moment they recognize the look on my face.
Want. Pure and simple and completely inappropriate given everything we’ve just discussed.
“I’m thinking,” I say, voice hoarse.
“About what?” Chris asks, leaning forward slightly.
You said no lies.
“About that night. About what we did.” I meet his eyes, then Wyatt’s. “About how it felt to see you come apart for each other.”
The silence that follows is electric. Chris’s knuckles go white around his mug. Wyatt’s breathing changes, becomes more deliberate.
“Nina,” Wyatt says, voice tight, like he’s holding himself back from the edge. It’s the kind of restraint he has when he wants too much but is afraid to let himself have it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I continue, my pulse thrumming in my throat. “That this is too complicated. That we should talk more first, figure out what we are to each other.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” Chris asks, but his voice is strained.
“Is it enough?” Enough for what, I’m afraid to say out loud. Enough to forget how complicated this all is for a while? Does it make sense to find the answers by increments, or do we have to have them all before we can move forward?
My body doesn’t seem to care about answers though. I stand slowly, their eyes tracking my movement. Both of their gazes drop to my breasts, heavy and unbound by a bra, the flimsy satin barely sufficient to contain them. My nipples are still hard as small pebbles, but it isn’t from the cold anymore.
Neither man speaks.
I’m close enough to Wyatt that I can see the pulse jumping in his throat. His gaze rises up to meet mine, radiating that banked heat. When I turn to Chris, his pupils have blown wide.
I move closer to Chris, close enough to reach out and touch his face, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. I brush my thumb gently beneath the swollen bruise on his cheek, but he doesn’t flinch. He only waits for me to make the next move.
Wyatt rises and stands behind me, his body heat warming my back as his hands settle on my waist. I feel his breath against my neck just before his lips brush the sensitive skin there.
Chris’s hand finds my thigh, the warmth of it searing through the thin fabric of my pajama pants, his touch firm and sure as it slides upward. The touch sends electricity racing through me, and I dip my head to capture his mouth with mine.
The kiss is every bit as hungry as the one we shared in Callie’s kitchen, but this time I lean into it instead of pushing away. Behind me, Wyatt’s mouth moves to my shoulder, his teeth grazing lightly as Chris continues his path up my leg to my hip, fingers digging in to pull me even closer.
I break the kiss to breathe, turning in their arms to face Wyatt. His eyes are dark with desire as I pull him down to me, and this kiss is different—slower but no less intense, while Chris maps the curve of my waist from behind with both hands, sliding them beneath the hem of my camisole until his fingers brush the skin of my belly and sides.
