by Sidney Bell
The thing is, it’s working on her anyway. She likes being pushed, likes a little bit of struggle, and she really didn’t think he had it in him. She’s torn between begging him and slapping him, and he’s still watching her, probably taking notes in his head about whether she’s had enough.
And finally, finally, he gives her a dozen cruel, hard flicks of his tongue, so sudden that she almost flinches, and she’s gasping, “Fuck you,” even as she begins to come.
It hurts, a too-sharp, too-fierce pleasure, wrenched out of her, bright and brief. She kicks at him because his mouth is still moving on her, not giving her time to get past the sensitivity. He ignores the kick and keeps going, long, torturous, too-sensitive minutes and she cries out his name, furious, desperate, and then two big fingers slide inside her, stretching her wide just as he sucks on her clit and she comes again, a slow, heavy, long climax this time that takes ages to pass.
He sits up, using his thumb to keep it going, not that she notices that he’s pulled away until the pleasure finally passes. She’d sleep now if she could, but Cal’s got his jeans open and she has a dim awareness of male voices and movement in her peripheral vision and then the crinkle of foil. Before she can really register what he’s doing, he’s pressing inside her, thick and hot and stretching her almost painfully—he’s big, so big that she finds herself clinging to him, wide awake again.
“Oh.” She understands now. He wanted her really wet so she’d be able to take him more comfortably, but she’s so hypersensitive now from two orgasms that it’s impossible to stay still. She’s writhing underneath him, digging her nails in to his shoulders, and he soothes her with small kisses against her ear and jaw and throat.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Almost there.”
There can’t be more, because her eyes are already watering and her brain can’t even conceive of it, she’s already filled to bursting, but there is, impossibly, still more. He slides in that last little bit, and the pressure against her cervix is immense, but mostly she’s just stretched wide, and she has to lie there and pant for a minute.
“Easy.” He kisses her temples and her cheeks, finding her tears, nuzzling them away. “Take your time, I’ve got time, we can wait as long as you need. Just tell me when you’re ready.”
“Yeah, now you want my opinion,” she gasps. There’s no sharpness to the sentence at all, though she’d wanted it to be scathing. She feels unlocked, pinned beneath him, vulnerable in a way she’s never been vulnerable during sex.
He’s watching her again, and she has the acute sensation that he’s reading all of this on her, that he wants to see how she’ll react, that he did this to her on purpose so she’ll know—this is what it means to be my lover, he’s saying, with his body, with his touch, all without words, and she lost control somewhere along the way, maybe gave it up, maybe he took it without permission, she doesn’t know. All she knows is that they’re not fucking, they were never going to be fucking, Cal won’t allow that, the bastard, no, all Cal knows how to do is make love, and if this is what making love is, she’s not sure she’ll survive it. This isn’t bodies merging, this is people merging, down to their cores, down to their roots, not hiding anything, and she hiccups a little, crying without meaning to, and he keeps nuzzling her.
“Okay?” he asks, and she wants to shout no just to get some ground back, just to be contrary, but instead she’s nodding, nodding hard and clinging to him. He nods back. He reaches down between them, flicks her clit a few times, arranging the lips of her pussy so that she’s spread wide against him, and it’s dumb, but that has her blushing and embarrassed and trembling.
He smiles down at her, sweet again, and coaxes her thigh up with that same hand. His fingertips are wet from her as they guide her to lie how he wants her. She isn’t sure she can move at first, but it does help, shifting the angle slightly, tipping her hips up, and so she repeats it with her other leg of her own volition, and he groans, burying his head against her throat, and then he begins to move.
He doesn’t thrust, not really. He grinds, slow and with deep rolls of his hips, and her clit’s rubbing directly against him, exposed like a live wire. She’s not even sure what he means by that exactly until heat starts thrumming through her again, a vicious coil inside her. He’s going to try to make her come again, and the hell of it is, she thinks it might even happen.
After long, slow minutes, he’s fucking her through another orgasm, the pressure on her clit so intense and heavy that she’s scrabbling at his arms and shoulders, trying to get him to move faster, to slow down, to stop, to never stop. She can’t think. But he isn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve, and she intends to prove it. She reaches down and grabs his ass, digging her nails into that round muscle and yanking him deep inside her. He gives this stupid little wheeze, his whole body jolting. His eyes squeeze closed and he clenches his teeth, holding on by his fingertips, and she grins wolfishly. Did he think she’d be satisfied with her own pleasure? Did he think he could break her open and wreck her like this and that she wouldn’t demand the same? Honestly, doesn’t he know her better by now?
She rears up and bites his earlobe, uses her tongue on his throat, rolls her hips, taking him deeper and harder than he meant to go, and she can sense it in his breathing, in the quiet, helpless noises he’s making, that he’s fighting not to come now, that she’s taking him apart too. She pushes hard with one hand on his sternum to make him lift up on his arms, and isn’t that a sight, all that muscle taut above her? She lifts up as well, follows the curve of his body, going for his nipple with her mouth, plucking at the other with gentle flicks of her fingers, the occasional scrape of her nails.
He lets out a frustrated groan of defeat and suddenly rams himself into her, two, three, four, five times, and comes, his grip on her hips hard as steel, probably leaving bruises, and she smirks against his throat even as he collapses forward. He tries to catch himself so he won’t crush her, with middling success. He’s trembling and she kisses his temple, overwhelmed with affection for him, at how hard he tried to make it good for her, at how sweetly unselfish he is. He cuddles against her as he recovers and that’s sweet too. He’s so damn sweet. It makes something inside her go dangerously warm and gooey.
After a minute, he clears his throat. He holds on to the condom as he pulls out, and it makes her shake—well, it makes her shake harder, because she’s been shaking for ages, her body absolutely out of her control.
Cal moves like his legs hurt as he vanishes into the bathroom to get rid of the condom. He never even took his jeans off. The torn condom wrapper is on the floor beside her, surrounded by a handful of unopened ones, options of various sizes and brands. No doubt supplied by Zac in the heat of the moment, as she recognizes them from their stock upstairs, leftovers from their playing days. She’s glad Zac thought of protection, as she doubts Cal carries condoms, and it sure hadn’t occurred to her. Cal took her by surprise in more ways than one.
She rolls her head enough to see Zac’s stunned expression. His fly is open, but his dick is hidden behind the flap of his boxer briefs. One hand is cupped on his thigh.
Usually, he waits until the man they’re with has left, and then he’ll get her off a second time, come inside of her. Reassert his claim, like the caveman he admits he is.
“If you touch me right now, I’ll cut your hand off,” she mumbles. Now that she doesn’t have Cal on top of her and inside her like the world’s most potent distraction, other sensations—less pleasant ones—make themselves known. Her throat is dry and raw, and her pussy is wet and raw, and she feels sore and uncomfortable from tip to toe. An aftershock twitches through her that is almost painful in intensity.
“I don’t need to.” He gestures with his other hand toward the cupped one, and thank God he couldn’t wait, because he’d be out of luck otherwise. Any man who comes near her is getting an ice pick in the eye. Just let them try it.
Then Cal is there and he does touch her, he touches her face and her hair and smooths the last bit of wetness from her face, and she turns toward him, letting him stroke her as he says, “You’re so beautiful. It blows me away, Anya, how brave you are. You don’t hide anything.”
“It’s really hot in here.” Her voice wobbles, and she presses her lips tightly closed. If she says anything else, she might as well break down every wall and give him anything he wants, leaving her empty.
“Shower?” He looks at Zac. “Did you want...”
“How are you better in bed than me?” Zac sounds stunned. “I’ve had so much more sex than you.”
“Quantity and quality are two different things,” Cal says, prim and wry at the same time, and scoops Anya up in his arms bridal style. She’d get startled and grab him, but she can’t work up the energy, so she hangs there like a corpse and lets him manhandle her up the stairs. Not sexy, but she really can’t give a shit.
He’s not even breathing hard at the top, and that’s impressive. Or it will be when she has the brain power to think about it later. Zac’s behind them on the stairs complaining, and the rumble of Cal’s response is fond and indulgent. She smiles against Cal’s shoulder, feeling limp and sated and shaken and like she could sleep for a million years.
Cal puts her down in the bathroom and lets her slump against him, steadying her and working a hand through her hair. “Soon. Got to get you clean first.”
She probably smells like come and sweat and pussy. She certainly feels gross. Zac’s still whining as he starts the shower and then Cal bundles her in, saying something that she doesn’t listen to. Her eyes drift closed and she lets herself be pampered. Four hands are on her—two working shampoo into her scalp, two rubbing soap over her body. It must be Zac washing her hair, because those hands pause while a tiny, stubbled kiss rasps against the slope of her shoulder. Cal shaved before he came over. So it’s Cal nudging at her knee to get her to widen her stance, easing a soapy hand between her thighs. It stings—she’s so damn raw—and she makes a grumbling sound.
“Sorry.” He sounds truly apologetic. “I tried to get you really wet first.”
“You could’ve said you have a monster cock.” She burrows sleepily into his shoulder as he straightens, her cheek against the wet plane of his chest. Cal is built really nicely.
“No, I couldn’t,” he murmurs, and she supposes he couldn’t have. Cal’s words are happily trapped things, locked up and content to stay. The opposite of Zac’s words, which fly about so loosely that if he’s ever asked to constrain them, they beat against the confines, panicked, flailing. And she’s definitely exhausted if she’s getting metaphorical and ridiculous like this.
“I’m surprised you haven’t put it to more use over the years,” Zac says, rinsing off. “If I had a cock like that... I mean, it’s... Anya seems, you know, satisfied...”
She turns her head so she can see him. “I love your cock, baby. Don’t be sad. It makes me really happy.”
“Thanks, Animal,” Zac says softly, and she flaps a limp hand in his direction until he takes it. She squeezes and he squeezes back, and then she closes her eyes and tries to go to sleep on her feet like a horse. She drowses, fading in and out, and she’s dimly aware of Zac and Cal murmuring over her head. The water stops and the men dry her off and then guide her into the bed, with the cool sheets that smell like fabric softener and her and Zac together.
Cal leans down and kisses her forehead. “Thank you,” he whispers, and she yawns in his face, making him laugh. “Nice.”
She closes her eyes. She listens to Zac and Cal finishing up; water runs in the sink, the closet door opens.
She must lose a minute or two then, because when Cal says, “So... I should probably take off,” it manages to startle her awake.
“What?” Zac asks. “But...serious.”
“I know, but—”
“But you said this was serious,” Zac interrupts. “Serious stays the night.”
Cal’s quiet a moment. “I have some things to do in the morning.”
With the tone of an emperor demanding his due, Zac asks, “Like what?”
Cal doesn’t say anything and Anya sits up.
“I know it’s not work,” Zac tells him. “We don’t have anything scheduled. Tomorrow’s Sunday. So what’s the problem?”
Cal glances at Anya sidelong. She raises an eyebrow.
“I want to stay,” Cal says finally, aiming the words at her. “I have good reasons not to. Can you trust that they’re not about you? About how I feel? Being here?”
“Can you tell us what they are?” Anya asks.
“Of course he can. We are serious, after all,” Zac snaps.
“Knock it off,” Anya tells her husband. She drags a hand through her hair. Her eyes are gritty from dozing. She wants this conversation over. She wants Cal in their bed, where he belongs, or if that’s not possible, at least gone, so they can sleep and deal with it in the morning with clearer heads. “That’s not helping.”
“Like I give a shit about helping.” Zac throws himself into the armchair in the corner, right onto the pile of clean, unfolded laundry. “Going home after a fuck is kind of a telling move, asshole.”
Anya assumes that last one is directed at Cal because Zac knows better than to call her that.
“It’s not about you,” Cal insists. He takes a retreating step toward the door and Zac makes a thin, growly sort of noise. “I can’t—don’t—” He sighs. “It’s a longer conversation than I’m willing to have in the middle of the night. Can we leave it? Please? For now?”
Zac snorts, but Cal’s ignoring him anyway, aiming a pleading face at Anya.
It’s stupid that Anya’s the grown-up here. She’s twelve years younger than either of them. It’s stupid.
“Fine. Go.” She still wants to slap him. “Give me a kiss first. Jerk.”
He obeys, although he darts a wary glance at Zac’s glowering form first. The kiss is brief but sincere. Cal’s fingers stroke her cheek. Tears spring to her eyes, which is humiliating. She blinks them away. “You’re coming back.”
“Tomorrow,” Cal promises. “In the afternoon. I’m here with bells on.”
Zac snorts again.
“You better be,” she warns, and kisses him again. “I’m mean when thwarted.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Cal whispers. He backs away then, only to hesitate at the doorway, chewing his lip as he looks at Zac. “Hey, man, come on.”
“I know what it means when you duck out on a girl after you fuck her.” Zac doesn’t only sound hurt. He sounds pissed.
“Don’t pretend you’re pulling this shit on my behalf,” Anya tells him. “I’m not the one freaking out. If he can’t stay, he can’t stay. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“I know what it means,” Zac repeats, mulish.
Cal glances at him one more time, expression conflicted, faintly pleading, but when Zac doesn’t unbend, Cal sighs and leaves. Anya listens to the sound of him on the stairs, and then the front door thuds shut. She doesn’t hear his key, but she knows he’ll lock the door.
“You’re making a bigger deal out of this than it is,” she tells Zac, hoping she’s right. “Come get in bed.”
“Yeah, the guy who says he won’t put out until he’s got a commitment takes off after the first time he has sex with his new girlfriend. I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything.”
“I didn’t say it didn’t mean anything,” she says through her teeth. “It means he has something important to do in the morning. Giving him shit about it isn’t going to make him stay. And it isn’t going to make him feel like he can tell us about it.”
Zac opens his mouth, and she cuts him off. “When he’s ready. Not a minute before. Don’t you dare pressure him. If we’re serious, if we’re in this for the long haul—”
�
��We are,” Zac growls.
“Yes. We are. And that means that he needs to be able to trust us. We can’t fall into the same trap with him that we fell into with each other in Paris. He has to be able to talk to us. You’re the one who always says how hard it is for him to open up. We can’t make it harder and expect things to get better. Now please, for the love of Vivienne Westwood, get in bed.”
“I don’t know who that is.” Zac thumps onto the mattress beside her and steals all the blankets with sulky tugs.
“Someone cooler than you,” she snaps, and steals the blankets back.
Zac turns the light out. They lie in the darkness for a long time. Despite her reassurances to Zac, Anya finds it difficult to settle. She catalogs all the different things people might do in the mornings that aren’t related to work.
“He’ll come back.” Zac sounds uncertain.
After the past two weeks, it’s hard to fault him. She can well imagine Cal vanishing like smoke. “Of course he will.” She uses a tone that implies Zac’s being stupid, and she hears him sigh, reassured. His feet finally find hers under the covers.
“Of course he will,” Zac says, and sleeps.
It takes Anya longer. She can’t help thinking Cal would’ve told Zac what his morning plans were if she wasn’t there.
She’s not sure what that means.
Part Two
Cal
The morning routine is both simple and sacrosanct.
It begins at six when he rolls out of bed to go for a run. Except at the height of summer, that means he leaves his house in the dark. Three times a week, he lifts weights afterward in the home gym he’s built. He then showers and cooks breakfast: usually eggs, but sometimes when he’s feeling adventurous, he’ll have plain Greek yogurt with a little mushed-up banana added in for sweetness. This is accompanied by a kale smoothie. He allows himself a single cup of black coffee. Any more than that gives him heartburn; he’s not twenty anymore. He does the dishes and opens the blinds to let the sun in.