by Sidney Bell
“Jesus,” Zac whispers.
Cal sucks in a shaky breath and looks at Anya. “I wanted to hate you.” He makes a face that is at once miserable and apologetic. “I tried to. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” she says, her breath tight in her throat.
“But I couldn’t,” he adds quickly, earnest, a promise. “You make him so happy. I thought I knew what Zac being happy looked like, and then you came into his life, and it was like there was this whole other level that opened up. You took him there so easily, just by existing, and I couldn’t—do that—I couldn’t hate you. It wasn’t even five minutes after he introduced us that I knew I could only ever be grateful for you after that. As I started to get to know you, I started to genuinely like you too. I understood what he saw in you. You’re so bright, Anya, and so clear and honest and real...it wasn’t that he wasn’t serious, it was that he was waiting for the one, and I wasn’t the one and you were, and that—that was fine too, but if you were...” He gives the room at large a rueful wince.
“But if I was the one, why were we fucking other people?” Anya finishes for him. “One thing to lose him to the girl of his dreams. Another thing to lose him to a fling, or a cheater, or something that didn’t matter.”
“I don’t understand,” Cal replies. “I don’t know how he can’t care that I—you’re his wife. And you said it so easily, like it didn’t matter if it wrecked everything, and it felt—”
“Threatening?” Zac asks, no particular tone attached. He’s still and watchful, in a way he rarely is. The way he is with animals and small children he doesn’t know. Aware of his size and strength, worried about scaring them.
“I can’t have casual sex,” Cal says, ignoring Zac’s question. “I don’t—I can’t—I don’t—I don’t know how to—”
“That’s all you had to say, man.” Zac doesn’t sound angry anymore. He sounds soft. Gentle. “Just no. That you don’t want to. It didn’t have to be weird. I would’ve gotten over it. I’ll get over it. We’re fine. We’ll be fine.”
“I didn’t say I don’t want to,” Cal says, very quietly.
“Oh,” Zac says, and falls silent.
It’s a rare moment when Zac can’t think of anything to say, and Anya is in the same boat for once. She’s staring at Cal where he’s sitting in the middle of their kitchen, fingers interlaced tightly enough that his knuckles are turning red, and she can’t decide what to do. There’s no easy answer here. She promised they wouldn’t push. But her whole body is poised to jump; her heart is crashing behind her breastbone. Every instinct tells her that Cal feels it too, that he wants it every bit as much as they do but can’t figure out how to say yes.
“I’m sorry,” Cal says finally. His shoulders slump as if he’s exhausted. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry. I should go.”
Zac looks at her helplessly as Cal rises and heads for the door, and it’s obvious that this is it, this is their last chance. If they let him go now, it’ll go back to how it was, never to be mentioned again. Anya doesn’t like that idea at all, but what Cal needs is so much bigger than what they ever thought to ask for.
“What do we do?” Zac mouths. Torn, Anya stares back at her husband.
* * *
Once, when Anya was being young and dramatic (before she grew up to be older and dramatic), Anya’s mother asked her to choose between going to the last summer camp she’d get with her girlfriends before they all split up to go to different high schools and staying at home to build upon the momentum of a few thankless, small modeling jobs. All the logical arguments for one or the other had been useless. Both options had their costs and benefits. After a minor meltdown resulted, Anya’s mother taught her a trick.
“If you’re ever not sure what to do, try this,” Bonnie Alexander said, her fingers businesslike on a tissue as she dried her daughter’s wet cheek. “Pick one. It doesn’t matter which. Just pick it, and imagine yourself going through with it, imagine the outcome and the consequences of being stuck with it. And then see if you’re more relieved or disappointed. It’s not a test for the head, it’s a test for your gut. That doesn’t always tell you the right answer, but it will tell you the one that’s strongest inside you when you’re conflicted.”
“Summer camp.” Anya pictured coming back from camp tanned and relaxed to learn that her agent hadn’t called in weeks because all her traction was gone. Her face must’ve revealed her feelings, because her mother nodded.
“I’ll cancel your spot. Then I guess we’d better call the agency and tell them to set up those jobs. And the next time you curse at me while you’re upset, you’re going to be grounded, so watch your mouth, young lady.”
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Cal says. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry. I should go.”
As he leaves the kitchen, Anya decides to let him. She pictures the aftermath, her and Zac alone in the kitchen awkwardly looking away from each other, Zac hurt and upset and trying to hide it for weeks or even months, unrelieved by Cal’s continuing presence in his life because now that he knows what they could have, even the best friendship might feel like settling.
That’s upsetting, but it’s a moot point if her own feelings don’t mirror her husband’s.
So she imagines her own reaction. She doesn’t have the same history with Cal, and their bond is still new and fragile. She would be all right. It would take time, probably, but it’s not like her feelings for Cal are as strong as her feelings for Zac. Real love is wild and reckless, and that’s not what’s happening here between her and Cal, is it?
She remembers again the way he knelt in the grass to help her with her shoes, the way he glared at her when he was angry, the fact that he tried to hate her for stealing Zac away but liked her too much to manage it. She remembers the sour unhappiness in her belly at the idea of losing the opportunity to really know him.
She’s not sure how wild or reckless it is, but she can’t say that it’s not real.
She pictures Cal introducing them to a new girlfriend, someone young and pretty who always smiles and would never, ever ask him to have a threesome. Cal would be handsome and appropriate standing next to her, everything a man should be—upright in spine and character. The perfect couple, people would say. And if that were what he actually wanted, she wouldn’t judge him for it.
But that’s not all there is to Cal. He’s not the boring good boy she once assumed he was. Cal is also a man who writes bleak, vicious music, who falls for moody, dramatic guys like Zac, who leaves his family and his small hometown and his high school sweetheart behind because the safe, ordinary life he was born into can’t satisfy him.
Anya wants to claw this imaginary new girlfriend’s face right off. And then she wants to claw imaginary cardboard Cal’s face off for good measure for not having the guts to reach for something more complicated, for a love that would feed both sides of his nature. It’s a thunderstorm, the rage and jealousy building inside her at picturing that superficial, bland happiness, at knowing everything that Cal has locked tight away inside himself in order to attain it.
She imagines never dancing with him again.
Anya moves fast, like she’s got wheels, and manages to get down the hallway and through the foyer just as he’s opening the front door. She crashes into it, shoving it closed and putting herself between him and escape. He stops, frowning at her.
She peers around his broad shoulders and sees Zac catching up, out of breath from more than the brief walk, eyes wide, hopeful. She has the fastest conversation with her husband that she’s ever had, a silent collection of pointed expressions that speak volumes, and he ends by nodding, by nodding hard, and she nods back. She straightens, looks Cal dead in the eyes, seeing his uncertainty, his fear, his longing.
“Do you want me?”
“Yes,” he whispers. “But I can’t—”
“And yo
u want to stay? With us? As long as it isn’t casual, you want it?”
He stands there for the longest time, searching her face, before he gives a jagged nod.
“This is serious. We’re serious,” she promises, and rises up on her toes to kiss him. She means it to be chaste, something warm and affectionate so he knows that he’s safe saying these open, terrifying things that are so difficult for him, but Cal’s mouth is soft and wet and surprisingly receptive, yielding against hers, lips parting, giving, letting her lead. It’s heady, how sweetly he responds, how readily.
He doesn’t touch her until she touches him, and then he mirrors what she does—she cups his face and so he returns the favor; she puts her hands on his hips, and he does likewise. She wants to be held, so she puts her arms around him, digging her fingers into the muscle of his shoulders. He squeezes back, more gently, careful, careful.
He told her once that he wasn’t good at being intimate with people, that he wasn’t the type of man most people wanted when they thought of fucking a rock star.
Most people are stupid. Cal’s cautious and respectful, but not unskilled. In fact, he’s a pretty damn good kisser. She likes Zac’s sloppy enthusiasm, the way he’s so damn pushy because it makes her feel desirable and wanted, but Cal’s smooth as satin. He coaxes instead of pushing, seduces instead of demanding. He kisses the way he waltzes, with grace and control and intense awareness of what she needs.
It’s so good. She likes it so much more than she expected to. Enough that she wants more, wants more of everything. She gets closer, rocks against him, lifts a knee to wrap her foot around his calf, trusting him to balance her, and holy shit, he does one better, lifting her with one arm around her waist and turning and walking her backwards a couple steps until they hit the wall. Gently, of course, he’s always so gentle, but she’s still gasping at the sheer strength it’d taken to do that, as if she weighed nothing at all. He hadn’t even broken the kiss to do it, and that’s before she realizes that he’d also been considerate enough to aim for the wall so she wouldn’t get a doorknob in the back.
What a smooth fucking devil he is.
Now he’s pressing her against the wall, letting his body rest against hers almost politely, if there can be such a thing, and he’s so solid and warm around her that she’s—she’s done waiting, she’s done—
“Fuck, take this off,” she demands, wrenching at his shirt.
He lifts his head. He seems confused for a brief second, like he’s lost all sense of time and place. “Really? I—okay.” He pulls back, stripping out of the T-shirt, and then there’s just muscle and bare skin and a light spattering of hair across his chest that leads down into a thickening line that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans. He’s strong and masculine and his shoulders are ridiculous and she wants to bite him.
So she does, right on the thick wedge of muscle that joins his shoulder and his throat, and he jolts against her, burying his face in her hair.
“Oh,” he says, low and shocked and breathy, and she grins against his skin, licking at him, viciously pleased at how easy he is. He’s going to give it up so sweet, he’s going to let her do anything, and she wants to take him apart, make him blind and desperate until he’s begging.
“Upstairs,” she says, and when he doesn’t move, only stands there panting into her hair, she adds, “Cal. Come on. Upstairs.”
He heaves a big exhale and straightens. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes kind of glazed and stunned, and she wonders what the hell kind of stupid-ass people he’s been dating that none of them ever thought to throw him down and take a chunk out of him.
Jesus, that’s what you get when you date kindergarten teachers who never smoke or drink or curse. She pictures that polite, nice woman again and smirks in triumph at her imaginary ass. “Upstairs. Bed. I want to fuck you. But first you’re going to go down on me.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, and she’s not sure if the haze in his face is because he likes going down or because he likes that she’s bossing him around, but whatever, they have plenty of time to figure it out.
She glances past him, sees Zac at the threshold of the foyer, his blue eyes slumberous and hungry, his usually lazy body strung tight, one hand clutching his waistband like he wants to touch himself but doesn’t want to jump the gun. He’s hard already, she can see him long and thick in his jeans. She can feel his gaze on her, on them, waiting for more. It makes her arch against Cal, where she can feel him against her, every bit as thick and firm.
“And Zac’s going to watch.”
Cal shudders against her. “God, why?” he asks, soft enough that Zac probably doesn’t hear, a question in his eyes. “Does he—? I don’t understand.”
“He likes it.”
“He won’t feel left out?”
She has to kiss him for that. “You’re so damn sweet.” She kisses him again. “He might join us sometime, but probably not tonight. He won’t feel left out. He wants this. He wants to see you give it to me. He wants to see us come. Don’t worry about him. He’ll say if he needs something.”
Cal smiles faintly. “Well, that’s the truest thing you’ve ever said.”
She laughs and boosts herself up, trusting him to catch her. He does, his big hands cradling her thighs. She digs her fingers into his hair and tips his face up to kiss him again, as filthy and deep as she knows how.
Now he groans, now he squeezes her tightly enough that it’s hard to breathe. He kisses her back, and it’s not the rocket burst of wild arousal that her husband brings out of her, zero-to-sixty in 3.5 seconds. No, Cal is an undertow, a surprising, deceptive pull, taking her under so deftly, so warmly, that she doesn’t realize the danger until her head’s far under water.
He carries her through the living room, breaking the kiss twice to avoid running them into anything, and then pauses at the foot of the stairs. He clearly isn’t interested in putting her down, but he doesn’t want to break the mood by killing them both with a misplaced step either. She laughs at his indecision, murmurs “Put me down” against his mouth, and then decides she’s too impatient to wait any longer and keeps going, all the way to her knees, dragging at his jeans.
He follows her down to the carpet, bending over her, kissing her as he strokes her belly where her shirt’s ridden up. He doesn’t try to remove any more of her clothes, so she does, wriggling out of her sweater and leggings and slouchy socks. Around-the-house clothes, and she’s grateful she took the time to shave her legs this morning, because he’s touching her calves and kissing her knee and mouthing at her thigh, lips open.
She sees a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. Zac’s sliding down to sit on the sofa, apparently realizing that they’re not getting to a bed anytime soon. She watches him for a few seconds as Cal’s hand strokes up to her hip, playing over the fabric of her panties, because little in the world gets her hotter than Zac’s expression when he sees her like this—the way his eyes go wide and startled, the way his mouth goes soft as if he’s hurting, the way his fingers stretch and flex as if he wants to jerk off but won’t let himself. He’s too caught up trying to memorize the moment, and his own cock becomes a secondary concern.
Cal’s breathing over her, a soft gust of warm air, and she spreads her legs, grabbing him by the hair and saying, “Please, please,” even as she lifts her hips to shimmy out of her panties.
He helps, then pauses, frowning at the mostly bare skin between her thighs. “Oh.”
“What? It’s a Brazilian. It’s bathing suit season. Get—are you—seriously, is this a problem?”
“I’ve never seen one outside of porn,” he says a little defensively, although the flush on his cheeks is moving down his throat now. His fingertips stroke very lightly at the small strip of hair on her mound, hesitant, curious.
“Cal Keller watches porn?” She makes her eyes very wide. “I’m shocked. I’m appalled. Are you going
to eat me out or what?”
He doesn’t give her the admonishing or embarrassed look she’s expecting. She’s not even sure he’s listening. He’s too focused on stroking her, his touch light and slow along the naked, tender skin. He slides his fingers in between her pussy lips, his breath shuddering out as he finds her wet, his gaze darkening as he plays with her. That’s what it feels like, being played with. Like she’s something he’s discovering, trying out, enjoying. There’s something innocent about it, the way he searches out the sensitivities of her body. She drops her head back onto the carpet, getting lost in the sensations, her hips jerking, the heat ripping through her at the glancing, inconsistent pressure on her clit, all of it amplified by the tinge of insecurity that comes of knowing he can see everything.
She pries her eyes open, wanting to tell him off for going so slow, and finds him already staring at her face. As she stares back, his expression shifts, going stubborn and hard and a bit apologetic. She opens her mouth to ask why, because it’s a strange expression, given the circumstances, but then he’s putting his mouth on her and she loses track of every question in her head.
Zac always goes down like a swimmer cannonballing into a pool—fast, greedy, messy—but Cal goes down like a tease. He’s slow, thoughtful, gentle, and it isn’t long before she’s moaning, “Harder.”
He hums softly in acknowledgment and keeps going with the same amount of pressure as before.
She makes a soft protesting sound—she’ll never come if he doesn’t listen. “Harder, Cal.”
He lifts his head enough to say, “I heard you the first time.”
But he still doesn’t go harder. He simply lies between her legs and licks her and kisses her and fucking teases her, his gaze flashing to meet hers up over the long line of her torso, and she had no idea that Cal was secretly an asshole in bed, but he is. He knows it’s driving her crazy, and he’s not going to give an inch. She grabs him by the hair and tugs, hard enough that it must hurt, but he only braces himself and lets her get as mad as she wants, taking his dear old sweet time about it as if he has all night.
