* * *
She shuts the door behind Cal an hour later and leans against it.
She might be going about this the wrong way.
For one thing, while she’d anticipated that Cal would be difficult to talk to about this, she’d underestimated how difficult. Who couldn’t talk about a preference for blondes or brunettes or men with big dicks? And if he was that uncomfortable, all he’d had to do was say no. It’s not like she wouldn’t listen. It’s not like she’d judge him for his taste. Even if he asked for a wholesome kindergarten teacher. One who’s a virgin and never swears or drinks.
Not that Anya knows anyone like that, male or female.
Except Cal, for crying out loud. How the hell did a man like that even become a rock star?
The point is that she doesn’t understand why he makes it so hard. How hard is it to just say things? She does it all the time.
“I like men with big dicks,” she says to prove the ease of it.
Zac, walking down the hallway toward the living room after saying good-bye to Cal, does an about-face. “You rang?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
He takes an obvious glance around the otherwise empty hall. Then he tugs his waistband out several inches, peering down into his underwear with an appraising eye. Then he looks at her. “I’m pretty sure you were.”
She cannot laugh, or they’ll never be able to fight about this. “No, go away, I don’t like you, you’ve ruined everything.”
He puts a hand to his chest and affects a fragile, hurt expression. “Moi?”
“Toi.” She knows far more French than he does, and he should be reminded frequently that she’s better than him.
He grins, visibly enjoying her sharp edges. That acceptance never fails to make her weaken inside. That he delights in her innate meanness, her imperfect humanity, so much more imperfect than a woman is generally allowed to be—it’s part of why she loves him too. God, she loves him so fucking much.
“Okay,” she says. “You can put your dick in me. But then we’re going to fight about how stupid you are.”
“Hey, baby, as long as you open up those pretty thighs for me, you can call me stupid as much as you like,” he says, agreeable and charming and she would smack him except she’s too busy kissing him. He takes it deep fast, his tongue in her mouth, his hands cupping her hips, her ass, her pussy, taking her down to the floor right there, and then just taking her.
Later, after they’ve both come and she’s told him everything that happened in the basement and explained about how she’s never going to be able to get his best friend into bed with them if he continues to interrupt at the worst possible moments like a fucking idiot, he apologizes profoundly by going down on her again.
She decides he isn’t stupid anymore.
She takes a shower. As she soaps up, she remembers that moment of sheer gut-punching chemistry she’d shared with Cal in the basement. At least, she thinks it was shared. She hopes so. It’s discomfiting to realize that you kind of want to fuck the holy hell out of a person that you’ve already decided you don’t particularly like. Although she’s starting to suspect she does, in fact, like Cal after all. She might actually like him quite a lot.
So it’s not only for Zac that she’s doing this, she has to admit. She’ll have to tell him that, even though he’ll tease her about it.
Still, the question remains as to how to pull this off. It’s obvious by this point that Cal’s not going to act on the subtle signals that most men would. But she has to admit that the men who wait for clear words tend to be better men. They want to know, for a fact, that a woman wants them before they move. She likes that in Cal. It’s just not very conducive to a subtle seduction.
Perhaps that’s the problem. Seduction is the slow erosion of walls, helping someone see you differently so that they’ll begin to want you. Anya’s not a woman who was made for subterfuge of that sort.
She should’ve simply said, “I’d like to fuck you for Zac’s birthday. Would you like that?”
No manipulation. No games. No seduction. Just honesty. Just her and everything she is. He’ll respond to that, she thinks. He’ll respect her for not confusing him.
He’ll either want her or he won’t.
* * *
Anya doesn’t like strangers in her home, so there’s never a question that they’d find another location for Zac’s birthday party. She thinks at first to arrange for a trip to Vegas so they can go the clubbing route: hiring a limo to take them around town at their whim, rolling the dice at various casinos, grinding on each other in clubs until the sun comes up, surrounded by a blur of drunk friends along for the ride. But Zac’s done that a time or ten already. She thinks he’ll appreciate something more restrained for thirty-nine.
She opts for a 1940s-themed bash. She books the botanical gardens and arranges for a full orchestra. The invitations are delivered on creamy card stock and demand formal dress, causing a general air of merriment and surprise among their usual friends and colleagues, half of whom will likely pair their black-tie with black nail polish. Zac’s never worn a tuxedo before, as far as she knows—at their beach wedding she wore a red bikini and he was in board shorts. She knows he won’t complain about the penguin suit, though; Zac’s favorite drug is novelty.
Okay, maybe restraint is relative.
When the night arrives, there’s a blowsy singer with Victory Rolls in her hair wearing bloodred lipstick and breathing into a microphone on the bandstand. At the heart of the massive gardens is a courtyard with a resplendent stone fountain and enough space around it for dancing. White fairy lights twinkle from anything that’ll sit still, and fireflies tiptoe on lilacs in the distance, making the atmosphere heady, mystical. Waiters in waistcoats carrying trays laden with flutes of champagne weave between the open bar and tables draped in white tablecloths.
After dinner and the requisite toasts to Zac’s existence, the orchestra launches into a mixture of big band classics and modern covers. People start crowding the dance floor and everyone’s talking and drinking and it’s loud as hell.
Anya leans against the hip-high wall that encircles the courtyard, heels off, the grass cool and damp under the aching soles of her feet, taking a breather. She has a slight headache from the stress of managing all the details—she asked for no less than perfection, and she got it, but it wasn’t easy. Keeping the paparazzi out has required more than a few stern words to the security team she hired. But despite the messy underbelly of planning a party of this size and spectacle, it’s come together well.
Zac’s working the room, half-lit and laughing loudly, enjoying the admiration and happiness of friends around him. He’s in his element, the little attention-whore. She smiles, watching him, warmed by the sight of his dear, sharp face and wide, expansive gestures. He’s happy, and that’s what matters.