“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.”