“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.