His hands shake. He touches her everywhere, ravenous, desperate, stroking her breasts through her shirt, fingers fascinated by the bumps of her spine, his lips eager on her throat. He’s gripping too hard but he can’t stop himself, afraid she might slip away, like he might wake up to realize that this has all been a dream, this kindness, this heat. He can’t believe she’s real, that someone this brave and smart and unflinching would ever let him touch her, let alone look at him like she’s feeling something similar. But it’s there in her gaze, in the way her breath hitches at his touch, at the way she shudders under his mouth.
Dimly, he remembers that Zac is downstairs, hiding his tequila, taking care of him while Cal’s up here kissing his wife, and maybe they should call for him. Maybe Zac would like to see. Maybe it’s not fair to do this without him. But he can’t think well enough to be sure, and Anya doesn’t seem to think it’s wrong. She’s sliding out of her chair, pulling him down to the floor with her, and then he’s on top of her, between her thighs, kissing her hard, and it’s nothing but heat and fury and speed then. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.
He goes down on her there on the shaggy white rug, his fingers inside her, his other hand in his jeans the second she finishes crying out her orgasm, fumbling his cock free and jerking off until he’s coming on her belly. She smiles up at him, sweet and dozy and pink-cheeked, and he bends and rests his mouth against her thigh, closing his eyes and hoping she’ll hear what he can’t say.
He doesn’t know how long he’ll get to keep this, but whenever it ends, they’re going to have to pry it out of his clutching hands.
* * *
When they go downstairs later, Zac’s lounging in front of the television, long legs propped up on the coffee table. His jeans are open and he’s touching himself through the fabric of his boxer-briefs. He’s like a louche, lazy panther, relaxed and watchful at the same time.
Anya goes to perch on the arm of the couch beside him. “You could hear us, huh?”
“I could hear you.” Zac’s eyes slide past his wife to where Cal’s fidgeting in the doorway. That look is a brand on his skin. “Cal’s quieter.”
Cal wishes he had some rules for this thing they’re doing. “It’s all right, isn’t it? That we...”
Zac’s brow creases for a second. “Yeah, man. It’s fine.”
Cal nods. He likes watching Anya brush her fingers through Zac’s hair. She did that for him a little bit ago. He hopes it makes Zac feel the way it made Cal feel: sleepy, cared for, and like he wanted to shiver, all at the same time.
Anya leans down to kiss Zac, and he grabs at her. Cal’s never seen them do more than a quick hug or a pat on the bottom or a kiss. He didn’t know Zac was the type who, well, groped. Cal feels weird about it, a lifetime of conditioning whispering that it’s too rough, too disrespectful. Except Anya would speak up if it bothered her, and she seems to be enjoying it. She must like that Zac’s so vulgar about the whole thing, so enthusiastic that he doesn’t care to take his time. If this is her usual preference, he wonders if she finds his own touch lacking. He hopes not.
She slides off the arm of the couch to straddle Zac and his hands go to her breasts, squeezing, hard enough that Cal wouldn’t have dared, too worried about hurting her. Then he’s mouthing her nipples through her shirt and bra.
“Did he get you nice and wet, baby?” Zac murmurs, and Cal’s mouth goes dry.
Anya makes a humming sound of affirmation, her head falling back.
“Fuck,” Zac whispers, and sits up straighter. He slides a hand down between them, fingers reaching in through the leg of her shorts. She gasps and grabs his shoulders, and Cal finds himself sinking into the armchair. He feels like he’s doing something wrong by being here, by watching, but he’s not sure if that’s actually true. They know he is. He has permission.
Permission or not, it feels illicit. Intrusive. He shouldn’t be doing this. And yet he can’t stop watching: Zac’s hands, lean and veiny with their blunt-tipped nails, clutching and taking, Anya’s hips rocking into his touch. Yeah, she probably is still wet and slick from Cal’s mouth.
Is Zac trying to touch her where Cal had touched her? Cal’s cock—despite being so recently sated—twitches in his jeans. How can that be so hot? He leans forward, eyes drawn to where Zac’s fingers disappear into Anya’s shorts. He’s got at least one finger inside her, and she’s working against the heel of his hand. He’s biting her nipples now, leaving wet marks on her shirt.
“Harder,” she groans, and Cal has to suck in a breath.
Zac’s digging his jeans open with his free hand, pulling his dick out, settling it against his belly. Cal hasn’t seen him hard before. Cal stares, unable to help himself. Zac starts yanking at the crotch of Anya’s shorts and panties—red lacy ones, Cal remembers, and shifts, trying to make room in his own jeans for his erection.
When Zac’s gotten the fabric tugged to one side, baring her, he holds his dick up so that Anya can shift and sink down onto it. They both sigh as she does so. Anya leans forward, cups Zac’s face in her hands, and kisses him, slow and sweet. Zac kisses her back, a hum of pleasure resonating from the back of his throat. Cal’s never heard him sound like that, so tender, so soft. Cal drops his gaze to his lap, only barely able to see them moving in his peripheral vision. It’s too much to watch them like this, like a thief or a spy, stealing something precious. He doesn’t understand why Zac likes this so much. His stomach hurts. They’re beautiful together, so beautiful that it’s blinding, like glancing at the sun. Overwhelming.
“Come here,” Anya says. “Hey. Come here.”
Cal realizes she’s talking to him. She’s stopped moving, one hand pressed lightly against Zac’s throat, holding him in place, although he’s still giving compulsive jerks with his hips. He whines in protest at having to wait.
“I’m fine.” Cal’s a little embarrassed at how rough his voice is.
“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” Anya says, and it would be matter-of-fact except that she’s out of breath. “I asked you to come here.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“If you were intruding, I would say so.”
He can’t get up. How can he go over there? She’s so beautiful, and he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch her, and that’s nothing compared to how they look together, to the love that suffuses the very air between them. The living room might as well be miles long.
Anya says, “I’m not going to let him come until you’re kissing me.”
“Fuck, Cal, get over here,” Zac grunts out, and Cal couldn’t resist that if he wanted to. His feet move of their own volition. He pauses beside the couch, not knowing how to—where to—but then Anya takes his hand and tugs him to sit down beside Zac. They’re all suddenly touching: Cal’s thigh burns where Anya’s calf is pressed alongside it, and Zac’s shoulder is against his, warm and sturdy.