Cal carefully only looks at Anya, and she bends over to kiss him. Her mouth is sweet. He wonders if Zac would taste as good. Quickly he tries to turn his thoughts away. He doesn’t have permission for that. If Zac wanted him like that, he’d do more than watch, wouldn’t he? He’d do more than let Anya invite Cal to sit beside them. Cal doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, and besides.
This is already more than he thought he’d ever get.
Anya’s mouth slips away from his as she begins to move.
“Fuck,” Zac groans again, low and fervent, like a prayer. It makes Cal shudder. He can feel the muscles in Zac’s arm bunching and flexing as he helps Anya rock in his lap. Her oversized T-shirt keeps catching on the button of his jeans. Cal reaches over to tug it loose, and the shift of his weight makes him bump Anya’s leg. Zac’s right hand slips and lands on Cal’s knee. Cal’s fingers turn stupid; they can’t seem to figure out how to free Anya’s T-shirt, and Zac’s hand hasn’t moved. It’s still resting, light as a butterfly, on Cal’s knee.
Cal finally gets Anya’s T-shirt free and sits back. She looks somnolent and pleasure-drunk, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her cheeks riotously flushed. She doesn’t seem to care that her husband’s hand is on Cal’s knee. That Zac’s hand is slowly beginning to creep up Cal’s leg. That’s his thigh. Definitely his thigh.
He steals a small glance at Zac. Zac’s head is tipped back against the sofa cushion, his eyes on Anya’s face, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his collarbones peeking out from his shirt collar, the hollow at the base of his throat gleaming with sweat. Cal wants to taste him there. Cal can’t see much beyond little glimpses of the smooth skin of her pussy where the leg of her shorts is tugged to one side. The elastic of her underwear looks drawn painfully tight, but she doesn’t seem to mind it.
Cal asks, “Would you take your shirt off for me, Anya? Please?”
She whips it off over her head. She’s got a red bra on underneath, lacy against her creamy skin.
“God, you’re pretty.” Cal reaches over, strokes his thumb along the soft curve of one breast, gentle and slow, the polar opposite of Zac, and she arches her back, chasing his touch. She grinds down onto Zac at the same time.
“Yeah,” Zac mutters, gritty, and Cal loves the edge in his voice. He can’t help making a helpless sound in return, something shamefully needy.
Zac seems to think turnabout is fair play. He trails his hand higher on Cal’s leg, pausing only when his pinky finger brushes the bulge of Cal’s dick. Cal flexes his hips without meaning to. He can’t stop watching them, and so he sees the exact moment that Zac’s eyes open and flick toward his.
They’re looking at each other when Zac puts his hand on him. All of Cal’s breath jerks out of him at once, his hand falling back to his side, digging into the couch cushion, and Zac presses harder. It’s a groping touch, just like he’d used on Anya, and that should be off-putting maybe, but it isn’t. It’s so Zac, to reach out like it never occurred to him that he shouldn’t, to take so eagerly, so happily, and Cal lets his own head fall back, lets Zac grab him and work him through his jeans. Cal bucks up into it, gaze flickering between Zac and Anya. They’re both watching him now, and it’s overwhelming, even more so than it was last night when they’d gone even further. It hadn’t been both of them then, not the same way. He feels selfish and greedy and pinned to the sofa, trapped by their expectations, and it’s—God, how can he need it so bad?
“I’m gonna make you come,” Zac mutters, and Cal can’t—he can’t—Jesus. Anya’s moving faster, her breath getting louder as she works, and she’s slid a hand down into her shorts, touching herself.
“Yeah.” Zac whispers it, sounding hoarse. “Yeah, baby, come on.” Cal thinks he’s talking to Anya, but maybe not. It doesn’t much matter, because just the sound of Zac’s voice is enough to get him closer. Cal hasn’t come in his jeans since high school, but Zac’s hand is big and hard, so different from Anya’s, and it’s—it’s rude, the way Zac touches him, it’s ignoring any polite boundary, it’s possessive, and it’s too much pressure, but Cal doesn’t care. Zac’s hand is a million degrees and it’s sneaking down now to press—more lightly—against Cal’s balls, and Cal blurts, “No, please, please, I need—”
“Okay,” Zac replies, low and hoarse. “Okay, baby, I’ll give you what you need.”
There’s something humiliating about that sweetness, that pet name, and it shouldn’t make it hotter, but it kind of does, and Cal reaches down and holds Zac’s hand in place, bucking up into it, faster and harder.
Anya goes first, crying out and falling forward, catching herself on Zac’s shoulder, a wave of strawberry scent moving through the air as she does, and Zac grips harder, the heel of his hand almost shoving against Cal’s cock, and it’s way too much friction, too much pressure, and Cal arches and comes, eyes squeezed shut. The second the pleasure stops roiling through him, Zac abruptly pulls away. He’s got both hands on Anya’s hips now, and he’s fucking up into her hard enough that she makes a little whimpering sound.
Zac comes with a strangled groan, jaw clenched, and then he sags back into the couch. Anya slumps down against him, but her hand strays over to Cal’s shoulder, nails digging into his flesh through the fabric of his T-shirt.
She’s watching him through slitted eyes. Zac’s watching him too, more openly. Cal wants to get up, wants to leave, anything but feeling this picked apart and hot. His jeans are sticky and uncomfortable as his come starts to cool, and his damn cheeks are turning red yet again. He maybe would go, if he thought his legs would hold him. He’s not sure he’s sturdy enough to withstand what they’re asking of him. What they’re doing to him.
“Cal,” Zac says, a question and a statement at the same time, though Cal’s not sure how that’s possible.
Cal works up his nerve and looks at him. “Yeah?”
Zac lunges forward and kisses him. It’s awkward and messy, a railroad job, all tongue and lips and spit, and Cal shudders under Zac’s mouth, opening his own because Zac’s not really giving him a choice. This kiss, like everything about Zac, is something you either submit wholly to going along with, or you prepare yourself for a power struggle, because he’s not giving in quietly or easily. Cal couldn’t fight if he wanted to. Zac makes this hungry, almost angry noise, and grips his head, and kisses him harder. It’s the kind of kiss that should come before or even during sex, not after, but Zac doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t seem to care about what’s proper or good or right as long as he gets access, and Cal’s brain just—stops.
He kisses Zac back blindly, for long, desperate minutes, until Zac’s clinging and making little hurt noises and it’s so good, it’s so much better than he’d thought it would be all these years, it’s Zac and Cal can’t stop, doesn’t know how he could ever stop, Jesus, this is going to ruin him.