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Her arms were still above her head, palms up, giving her the appearance of a woman in the pose of ultimate surrender.
Hugo withdrew his finger, his sudden departure capturing their beautiful wife’s attention. Hugo held up the tube that Lancelot handed him. She blinked once, twice, then smiled softly.
Lancelot grasped her good hand, pulling her to a sitting position as he claimed her spot. Then he pulled her over him. Her legs straddled his waist, his erection nestled along her slit until he lifted her hips and guided himself back inside her. Unlike the first time, when he’d slammed into her, grasping, needy, desperate, this was a slow, silky slide, but it didn’t feel any less powerful.
Once he was seated to the hilt, he tightened his grip on her hips, holding her steady when it was apparent she was ready to ride. Then he reached up with one hand, wrapping it around her neck to guide her upper body lower, until they lay chest to breasts and he could kiss her, long and deep.
Their lips parted and he glanced over her shoulder to where Hugo waited, kneeling between their outstretched legs.
“Waiting for me this time?” Hugo teased. “That’s nice of you.”
Lancelot shot him a look that was half guilt, half tough-shit. “You’re going to have her all to yourself for the next—”
He stopped, realizing he didn’t know how long they’d be apart. Then he silently cursed himself for bringing it up now, here.
Hugo ran his hand along Lancelot’s thigh. “We won’t be apart for long. Believe that.”
Sylvia had lifted her head, her eyes sad until Hugo spoke. Then, like their husband, she nodded. “The Masters’ Admiralty has the smartest, bravest people working to find this man. He won’t be able to hide for much longer.”
Lancelot gave them both a grateful smile, then lifted his hand to cup her breast, squeezing it tightly, anxious to put them back in the moment he’d so stupidly thrown them out of.
His touch had the desired result as Sylvia groaned with pleasure. Her pussy clenched around his dick, and he grunted as well. “Hugo.”
He didn’t need to say more. The professor was indeed well-versed in lovemaking, recognizing that Lancelot was a man on the edge, constantly struggling for control when it came to Sylvia.
Hugo ran a finger along Sylvia’s spine and she shivered in response. Then he opened the lubrication and went to work.
From his vantage point, Lancelot couldn’t see what Hugo was doing, but he could feel more than he would have imagined, and the rest he could figure out from Sylvia’s reactions—her slight jerks, the way her inner muscles quivered against him, and her soft cries. Her breath was hot against his neck, her face buried there as she tried to acclimatize her body to what was clearly a new experience for her.
Lancelot had counted to nearly two hundred when he saw Hugo place the lubrication on the nightstand, felt his knees brushing his inner thighs.
Sylvia stiffened until Lancelot cupped her face in his hands and drew her lips to his for a gentle kiss. “Relax,” he whispered.
Lancelot felt like the wealthiest man on earth when, just like that, she did.
Trust. Love.
He’d never experienced those feelings like this. Never fully understood their power until now.
Hugo held his cock and slowly pressed it into her ass. Though he couldn’t see, Lancelot was still there for every part of the journey, could feel the other man’s cock through the thin membrane separating them inside her.
None of them dared to take a breath until Hugo was completely inside, then all three of them expelled long, loud sighs.
They remained still, and Lancelot struggled to beat back some pretty potent emotions. He wasn’t the kind of man to cry, but part of him felt as if that was what he wanted to do. He’d never lived in a more perfect moment. For this one nanosecond of time, he was in the perfect place with the two people he would love until the day he died.
Hugo was the first to move, sliding slowly out until only the head of his cock remained, then pushing back in. It took fewer than a dozen strokes to find the rhythm. Sylvia came first, her body shaking between them as she cried out their names. Neither he nor Hugo stopped moving.
God, Lancelot couldn’t stop. He gripped a handful of her hair, pulled her lips to his.
“Love you,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Love, God, love, you.” Sylvia’s response was punctuated by Hugo’s faster thrusts into her body.
Lancelot fought to hold on to control, but it felt too fucking good. The next time Sylvia came, he was there with her, shouting her name, his words thick with his Scouse accent. “Fookin’ ’ell! Sylvie. Sylvie, luv.”
Hugo was the last to come, managing to hold on for just three strokes more. Like Lancelot, he slipped into his own native language. Lancelot didn’t understand half of what his husband said, but there was no mistaking the tone—the wonder and the love.
As they slowly disentwined, they each found their spot on the large bed, Sylvia nestled between them as the three of them touched, kissed, and whispered, planning their future, dreaming of children, wrapping themselves up in love and hope, while firmly ignoring what was currently their reality. There was no place for fear in their honeymoon bed.
