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Sylvia continued to tell them about everything she’d seen that night. How Mrs. Rutherford had recognized her hesitance and in that calm, patient way she had, she found a way to explain how it made her feel to see her husband naked, bound, completely at her disposal. She spoke of feminism and power. She lifted her whip to bring it down on her husband’s back, his bare ass, his strong thighs, demonstrating exactly what she meant through her actions, her rough whipping, her harsh demands.
As she spoke, Lancelot’s eyebrows crept up his forehead, while Hugo looked a bit ashen, eventually turning to look out at the water.
Then Sylvia explained how Mrs. Rutherford described the beauty of desire and submission and mercy. “As she told me what those words meant to her, she gently stroked her fingers and lips over her husband’s skin, paying closest attention to the marks left behind by the lash.”
“What about Mr. Rutherford?” Hugo asked stiffly.
“Mr. Rutherford remained silent throughout the entire scene, yet I felt he’d spoken to me as much as my teacher, with his pleading, hungry eyes, his quiet gasps of pain, his moans of pleasure, the soft clatter of the chains as his arms and body trembled. And then most of all when it was his wife’s name—Alicia—on his lips as he came. When it was over, Mrs. Rutherford pulled me close and whispered, ‘Poetry without words.’”
And that was only one of the scenes she’d seen that night. All of them had been beautiful in their own way, and seeing them had shaped her. It made her more accepting, more perceptive of the potential within each person for deep, complex passions.
“Watching them,” she admitted softly, after she finished describing all she had observed that night, “was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
“Why did you tell us this story?” Lancelot asked, his expression vacillating between curious and scowling. Hugo had turned away from the water, his gaze intense.
“Before that weekend, I’d viewed sex only as an extension of love. But it’s so much more than that. Mrs. Rutherford and I have had several conversations about this since then. She’s encouraged me to explore my sexuality, to view my sexual journey as an opportunity to discover all these hidden facets within myself. To explore those shadowy places that fall outside societal norms of desire.”
Sylvia began flipping through her sketch pad, looking for a certain page, even though she had every line drawn on it memorized.
When she found it, she turned it toward them. In the center was a sketch she’d drawn of herself, naked, her arms stretched upwards, her legs parted.
Sylvia laughed softly as both men’s eyes widened. “It’s just a rough sketch, showing things I’ve done as well as things I long to do.”
“It’s…” Hugo looked up at her. “You’re beautiful.”
Around her body were icons that represented her experiences as well as her desires. She pointed to the rope dangling from one wrist. “Bondage.”
“An experience or a dream?” Lancelot asked.
“Experience.” She pointed to the four masculine hands on her body, two near her waist, the other two on her upper thighs. “Two men. A ménage.”
Hugo’s gaze lingered on the drawing a second longer before he looked at her, not bothering to voice the question again.
“A dream,” she whispered.
Hugo and Lancelot glanced at one another, then back to her.
“You said you’re not lovers.” She closed the book. “I feel the electricity between you.” She held out her hands, and they took them. She sucked in air at the sharp awareness that pierced her when skin met skin. “And I feel it when you touch me. Am I wrong to think you, both of you, are attracted to me?”
“You are radiant,” Hugo murmured.
“No, you aren’t wrong,” Lancelot growled. He inhaled through his nose. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“Perhaps a statement, instead of a question.” Sylvia smiled, though she felt nervous in addition to excited. “I think we should have sex.”
Lancelot turned in his chair, spotted their server, and called out, “Check, please.”
Chapter Eight
Lancelot followed Sylvia through her quiet home, down the short hallway to her bedroom. Hugo was right behind him.
He’d slipped away briefly after they’d arrived at the restaurant under the guise of using the toilet. He had actually slipped back outside and placed a quick call to Lorelei, to pass on the information Alicia was in Florida. Of course, in typical Lorelei fashion, she’d blasted his ass for waking her up with fuck-all, asking him if he had a clue how fucking big Florida was. He’d also passed on Oscar’s tricks for tracking people down, which—he could only assume—was information worthy of being shared because she stopped blistering his ears. She’d instructed him to remain with Sylvia and to try to find a way back into Oscar’s “workroom.”
Remaining with Sylvia was not going to be a hardship. Conversation on the drive back to her house from the restaurant had become more personal, the pillow talk of new lovers. Each of them had spoken about their first love, which had ultimately led to their first heartbreaks.
Sylvia was unlike any woman he’d ever met before. The only word he could think to describe her was genuine. As a poet and a romantic, he suspected she might balk at that word, but in his mind, it was the highest compliment there was.
He’d grown up surrounded by people holding their breath, tiptoeing, sometimes hiding. Neither he, his mother, nor his siblings ever knew what each night would bring when their dad returned home. As such, they’d lived much of their lives on guard.
