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“That was…amazing.”
Hugo smiled and kissed her on the cheek, and it looked as if he agreed wholeheartedly with her description. But his mask fell. Only for a moment. Long enough for Lancelot to realize Hugo felt the same way he did.
Because instead of feeling replete, feeling complete, the only emotion Lancelot could summon now was regret. Not because they’d come to her bed—God, he’d never regret that.
But because they’d had the opportunity to explore a true ménage.
And they’d wasted it.
Chapter Nine
Sylvia slid out from between them. With their two big bodies trapping her in the middle of her once seemingly spacious bed, she had no choice but to actually slide down to the bottom and out from under the covers that had come untucked somewhere along the way. Naked, and shivering after the loss of their body heat, she slipped into the bathroom. When she was done, she washed her hands and face. Other parts of her body were sticky, and she considered a sponge bath, but she wasn’t ready to lose the feel of them.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked the same, if perhaps a bit tousled, her lips fuller, thanks to the pressure of their kisses. It amazed her that profound events didn’t always leave profound marks on the face or body, only the soul. She’d seen the death of her grandmother etch lines into her mother’s face; Oscar’s laugh lines almost disappeared the year he broke his arm so badly there was talk of loss of function in his hand.
And here she was, looking like the same woman she’d been hours ago, but she was new. She was bold and brave, having seized the opportunity to take two lovers at once. It had been more than she’d dreamed—more intense, more emotional, and above all, more pleasurable.
And also…less.
She pushed that wayward thought away, refusing to mar this after-sex bliss. Sylvia smiled at her reflection and lifted her robe from the hook on the back of the door.
It was the middle of the night, but she didn’t want to go back to sleep. Oh, she would crawl back between their big bodies. Maybe she would wake them and see if the experience was as good the second time, but right now she wanted time to sit with this feeling.
And perhaps find a way to commemorate this moment.
She grabbed her sketch pad and the small wooden box she kept her charcoals in. Returning to her bedroom, she eased in, tiptoeing so she wouldn’t wake them.
Moonlight streamed in the windows, painting everything in her room in tones of silvery-blue, turquoise, cobalt, and navy. Lancelot slept on his stomach, one arm up, curled around his face. The covers had slid down, exposing his upper back, and the tattoos on his left shoulder and upper arm. Hugo was on his side, the arm not folded under the pillow stretched out. That arm had been curled around her, and seeing that he was still reaching for her made her want to drop everything and slide back into the welcoming valley of their bodies.
Instead, she perched on her slipper chair, bracing her feet on the small trunk under the window. Propping her sketch pad on her thighs, she took a stubby pencil from the box and did a quick sketch of Lancelot. She wanted to capture the moment, but more than that, she wanted to draw the scene as she saw it—to treat it almost like a still life. From her current perspective on Lancelot’s side of the bed, she’d have to settle for a hint of Hugo—the details of the curve of his shoulder and the side of his face.
She switched pencil for a charcoal stick and went to work. Broad strokes and smudged lines for the bed and sheets. Details and shadow for the features of Lancelot’s back, including the Celtic-looking tattoo—a connected triple spiral, a triskele, she thought it was called. Then back to smudges and soft lines for Lancelot’s hair. For Hugo it was careful details for his shoulder and the muscles of his biceps, then soft shadows beyond, representing the pools of darkness in the part of her bedroom where the silvery moonlight didn’t reach.
Sylvia finished and set down her sketch pad, flexing her hand. She was happy with what she’d done, happy to have these quiet moments.
A quick trip to the bathroom got most of the charcoal smudges off her hand. She placed her robe on the hook. Naked again, she padded back to her bedroom. Picking up the pad, she looked at the sketch once again. It was both romantic and sexual. Real and wonderful.
One of the reasons she liked charcoal was because it wasn’t a precise medium. It was sweeps of shadow, a thousand shades of gray against the creamy white of the paper. Her quick lines gave nothing more than the anatomy of two male bodies—or possibly the same man in two different poses, the swirl of the tri-spiral tattoo on Lancelot’s shoulder bold and dark compared to the few sketched lines that outlined the curve of his head.
Impulsively, she grabbed her phone. Setting the sketch pad on the trunk, where it was washed in moonlight, she took a photo. She hadn’t included their faces, and wouldn’t name them, but it was a beautiful image, a piece of art she wanted to share. She uploaded the photo to Instagram with the caption, “Poetry without words.”
Sylvia tossed her phone down on the trunk and yawned. Satisfied artistically in the way she’d so recently been satisfied sexually, she crawled back into bed. Hugo’s arm curled tight around her waist, pulling her into his body. Lancelot shifted in his sleep, turning to face her, his hand settling on her thigh.
With Hugo’s hand so close to her breasts, Lancelot’s so close to her sex, she held her breath, her body starting to hum with anticipation as she recalled the sketch she’d shown them in the restaurant.
Sadly, neither man moved, and then, much to her surprise, she yawned again, her eyes drifting closed.
* * *
Hugo woke in stages, sleepily aware that he was in a strange bed, yet he felt safe and satisfied. As he surfaced from sleep, he remembered where he was and who he was with. He opened his eyes, half wondering if this were a hyper-realistic dream.
Sunlight streamed in the windows, illuminating the empty space where Lancelot had been and making Sylvia’s hair glow. She was asleep on her stomach, hair a wild tangle that half covered her face. He brushed it back, exposing her cheek and the delicate swirl of her ear. Her legs were tangled with his, and when he shifted to touch her, his cock came into contact with the sweet curve of her hip.
Hugo leaned down, prepared to kiss her awake, but stopped himself. Last night had been stunning and wonderful. It had been one of the most erotic nights of his life, and he had lived a far from celibate life.
But that didn’t mean she’d want more of the same this morning.
Hugo rolled out of bed, then carefully positioned the covers so she wouldn’t get cold. Sylvia shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her back, arms and legs akimbo so she almost took up the whole bed.
