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They went out for a late lunch on the waterfront, then returned to Sylvia’s place. She invited them in once more and, while Hugo started to refuse, Lancelot accepted her offer of a glass of wine.
None of them had discussed the previous night, but it was evident it was at the forefront of each of their minds. Hugo had been determined to put a proper distance between himself and Sylvia, but that resolution failed over and over. Mainly because Sylvia refused to remain in her own personal space. Each time they climbed out of the car, Hugo offered her his hand, but once she’d taken it she didn’t let go. When they stood together, looking out across the water, she molded her body to his. He did not push her away, both because doing so might hurt her, or worse, make her feel used—as if he’d gotten what he wanted from her and now rejected her affection—but also because he didn’t want to. He wanted to hold her, touch her. It was both easy—right—and thrilling. Sylvia’s fingers fit perfectly in his, her body molded to his easily and comfortably.
She offered the same closeness to Lancelot, who either didn’t bother to restrain himself, or who, like Hugo, simply couldn’t resist the need to touch her.
The one thing Hugo feared he and Lancelot hadn’t managed to hide from Sylvia was the heaviness of two men who weren’t seeing eye to eye. Too many times today, he and Lancelot had traded barbs, Hugo angry for Lancelot’s laissez-faire attitude, while Lancelot disapproved of Hugo wearing his guilt like a second skin. If Sylvia had noticed their antagonism, she didn’t mention it.
They followed her to the kitchen and Hugo accepted the bottle of red she handed him, as well as the bottle opener. He popped the cork, then she poured each of them a glass.
“To old friends,” Hugo said, tapping his glass against theirs.
“And new lovers,” Sylvia added.
Hugo swallowed heavily. The invitation in her words and her eyes made it clear she was hoping for a repeat of the previous evening.
“Lovers,” Lancelot repeated.
Merde.
Chapter Ten
They carried their wine to the living room, each sipping it quietly as the late-afternoon sun slanted rays of bright light across the floor. Sylvia and Hugo shared the couch, while Lancelot sat across from them in her grandmother’s favorite chair.
Sylvia decided it was a good time to address the elephant in the room. “Why are you angry with each other?”
Hugo sighed and seemed reluctant to answer.
“Does it have anything to do with me?” All day, Sylvia had feared her professor regretted what had happened between them. Not that he had been cold to her, but he also hadn’t kissed her or made any other overt advances.
Hugo reached for her hands. “I’m concerned we overstepped the bounds of propriety last night. Taking advantage of—”
Sylvia squeezed his hands, shaking her head. “I’m not a young girl in your class anymore, Hugo. You don’t need to feel guilty about anything. Surely you can see that I wanted everything that happened.”
“Perhaps, but…you deserve more than a casual affair, a one-night stand.”
His words filled her heart, made her warm inside. Hugo was a brilliant, passionate man. She’d recognized those things when she was in his class, but she hadn’t considered how those attributes could produce different feelings in different settings. In the classroom, they’d made him a good teacher, the type more concerned with learning than grades. In the bedroom, they proved he’d pleasure her, protect her.
She glanced at Lancelot. “And you?”
“Hugo would prefer it if I feigned at least a little remorse.”
She laughed. “It would be a pretense?”
He nodded. “Of course. I’m not the type of man who wallows in regret. I own up to my actions. Right or wrong.”
“And where does last night fall?”
“Honestly, probably right smack in the middle.”
She considered that answer, appreciating his honesty, even as she wondered about it. “Last night was very nice,” Sylvia said with a smile. “You’re both very…gentle lovers.” It was true. Last night had been wonderful, and physically very intense.
Hugo smiled in return, and she sensed that at least some part of the regret he’d felt was fading. “I am glad. I enjoyed it, too.”
Lancelot wasn’t smiling. He was frowning at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean last night was very nice,” she repeated. She wasn’t lying.
And she certainly wasn’t going to admit to these two wonderful men, each of whom was a dynamic lover on his own, that as memorable as the sex had been, it hadn’t exactly lived up to her fantasy.
