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Then the wave hit the shore, breaking upon it. Her muscles, previously taut from orgasm or tense from maintaining her wide-spread kneeling pose, went limp.
She collapsed facedown on the carpet, panting, vaguely aware that she was still wearing her bra and what remained of her shirt.
Hugo flopped down in front of her, slumping against the couch. He was panting.
“Fookin’ ’ell,” Lancelot wheezed from behind her.
Sylvia smiled weakly, wondering if it was too soon to ask them to move in with her, so that they could spend every moment of the rest of their lives doing that. Over and over and over again.
Yeah, she decided, begrudgingly.
Probably too soon.
A giggle escaped, her giddiness getting the better of her.
Lancelot shifted until he was sitting on the floor next to Hugo. As one, they reached for her, her ass landing in Lancelot’s lap, her legs over Hugo’s thighs.
Both of them kissed her, their rough hands gentle as they stroked her sensitive skin.
“Something is funny?” Hugo asked.
She shook her head. “No, I was just thinking about how nice that was.”
Lancelot narrowed his eyes. “Find another word, poet…”
There was an unspoken “or” lingering at the end of his warning that had her biting her tongue. While it might be too soon to suggest shacking up or forever, she wouldn’t turn down another chance to experience that again.
Lancelot relented first when she refused to redact her description, shaking his head. “You’re going to be the death of us, Sylvie.”
They remained there, on the floor, none of them attempting to rise or even dress as the late afternoon sun gave way to evening, dusk settling in. Instead, they talked. The conversation turning to completely innocuous, normal things, which should have seemed strange after everything they’d just shared, but instead, it felt right.
Everything with Hugo and Lancelot felt…perfect.
Sylvia was falling. Too fast.
If Oscar were here, he’d smack the back of her head, tell her to snap out of it.
Actually, if Oscar was here, she’d be breaking up a brawl between her overprotective brother and her two lovers.
Lancelot’s cell phone buzzed. He lazily reached over to retrieve it from the back pocket of his jeans. He glanced at the screen, then tucked it away once more. Sylvia hadn’t been able to see the screen, but whatever was there was enough to have him moving.
He glanced at Hugo. “The gentleman you were interviewing tomorrow has been called away on business unexpectedly. He’s leaving in the morning. He has offered to meet for drinks tonight if we’re available. Otherwise, I’m afraid you won’t have the opportunity to speak to him.”
Hugo nodded slowly.
Sylvia didn’t want them to leave, but she knew they were here to do research. She’d already stolen two days from them. But damn if she didn’t want to ask them to remain in Charleston a lot—lot—longer.
She needed to find a way to rein in her emotions. They lived overseas. This romantic interlude could be nothing more than that…a brief, stolen moment in time.
“You should go see him,” she said, not wanting them to feel obligated to stay.
Hugo cupped her cheek. “I hate to leave, but…”
Lancelot gently lifted her from his lap, rising to get dressed.
Hugo followed suit. “I’m not certain we’ll be able…” He glanced at Lancelot.
“This meeting could take a few hours.”
