by Mari Carr
Then Lancelot’s hands were on her ass, sliding down the backs of her thighs. He spread her legs once more, making a place for himself between them. Last night they’d played with her, pleasured her, before daring to fuck her.
Not today.
Lancelot’s cock grazed the back of her thigh, her labia, and then it was sliding up the valley of her sex to her entrance. He positioned himself, grabbed her hips, and thrust in.
Sylvia’s eyes popped open, and if her mouth hadn’t been full of Hugo’s cock, she would have shrieked in pleasure. She was full, stretched, pinned by the iron-hard length of their cocks—Hugo in her mouth, Lancelot in her pussy.
Her fingers dug into the carpet, her body trembling.
“Won’t last,” Hugo panted. “Make her come.”
Lancelot reached under her kneeling body, fingers grabbing her pussy. He was thrusting into her, pounding into her so deep and hard that each time he thrust in, her whole body shifted forward and Hugo’s cock sank deeper into her mouth.
Devious, clever man that he was, Lancelot used that. He cupped her pussy, two fingers along either side of her clit, but didn’t try to stroke her. No, he let the motion of their fucking shift her body against his hand. It was an uneven, unpredictable stimulation, as raw and untamed as the primal way they were fucking her.
Using her.
Taking her.
Pleasuring her.
Hugo thrust into her mouth, Sylvia sucking hard on his cock, at the same time that Lancelot shoved in. She was pinned, skewered, and that was all it took. She came, and this time it was a tidal wave. Pleasure shook her, but it wasn’t just pleasure. That was too pale a word.
Satisfaction. She was satisfied in a way she’d never known, her body literally shaking in reaction to the power of the orgasm. Dimly she heard them exclaiming, first Hugo, then Lancelot, as they climaxed. She swallowed as Hugo came, something she normally didn’t enjoy, but caught as she was in the moment of ecstasy, she reveled in it.
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.”
She nodded, understanding that it would likely be late before they were finished. Hugo fastened his pants, then sat on the edge of the couch, his knee touching her bare shoulder. Unlike them, she was in no hurry to move, to break the spell.
Hugo looked regretful. “We’re still in Charleston for another couple of days. May we call you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that. Give me one second.” Her shirt was a lost cause, so she stood then walked back to her bedroom. Reaching behind the bathroom door, she grabbed her robe and shrugged it on, meeting them at the front door to say goodbye.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said, as they stepped out on the porch. Hugo gave her a sweet kiss on the cheek.
Then Lancelot reached for her, giving her a longer, much hotter kiss, and she tried to drag him back inside. Sadly, he released her.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Use tonight to find some appropriate words for what just happened in there. Avoid ‘nice’ and ‘good.’”
She shrugged as if she would make no promises, then gave them a quick wink as she closed the door.
As soon as she was inside, her phone rang. She considered letting it go to voice mail since it was an unknown number. However, the city—Palm Coast—caught her attention. She answered, hoping it was who she thought.
“Hello.”
“Sylvia?”
“Hello, Mrs. Rutherford. I was hoping this was you.”
“My favorite student,” Alicia said in greeting. “And, of course, my favorite poet.”
“I wouldn’t be who I was today without you,” Sylvia said truthfully. “Oh, it’s so good to hear from you. I’ve been worried about you since you left Exeter.”
“I cannot say it’s been an easy few months, and dear, I’ve asked you countless times. Please call me Alicia.”
“Alicia,” Sylvia repeated dutifully. Hugo had made the same request. It was funny how it was easier to call him by his first name than Alicia by hers. She suspected she would always struggle to think of Mrs. Rutherford as Alicia. “So how are you?”
“That is a longer conversation. Instead, tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Sylvia almost blurted out, “I had a ménage.” Mrs. Rutherford—Alicia—was probably the only person in the world she could say that to and have the response be “good for you” rather than “oh my God!”
“I’ve been putting together poems and more intentional drawings for a gallery show,” she said instead.
Alicia asked her se
veral additional questions, and they chatted for a few minutes. Sylvia wasn’t an impatient person, but she found herself shifting restlessly, too aware that these pleasantries were taking the place of real, meaningful conversation between them.
“Well, I’m sure your show will be excellent. I hope things are…resolved and I’ll be able to attend.”
Sylvia was surprised by Alicia’s phone call after so many months of silence. Her grandmother always swore the two of them possessed some witchy powers whenever odd coincidences occurred. “Were your ears ringing?”
“Oh, should they be? Who is it you were talking to that my name came up?”
Sylvia was sorry she’d started that line of conversation. What she really wanted was to ask exactly what needed to be resolved for Alicia. Holding down her uncharacteristic impatience, she instead answered her mentor’s question.
“One of my professors from Northwestern is in town, doing research for a fascinating book he’s going to write. I went out to dinner with him and an associate.”
“Oh?” Alicia said. “And my name came up? How?”
“I was talking about my favorite teachers, about the things I learned from you—in and out of the classroom.” Sylvia loved her family. They were the rock her world was built upon, but Alicia, her teacher, mentor, and friend…she was the one who’d taught her how to build secret passages and cast deep shadows.
“Dear, those things were private,” Alicia scolded gently.
“I’m sorry.” Guilt bit at her. If she was being completely honest with herself, she had told them about Alicia, stories she’d never told anyone, in order to move Lancelot and Hugo closer to where she’d wanted them—in her bed.
“But I promise you, he doesn’t know anyone you do. He’s actually French—he was a guest lecturer one semester.”
“And an associate, you said?” Suddenly Alicia was her teacher Mrs. Rutherford again, questioning her, pushing her to be honest with herself. “A second man? Perhaps…perhaps it had something to do with that lovely sketch you put up on Instagram last night.”
“Oh, you saw that?”
Alicia laughed, and the note of censure was gone from her voice. “I did. And to me it looked like an image of two men sleeping in your bed after a night of passion.”
Sylvia grinned. “I had a ménage.”
“Good for you, dear. Good for you. And how was it?”
“Amazing. Different than I thought. It was so complex. I don’t mean physically, though that certainly was the case. I mean emotionally.”
“‘Those who restrain their desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.’”
“William Blake,” Sylvia said.
“Well done. I’m proud of you, dear.” There was a beat of silence, then Alicia continued. “Come visit me. I’d like… No, I need to see you.”
That was unexpected, but Sylvia rallied. “Oh, well, I’d love to. When?”
“Now.”
“You want me to come to Florida tonight?”
Another moment of silence. “You know where I am?”
“I had my brother Oscar check on you after you left Exeter. Also, this phone number is a Palm Coast area code.”
“Ah yes, your brother Oscar. It’s a pity I didn’t get the chance to know him better. Did you tell anyone else I’m in Palm Coast?”
“I didn’t even know until you called and my phone identified the area code.”
“Good. Right now, I value my privacy above all.”
“Mrs. Rutherford, Alicia, are you sure you’re okay?”
“That’s one of the reasons I want to talk to you. Tonight.”
Alicia glanced at the clock. “Even if I left right now, I wouldn’t reach Florida until midnight.”
“Are you able to make the drive?” Alicia asked softly.
The fact that she asked, that she wanted Sylvia to leave and drive through the night, said more than words ever could about the urgency and severity of whatever situation it was Alicia had found herself in. Considering all this woman had done for her, there was only one possible answer to that question.
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you, dear. I’m going to move to another location, just to be safe. I’ll text you the location in a few minutes, once I’ve nailed it down.”
Who, or what, was Alicia running from?
They said their goodbyes, and then Sylvia threw a few things into yet another tote and hurried out to the car. She debated texting Hugo and Lancelot, but despite all they’d shared, there was no reason for her to text them minute-by-minute updates about where she was. She could always talk to them tomorrow morning, depending on how her conversation with Alicia went, to let them know if she’d be back in Charleston tomorrow evening.
She debated texting her family to let them know about this last-minute road trip, but she didn’t want to worry them, or worse, have someone insist on coming with her, and then she’d spend four hours arguing about what they were going to listen to while they drove.
Fifteen minutes after ending the call, Sylvia was in the car and on her way to Florida.
Chapter Eleven
“What’s wrong?” Hugo asked as soon as they pulled out of Sylvia’s driveway.
“Silent alarm went off at the safe house. Someone opened the front door.”
Hugo’s hand tapped a nervous beat on his knee as Lancelot took a left, weaving them out of Sylvia’s neighborhood. “Trinity Masters.”
Lancelot nodded. “That would be my guess. They must know we weren’t there last night.”
“What are we going to say if they ask us about that?” Hugo asked.
“If they’re still there when we get back, and they’re in a talking mood, we’re going to do what the fleet admiral told us to do. Lie through our arseholes.”
“If they’re in a talking mood?”
Lancelot jerked his head toward the bag he’d stowed in the back seat that contained his weapons. “When we get there, I’m going to sneak in the back door, search the place to make sure whoever broke in isn’t still there. You wait in the car.”
Hugo frowned and started to shake his head.
Lancelot didn’t have time to worry about the professor’s male sensibilities. “Dammit, Hugo, our skill sets and reasons for being on this mission are different. You were sent here because of your connection to Sylvia. I’m here to ensure no one gets in our way. I can’t do that if I’m worried about you getting hurt.”
They fell silent for several minutes as Lancelot got them to the highway. The safe house was at least a forty-minute drive from Sylvia’s even with the lighter evening traffic.
Lancelot tried to focus on what came next, what they were about to walk into. He needed to get his head in the game, but too many times his thoughts lingered to what had just happened.
Sylvia made him want, made him hope for too much, which was insane. They lived on two different continents, in two different worlds. Hell, she didn’t even know his real name.
And if it was just Sylvia messing with his emotions, it would be one thing. But he was struggling to accept that Hugo was getting under his skin as well. Not in a bad way, but in a what-the-fuck-is-happening-to-me way.
Hugo sighed when the silence lingered too long. “We shouldn’t have taken her again.”
Lancelot knew they both had reasons to feel guilty, but he refused to hear Hugo talk about the actual experience as if it was a mistake. It wasn’t.
Nothing about what they’d shared had been wrong. What was wrong was Lancelot was letting his desire to do it again—preferably a million more times—distract him from the danger that lay ahead.
“Don’t ever call that a mistake. Ever. Besides, I didn’t see a whole lot of remorse on your face when you had your hand fisted in her hair and your cock in her mouth.”
Hugo stopped tapping his fingers and shot him a malevolent look. “Sucer ma bite.”
Lancelot grinned. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
His quic
k reply obviously took Hugo aback. “You know French.”
Lancelot shrugged. “I was a little prick growing up, la. Thought it made me cool to say shitty stuff in different languages. Kept me out of trouble with me mum, too. She would have beat my ass if I’d told someone to suck my dick. But she didn’t realize what I was saying. And saying it in French,” Lancelot repeated Hugo’s words back to him, “sucer ma bite has a bit of flair to it.”
Hugo chuckled. “I suppose it does.”
Lancelot ran his hand through his hair, trying to get a grip on his emotions. “Can we talk about Sylvia later? I need…”
“I’m sorry,” Hugo said. “Of course, you are right. We need to focus. Whatever we discover at the safe house…we will face it together.”
Lancelot was accustomed to being a one-man band, typically working on his own. The idea of having a partner, someone who would have his back, was more appealing, more comforting than he would have expected.
He and Hugo fell silent as they traversed the quiet roads back to the safe house. Lancelot needed that time to figure out his game plan. Best case was whoever had broken in was gone. Worst case was there’d be someone inside waiting for them, looking for a fight.
Lancelot turned off the headlights, creeping slowly down the long, winding driveway of the safe house until they were just to the turn where they’d be seen from the house. He was careful to keep the car out of sight, wanting the element of surprise on his side.
Exiting the car and using trees as cover, he walked a few yards until he could see the house. He wasn’t surprised to find the entire house still dark. If someone was still inside, they wouldn’t want their presence known.
Lancelot returned to the vehicle and reached into the back seat, grabbing the bag. He pushed the car seat back as far as it would go and strapped the Bowie knife to his ankle, then pulled his jeans back over it. He made sure both of the guns—which Lorelei had pre-purchased, and they picked up from a man who had an entire arsenal in his garage—were loaded, keeping one for himself and handing the other to Hugo.
“The safety is off. If anyone comes toward the car who isn’t me, shoot first, ask questions later.”
