Highly Strung (Food Of Love 1) - Page 33

He had been good-humoured for weeks, spending lots of time with her, devoting his attention to their developing relationship. While he encouraged her to sleep with Evgeny, he never pushed her into anything, taking time to ease her into the triad dynamic. She was even starting to quite like the cellist and understand what made him tick. At bottom, he and she had a lot in common. Their mutual love for Milan was only a part of it.

But tonight was to be the night. The first proper threesome.

Lydia shivered a little, then was galvanised into action, remembering that she had arranged to meet her two men in the lobby in five minutes.

“Let’s hope this tour goes smoothly,” she said, reaching for her jacket to ward off the April blusters. “Where do you recommend we visit, then?”

Vanessa lay down on the bed, lacing her fingers behind her head.

“Oh, Milan’ll know everywhere,” she said. “You don’t need me.”

“Yes, I do,” said Lydia. “Don’t say that.”

Vanessa smiled ruefully.

“Okay,” she said. “You don’t need me…yet.”

Vanessa was right—Milan knew everywhere, and he took them to all the best and most beautiful places, finishing off at the elegant Café Gerbeau where he bought them fresh cream pastries and hot chocolate.

As soon as the last crumb was eaten and the last blob of cream wiped from the tip of her nose, Lydia felt the mood shift. The day of innocent pleasures was about to morph into the night of guilty ones.

Evgeny seemed to tense, his eyes flicking rapidly between Milan and Lydia. Milan braced an arm on the backrest of his chair, letting his head recline against his hand, the pose too deliberately relaxed to actually be so. The playfulness in his expression swept away, replaced by serious shadows. He looked at Evgeny, then Lydia, for a long time.

“That was nice,” he said at last, as a waitress cleared the plates and cups and left their bill. “But there was a lot of sugar. I like sweet things sometimes. Sometimes I don’t.”

“Don’t talk in riddles,” begged Lydia.

He laughed.

“Okay. You are nervous, yes? You want to do this?”

She glanced over at Evgeny, whose face was open and relaxed. It reassured her, and she nodded.

“You are free to walk away any time,” said Milan quietly. The waitress took the coins, avoiding their eyes. She seemed to understand that the three customers were experiencing a moment.

“I know that,” whispered Lydia. “I don’t want to walk away from you.”

Milan ran a hand through his hair, holding the fingers close to the scalp for a contemplative second or two before withdrawing them with a flourish and a tumble of locks—a gesture that never failed to quicken Lydia’s pulse.

He offered his fingers to Lydia, reaching out to her across the table.

“Let’s do this, then,” he said.

Lydia walked back to the hotel arm in arm with Milan and Evgeny, meeting the curious eyes of passers-by with a lascivious smile. Yes, both of these gorgeous men are mine. Aren’t you jealous of me?

Milan, alone of all the orchestral players, had his own hotel room, and a double at that. He invited Lydia and Evgeny to sit down on the bed while he retrieved a laptop from one of his travelling bags and began fussing with it.

“What are you doing?” Lydia asked, wondering anxiously if she should be touching Evgeny or getting naked straightaway. How did these things get started?

“I thought we could get in the mood with a little video. One of my favourites. You and Evgeny, that first time.”

“Oh, I’ve never seen it!”

“I know. Why don’t you pour us all a drink from the mini-bar, hey? Champagne might be appropriate.”

Lydia, grateful for the nerve-calming alcohol, poured the fizz into two wine glasses and a tooth mug, which were the only receptacles available. She took the tooth mug for herself and tipped back a mouthful of bubbles while Milan placed the laptop on the bed in front of her and took his position at her rear, leaning over her shoulder while he clicked to open the relevant file.

At first, only a brownish gloom showed on screen, but then there was a gusty sound and Evgeny appeared in shot, looking spectrally pale, his dark eyes burning coals. He leant forward, adjusting something, and the colour contrast improved dramatically. He took an elaborate bow to the camera, then reached forward, directing it towards the bed in Milan’s Barbican flat.

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