“I’ll be a friend to her,” she said, “but I’m not making any promises. Don’t make me this go-between. I like a simple life.”
Milan straightened. “Why the hell are you here then?” he said, a tad sulkily.
“Because I want you,” she said, the words coming easily this time. “I want to be with you.”
His fingers ruffled her hair. “I want you too,” he said softly. “Don’t think I’m going to let you get away now.”
Her heart skipped, but she wished it hadn’t. She wished she hadn’t fallen this hard, this far, this quickly. But now it was done, and there was no way around it.
Lydia and Mary-Ann’s friendship bloomed along with the snowdrops as January ice gave way to a February thaw. They settled into a routine of post-rehearsal coffees and occasional weekend dates with takeaways and DVDs, chatting long into the night about music and the frustrations of life.
Mary-Ann was certainly experiencing those.
Despite the nature of their relationship, with confidences and secrets regularly exchanged, Lydia never once let slip that she was involved with Milan as more than a colleague, although on several occasions she came very close to blurting it out.
Mary-Ann spent weeks trying every approach she could think of to get the orchestra on her side, but she seemed to be thwarted at every turn and, by the end of February, she was becoming resentful and paranoid, even beginning to doubt her skill as a conductor.
Lydia hated to hear Mary-Ann’s doubts and fears, but she found herself torn. Now completely under Milan’s spell, she could find no way of help
ing her friend that would not compromise his position. Sometimes she lay awake at night, thinking that he really deserved to have his mean-spirited little scheme exposed…but then he would reach for her, pull her close, murmur in his sleep. She would wonder what nightmare shadows were passing through his mind, what caused that expression of infinite sadness she saw behind his devilishly glinting eyes.
Despite her best intentions and the dictates of her head, she knew she had fallen in love. The stupid urge to fix him, to make him whole and happy, consumed her.
You can’t change him, she chided herself. Then her good sense would be undone by a little voice saying probably…
Floundering in these dangerous waters, she fell deeper into Milan’s vortex, knowing she was being groomed for her place in the threesome, but wanting to carry on, to find out what would happen, how it would work, if it would work.
To this end, she found herself, one blustery Saturday in early March, waiting in the restaurant of an art gallery for Evgeny to meet her for lunch.
Over the preceding month, Milan had divided his time between her and Evgeny, never pushing the ménage concept when she didn’t seem ready, though he occasionally speculated on things they could do in bed, to quite devastating and orgasmic effect at times.
Staring at the menu, Lydia thought of the previous night’s sex, her on all fours while Milan held her shoulders, all the better to pound into her.
“Next time you’re in this position,” Milan had rasped from behind, “perhaps you’ll have Evgeny’s cock in your mouth. Or maybe you’ll be riding Evgeny while I fuck your arse.”
Lydia had groaned and clenched her fists around the sheet. They hadn’t tried anal sex yet, but Milan had been preparing her—with well-lubricated fingers and a selection of toys—over the course of the week, so she knew it was on the cards soon.
“Would you like that, Lydia?” His words travelled over the rough slap-slap-slap of their connected bodies. “Would you like to be fucked by two men at once, using you hard, giving you what you need?”
Yes. But I don’t want to admit it. But yes.
“Are you okay?”
Lydia dropped the menu, aware of the heat in her cheeks, and looked up at Evgeny. She hoped he didn’t have the ability to read minds. Although, perhaps that would make this whole deal easier. Some things were just too hard to talk about.
“Yeah, fine,” she said. “Tube’s gone to shit again, hasn’t it?”
Evgeny sat down, grinning that sparkly-clean grin.
“Engineering works everywhere,” he agreed. “What’s good to eat here?”
“I was just going to have a club sandwich and coffee.”
“Okay, but I’ve just come from the gym. I need more than a sandwich. Maybe some pasta.”
They spent an awkward, artificial ten minutes discussing the finer points of the menu, studiously avoiding any conversation that did more than skate on the surface of the situation.
Only after the food arrived, when Evgeny had speared a pasta shell, chewed on it and swallowed, did he deliver the words they had both been putting off.