He threw the duvet over them and burrowed down beneath it, kissing away her fears and her misgivings, at least for that night.
Waking up with Milan in a king-size bed in Budapest was one of the shining moments of Lydia’s life. Tired and aching as she was, she breathed in his smell of man and sex and faded aftershave and her clit tingled despite herself. This man had turned her from a demure violinist to a raging sex maniac, she reflected ruefully. But there was no way around it. She wanted him all the time, every waking moment.
Watching his face in sleep, she bent over and kissed his ear, then his cheek, then, when he didn’t wake up, his neck and shoulder. She gave in to the temptation to nibble at his firm, pale flesh, wanting to bite into that succulent swan neck, but before she had the chance he woke and rolled her over, pinning her down.
“It’s never enough for you, is it?” he said hoarsely, rubbing his morning erection between her pussy lips. “Aren’t you sore and worn out from last night?”
“Yes,” admitted Lydia. “But there must be things we can do…”
There were things they could do. Mindful of her raw pussy and puffy clit, Milan eased himself gently into her wet slit and took her for a slow, leisurely ride. Lydia still felt the pain, but she embraced it, opening herself to his tender attentions and soon forgetting the sting as the pleasure built. He rocked over her in tiny movements, keeping her mouth filled with his tongue, bathing them both in sensation.
When the wave crashed over Lydia, she found herself saying, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Luckily the words weren’t coherent, falling as they did into Milan’s throat, so he never heard them.
What if he had? Would it have mattered? Would it destroy everything, or would it lead somewhere new? Lydia didn’t dare rock the boat—it was unsteady enough already.
Instead, she joined Milan in the shower, dressed and went down to breakfast.
Evgeny was already at the buffet, helping himself to fruit salad and yogurt.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course.” He turned to her, watching her fill her bowl with cereal, stony-faced.
“Where are you sitting? Can I join you?”
“Aren’t you going to sit with Milan?”
“He wants to get an hour’s practice in first. He’ll be down later.”
They took their dishes to a corner table and waited in guarded silence while a waitress poured their coffee and took requests for hot dishes.
“Why did you leave last night?” Lydia opened, once she was sure they wouldn’t be overheard.
Evgeny’s lips curled sulkily.
“I told you. I sleep better in my own bed.”
“That’s why you spend so many nights at Milan’s place, is it?”
“That’s different. It’s late. The tubes aren’t running. It makes sense to stay. Here I have a bed of my own, paid for. Why not use it?”
“Evgeny, if you think I’m taking Milan away from you—”
“I don’t. I don’t think that. I don’t think you could, anyway. You aren’t enough for him.”
“What do you mean?”
The cereal felt dusty and lumpy in her throat. She swallowed it with some effort.
Evgeny drew a breath, as if gearing up for a lengthy expulsion of bile. Lydia flinched in advance.
“There is no substance to you,” said Evgeny. “You have no history and you’ve never suffered.”
“I… What?”
“There are girls like you in orchestras all over the world. Young, bright, optimistic, naïve. Milan collects them like china ornaments. I don’t know how many he’s had. He keeps them until they start to lose their optimism and their naïveté, then he gets bored and loses interest. Sure, he’s taken a shine to you for now, but it won’t last.”
The cereal plunged, leaden, to the pit of her stomach. Lydia felt horribly breathless, Evgeny’s words like a punch in the solar plexus.