“I thought we were going to the Thomaskirche.”
“Later.”
When signs for Leipzig/Halle airport began to appear on the side of the road, Lydia thought she might have some idea of what was going on, but she decided to play oblivious, punctuating the journey with little sighs of confusion for Karl-Heinz’s benefit.
She kept these up even when they left the motorway and swept on to the airport access road, so Karl-Heinz turned to her, eyes narrowed.
“You knew all along, didn’t you?” he accused.
She laughed. “You were enjoying your little game so much. I didn’t like to spoil it for you.”
“Humph. This is not the game—the game comes later, when we are back at the hotel.”
“We’re meeting Milan, aren’t we? He’s come to spend the weekend.”
She had never been so pleased with a correct guess, especially when the sight of Milan striding across the concourse, overnight bag slung across one shoulder, gave her heart the kind of jolt usually only achieved by electricity.
“You didn’t tell me,” she accused while he laughed at her from the other side of the barrier.
“We wanted to surprise you,” he said, oblivious to the nudges and over-the-shoulder glances cast in their direction as he took Lydia into his arms, then kissed Karl-Heinz on both cheeks. The three of them, arm-in-arm-in-arm, marched off to the taxi rank, with a stride that suggested high spirits and anticipation.
* * * *
Once back in Leipzig, Lydia, and, she was sure, both of the others, tried to spend some of the evening pretending that they weren’t all thinking about getting back to the hotel bedroom. They wandered the market, quaffed ale in the Auerbach cellar, ate a meal heavy on sausages and sauerkraut then, once the central European chill was temporarily banished, the question of where to go next had only one answer.
Milan took a shower, eager to get the plane dust off him, while Karl-Heinz and Lydia sat side by side on the big bed, watching cable TV and drinking Sekt, the German version of cheap sparkling wine. Karl-Heinz’s arm was slung around Lydia’s shoulders and, every so often, they rubbed noses or kissed, until Sekt was spilled and Karl-Heinz scolded and mopped it up with a handkerchief.
“Oops,” said Lydia carelessly.
“You are over-excited,” he said sternly. “Perhaps I should send Milan home again.”
“He wouldn’t go.”
Karl-Heinz nodded, obviously resigned to the truth of the matter. He might assert his mastery over Lydia, but over Milan he had none. Lydia had thought at first that this might bother him, but it didn’t seem to. Both men seemed happy to read each other’s cues. Milan didn’t mind playing bottom in bed sometimes, but he wouldn’t be told what to do by anybody.
It was just as well Lydia had a wide submissive streak, or the three of them might not co-exist quite so harmoniously. She had been a valuable intercessor in the first days of their ménage, trying her best to smooth over any rumples caused by Milan’s impulsivity and Karl-Heinz’s rigidity. The men were such temperamental opposites and yet, in a funny way, this seemed to work for them.
Karl-Heinz played the indulgent father figure, Milan the rebellious child, until he grew tired of it and asserted himself as a man, at which times, Karl-Heinz became his colleague and co-conspirator. Usually this occurred at Lydia’s expense. Or rather, to her benefit, because she was developing a distinct taste for being double-topped.
“I’m spoilt,” she said, putting down her Sekt and stretching out on the bed. “The most spoilt woman in the world.”
“That’s true,” said Karl-Heinz. “And tonight you’ll get spoilt even more.”
The shower shut off, its splashes abruptly ceasing.
Lydia shivered with delight. She had already taken off her outer clothing and now lay in her underwear and a short silk robe, making the most of the hotel’s tropical levels of central heating.
“I don’t suppose he’ll bother to get dressed,” commented Karl-Heinz. “Come on, let’s finish the drink and put it away. It’s not fair to drink in front of him.”
“No,” Lydia agreed, tipping the remains of the glass down her throat and watching Karl-Heinz return the bottle to the minibar. “Not now he’s doing so well.”
They were both back on the bed, Karl-Heinz perched on the side, Lydia stretched out with her arm across her face, when Milan opened the en-suite door and came back into the room.
Lydia, never able to resist a peek at his splendid body, propped herself up, gloating at the toned expanse that emerged from the towel around his waist, and the long legs below. His damp hair was swept back from his brow, revealing the high forehead and noble profile she loved so much. Not to mention the devilish grin.
“You have started without me,” he accused.
“Not at all,” said Karl-Heinz, still in his shirt and trousers, though shoes and jacket had been neatly stowed away. “We have better manners than that, don’t we, Lydia?”