The hotel was called "White Sail"—a silly name, but with a certain pretentiousness. Three stars, all-inclusive, buffet from seven to ten, heated pool, but not deep. Lena and I chose it for its affordability and proximity to the sea. Or rather, to the sea because of its proximity. To the affordability because of its inevitability. We arrived on Saturday morning, tired and grumpy after a six-hour layover. Lena went straight to her room to catch up on sleep. I went to the pool bar to drink beer and look out at the sea. The bartender was a local guy. About twenty-five, maybe younger. Dark-skinned, black-haired, with a smile that seemed to never fade. He was wiping down the counter and chatting with someone in Italian—quickly, sing-songly, waving his arms as if conducting an invisible orchestra. I ordered a beer. He nodded, opened the bottle, and placed it in front of me. And said: - Russian? - Russian. “Good.” He smiled wider. “I like Russians. They drink a lot and talk little.” I chuckled. I grabbed a beer. I walked over to the sun loungers by the pool and sat down. The sea was roaring somewhere beyond the palm trees, the sun was shining in my eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I felt the tension leave my shoulders. Lena showed up two hours later. Wearing a sundress, her hair disheveled, she looked sleepy and somehow surprisingly soft. She came over, sat down next to me on the lounger, and rested her head on my shoulder. “Okay,” she said. “Finally.” “Finally,” I agreed. We sat like that for another hour. Then we went for a swim. Then we returned to the bar to eat and drink. The bartender—his name was Matteo—knew us by name. He'd come to our table, joke around, bring us drinks we didn't order, and say they were "a compliment from the house." Lena laughed. I saw her laugh—easy, carefree, the way she hadn't laughed at home in a long time. And I saw Matteo looking at her. Not brazenly. Not undressingly. More like curiously. With that special interest men show in women they like but can't have. That evening, we were sitting at the bar. We were already quite drunk. The music was playing softly, just barely audible. Lena was dancing—first with me, then alone, then with me again. And then Matteo came out from behind the bar, walked over to her, and whispered something in her ear. She laughed. She turned to face me. There was a question in her eyes—and something else. Something that made my insides skip a beat. "He says there's a rooftop terrace," she said. "With a view of the sea. He says only insiders are allowed up there." - AND? - And that we are now our own. She looked at me. Waiting. I knew that look. I'd known it for ten years. It meant: "Say yes"—or "Say no"—and either way, it would be our mutual decision. “Let’s go,” I said. The terrace was small—a table, two chairs, and a chaise lounge. And the view—it really was the sea. Black, with a silvery streak of moonlight. Matteo brought a bottle of wine we hadn't ordered and three glasses. He opened it and poured. We drank. We were silent. We looked at the sea. Lena sat between us, on a chaise lounge, with her legs tucked under her. Matteo was in the chair on the left. I was in the chair on the right. Then Lena said: - Matteo, are you always this polite? He turned his head. He smiled—not broadly, like during the day, but somehow different. Calmer. — With those I like, yes. - Do you like me? - Very. She looked at me. A long look. And I realized that now she was going to say something that would change everything. And that I was probably ready to hear it. “And my husband?” she asked. “Do you like him?” Matteo looked at me. Appraisingly. Without embarrassment. “Yes,” he said. “I like him. He’s calm. And he has good taste.” Lena laughed. She leaned back in the lounge chair and stretched out her legs. “Well, that’s great,” she said. “Then pour me some more.” Matteo poured. I took my glass. Our fingers met on the bottle—his and mine. He didn't pull his hand away. I didn't either. And at that moment I realized that a holiday romance isn’t always about two people. Matteo poured the wine. Dark, thick, it smelled of something southern—figs, dust, heated stone. I took a sip. Lena did too. Matteo didn't drink—he simply looked at us, holding the glass to his chest. "Tell me about yourself," Lena asked. "Just don't lie." He shrugged. — What's there to tell? I'm twenty-six. I've been working at the bar since I was eighteen. I live up here, in the staff room. I love the sea, wine, and women who know what they want. "And the men?" Lena asked. "I don't like men," he said simply. "But I'm not afraid either. If a man is with the woman I want, it's not a problem. It's just… an additional requirement." Lena looked at me. Her eyes danced with mirth. She put down her glass, rose from the chaise lounge, and walked to the railing. The sea roared below, dark and endless. She stood with her back to us, slender, in a light dress that the wind whipped around her legs. "You know what I like about this place?" she said without turning around. "No one knows anyone here. You can be whoever you want. Do whatever you want. No one will judge, no one will tell." Matteo stood up. He walked over to her. He stood next to her—not too close, but not too far either. I saw his profile, her profile. They looked out to sea. “And what would you like to do?” he asked. Lena turned around. Over her shoulder. She looked first at him, then at me. And she smiled—that same smile that always took my breath away. “That’s it,” she said. Matteo extended his hand. Not to her, but to me. An open palm, a calm gaze. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the room. It’s better there than here.” We descended the narrow stairs—Matteo in front, Lena behind him, and me bringing up the rear. The room was small but clean. The bed was wide, surprisingly wide for a staff room. The window took up the entire wall, overlooking the sea. Moonlight fell on the floor, on the sheets, on our faces. Matteo closed the door. He leaned his back against it. He looked at us. "I won't do anything," he said. "Until you tell me." Lena came up to me. She placed her hands on my chest. She stood on her toes and kissed me—slowly, deeply. I felt her tongue touch mine, her fingers grip the fabric of my shirt. She pulled away. She looked into my eyes. “Are you sure?” she asked quietly. - And you? - Me, yes. I nodded. She smiled—and there was so much in that smile that I couldn't have put it all together even if I'd tried. She turned to Matteo. She came over. She took his hand—just as he had taken mine on the terrace. And led him to the bed. “Lie down,” she said. He lay down. On his back, arms outstretched. Lena looked at me. Nodded – at him. And I understood what she wanted. I walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Matteo looked up at me, calmly, without challenge. I placed my hand on his chest. His skin was hot. He exhaled and closed his eyes. Lena was already taking off her dress. Over her head, in one movement. She was wearing nothing underneath. She stood in the moonlight—naked, her hair disheveled, her dark nipples already hardened. And she looked at both of us. "You are beautiful," she said. "Both of you." And she stepped towards the bed. Lena sank down onto the bed between us. She didn't lie down—she sat on her knees, her back straight, her hands on her hips. In the moonlight, her skin seemed silver. She looked from me to Matteo and back again, slowly, as if savoring it. "Matteo," she said, "have you ever been with a Russian woman?" - No. — And with a married woman? - Neither. "So today is a first for everything." She smiled. "And you," she turned to me, "have you ever watched me do this with someone else?" - No. - So it's a first for you too. She leaned toward Matteo. She placed her palm on his chest—the same place where my hand had just been. And she kissed him. Long, slowly, with that special care with which she always kissed—as if she were tasting him. I saw his hands rise, settle on her waist, and pull her closer. I sat next to her and watched. Just watched. And I felt something hot, heavy, and unfamiliar rise inside me. Not jealousy. Something else. Something that made my cock rise so suddenly that I shuddered. Lena pulled away. She licked her lips. She looked at me. “Come here,” she said. I moved. She took my hand and placed it on her chest. Her breasts were heavy and hot, her nipple hard as a pebble. I squeezed it. She exhaled—and turned back to Matteo. Now she kissed us in turn. Me on the lips. Him on the neck. Me on the shoulder. Him on the chest. She went lower and lower, and her hair spread across his stomach, my thighs, the sheets. I felt her lips on my skin, her tongue, her teeth—and at the same time I saw her hand stroking him, her fingers wrapping around his cock and slowly moving up and down. Matteo groaned. Quietly, through his teeth. His hips rose to meet her hand. Lena laughed—throaty, pleased—and moved lower. I watched her take him into her mouth. Her lips stretched, her head moved back and forth, her tongue worked—slowly, teasingly. Matteo tilted his head back. His hands came to rest on the back of her head—not pressing, just holding. She moaned—contentedly, deeply—and continued. My hand landed on her back. I felt her muscles move under the skin, her neck tense, her shoulders rise and fall rhythmically. I ran my palm down her spine, to her bottom. She arched up to meet me, not stopping. “Enough,” Matteo breathed out. “Please. Enough.” She pulled away. She ran her tongue over her lips. She looked at him—her eyes wild, her lips swollen. “It’s not enough,” she said. “It’s not all there is.” She lay on her back. Sprawled across the sheets, arms outstretched, legs spread. Between her legs, she glistened—she was wet, so wet I could see it even in the semi-darkness. "Matteo," she said. "Come here." He stood up. He knelt between her legs. His cock—hard, glistening with her saliva—was pressed against her pussy. He looked at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded. He entered. Slowly, smoothly, all the way. Lena arched—strongly, her whole body—and moaned. Loudly. Without restraint. Her hands clutched the sheets, her legs wrapped around his hips. I sat next to him. I watched him move inside her. I watched her breasts sway in time. I watched her stomach dip in and out. I watched her fingers crumple the sheets. And then I moved closer. I lay down next to her. She turned her head, her eyes cloudy, her lips parted. I leaned down and kissed her. She responded—greedily, deeply, without ceasing to move beneath Matteo. I ran my hand down her stomach. Down. To the place where they met. My fingers touched her clit—and she jerked as if struck. She moaned into my mouth. Her hips bucked to meet both my fingers and his cock. “More,” she breathed out. “More.” Matteo sped up. I did the same—my fingers moving in circles, in time with his thrusts. She thrashed between us—her head on the pillow, her body between my hand and his cock—and moaned continuously, on the same note, and that note rose higher and higher. “I’ll be right back,” Matteo exhaled. “I can’t…” “You can,” Lena said. “Just a little longer. Please.” And he did. A few more thrusts—deep, sharp. She screamed—and came. I felt it in the way her body clenched around my fingers, the way her pussy throbbed. Matteo groaned—and came too, burying himself inside her, pressing his whole body against her. He came out a minute later. He lay down next to me, breathing heavily, wiping sweat from his forehead. Lena lay between us. Her chest was heaving. Her stomach was glistening. I looked at her. At both of them. And I felt something else rising inside me. Something that demanded more. Lena turned her head towards me. Her eyes were sleepy, but a new light was already blazing in them—the same one I knew all too well. She ran her hand over her stomach, gathered some of the moisture—her own and Matteo's—on her fingers, and brought it to her lips. She licked it. Slowly. "You're not finished yet," she said. It wasn't a question. I shook my head. She sat up. She sat up straight, as if she owned the place, as if this were our bedroom and not the staff room at a three-star hotel. She nodded toward the pillows. — Lie down. Rest. He complied. He stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, and looked at us – relaxed, contented, like a cat in the sun. Lena turned to me. She took my hand. She pulled me towards her. - Now it's your turn. She lay on her back. She spread her legs. Her pussy was red, swollen, shiny—and she smelled so bad it made my head spin. I knelt between her legs. I placed my penis inside. She looked into my eyes—and smiled. I entered. It was hot and tight inside. And slippery—from Matteo. From what he left inside her. I felt it, and it washed over me—sharply, almost painfully. I froze. I listened to myself. No, not rejection. Something else. Something that made me move deeper, more abruptly than I intended. Lena gasped and grabbed my shoulders. “That’s it,” she breathed out. “That’s it, yes.” I fucked her. Long, rhythmically, slamming in all the way. She moaned beneath me, her breasts bouncing, her hands wandering over my back, my shoulders, the back of my head. Matteo was lying next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him watching—and how his hand slowly moved over his own cock. It was filling up again, rising again. Young. Recovering quickly. Lena turned her head and saw the same thing as me. "Matteo," she called. "Come here." He stood up. He knelt down next to me. Lena reached out, grabbed his penis, and pulled him closer. And she took him into her mouth—without breaking away from me, without ceasing to move toward me. Now we were fucking her together. Me in her pussy. Matteo in her mouth. Her head moved in time with my thrusts, and she moaned, and her tongue worked, and I saw her fingers caressing his balls. I felt everything inside her tightening—tighter, hotter. She was close. And I was close. “More,” I croaked. “Just a little more.” She moaned—deeply, her throat vibrating around Matteo's cock. And that was it. I came—sharply, with a powerful stream of sperm, burying myself inside her to the base. She arched, screamed—and came right after, clenching around me so hard that my vision went dark. Matteo came almost at the same time. I saw his hips jerk, how he pulled her head to him—and how she took it all, every drop, licking the head of his cock, and looking up at him with that same predatory smile. I pulled out of her. I lay down next to her, breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. Lena lay down between us. She pressed herself against me, then against him. Then against me again. Her body was hot and sticky. She smelled of the three of us. “Well,” she said into the silence. “So we’ve met.” Matteo laughed. Quietly, into his pillow. I did too, unexpectedly. And there was so much in that laugh that I couldn't have put it all together, even if I'd tried.