That Night We Invited the Professor Home

Sofía saw him first.

They were in the downtown bookstore, spending Saturday in that lazy way couples do when they don’t have any concrete plans, when she recognized him from the back of the philosophy aisle. Straight back, dark corduroy jacket, fingers running along the spine of a book as if he were reading braille. Professor Víctor Aranda, in the flesh, five years away and three meters from them.

—Andrés —she whispered, gripping his arm—. Andrés, look.

The encounter lasted twenty minutes. Talk about the master’s program, about their current work at the university, about the city and how it had changed. Víctor had spent three years in Lisbon after his doctorate. When they said goodbye, Andrés tossed out the question with that easygoing naturalness of his that never hid a catch: “So why don’t you come over for dinner one of these days?”

Víctor accepted on Friday.

They walked back in silence for the first two blocks. Then Andrés let out a soft chuckle that Sofía felt more in her chest than in her ears.

—What? —she asked, though she already knew.

—Nothing. Just that I remember what you told me that Tuesday. When you got home from class with that look on your face.

Sofía squeezed his hand and didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong. Two years earlier, when they decided to open up, they had talked about fantasies with that awkward frankness at first, and then with a sense of release. Víctor’s name had come up one night, spoken almost under her breath, and Andrés had repeated it slowly before saying, “Tell me more.”

—We don’t have to do anything —Sofía said.

—I know we don’t have to do anything.

—But if something happens...

—If it happens, we’ll see.

The week that followed dragged in that specific way anticipation makes weeks drag. Sofía thought about him during faculty meetings, while grading final papers, while waiting for coffee. Andrés planned the menu more carefully than usual: cured meats, pasta with homemade pesto, a bottle of Malbec they’d been saving for something worth it. “If it’s going to be a memorable night, let it start right,” he said.

On Friday, at eight o’clock, the doorbell rang.

***

Víctor arrived with wine and a question about a contemporary philosopher Sofía hadn’t read but pretended she had considered. They sat down at the table. The candles made everything feel more intimate than they were willing to admit.

At first the conversation was the usual: the university, difficult students, the academic bureaucracy that crushed interesting projects. Víctor spoke with the same precision Sofía remembered from class, that ability to get to the core of any issue without unnecessary detours. But his eyes, whenever he wasn’t speaking, kept returning to her.

It wasn’t a blunt stare. It was the kind of look that notices details: the way she tilted her head when listening, the gesture of bringing the glass to her lips, the way the green dress fit the line of her shoulders when she moved. Sofía caught all of it and felt a heat that had nothing to do with the wine.

It was during the second course that it happened. Sofía stood up to bring more bread, and when she turned toward the kitchen, she noticed the conversation had stopped completely. When she came back, Víctor was staring at his plate with excessive concentration, and Andrés had a smile he wasn’t trying to hide.

—Did I miss something? —Sofía asked, setting the bread on the table.

—Nothing —Andrés said—. The professor was reflecting.

Víctor looked up. His cheeks, slightly flushed, contrasted with his usual composure.

—Sorry —he said, addressing Andrés—. I didn’t mean to be rude.

—You’re not —Andrés replied, in that calm tone of his that never hid a catch—. Sofía has that effect. She always has. I know better than anyone.

Sofía sat down with hot cheeks, biting her lip. Víctor looked at her directly then, and something in his expression changed, as if an internal calculation had reached its conclusion.

The conversation drifted on its own toward his time in Lisbon. Víctor spoke about a partner he’d had there, a relationship that understood desire differently from anything he had known before. “Without possession,” he said, turning the glass between his fingers. “Without the fear that loving someone means you can’t love another. It was the first time I understood that jealousy is learned, not inevitable.”

Andrés and Sofía exchanged a look.

—We’ve spent two years exploring something similar —Andrés said, without drama, as if he were commenting on the weather outside.

Víctor didn’t answer right away. He studied them both for a second long enough to notice.

—I understand —he said at last—. And is this dinner part of that exploration?

—It could be —Sofía said—. Depends on the night.

***

They moved to the sofa with their glasses. It was almost midnight and the Malbec was nearly gone. Sofía sat between them and felt the heat of both bodies as two separate sources of the same energy.

Víctor spoke less. He listened more, with that ability of his to process before acting. At one point, his hand settled on Sofía’s knee while he emphasized a point in the conversation, and it stayed there a few seconds too long before withdrawing. Andrés watched. Sofía noticed that he had leaned back slightly, giving them space, a sign she knew well.

—Can I ask you something? —Víctor said, addressing Sofía.

—Of course.

—In class, did you ever think about this?

She took a moment.

—In class I thought about the readings —she said—. After class, sometimes.

The smile Víctor showed then wasn’t the one he wore in the classroom. It was slower, more personal.

He leaned toward her and kissed her. It was a slow kiss, unhurried, as if he were learning something new. Sofía returned it with her eyes closed, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid beats under his shirt. Andrés, beside her, brushed her neck with his lips and whispered, “This is what we imagined.”

Víctor’s hands moved carefully. He traced the line of her shoulders, down her back, memorizing every shape. The dress opened slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and the cool air of the room touched her skin. Andrés kissed her shoulder, her neck, his hands following parallel paths from the other side.

Víctor drew back for a second to look at her. There was nothing theatrical in his gaze. Only attention. He looked her up and down with a concentration Sofía found more erotic than any compliment. Then he unbuttoned his shirt without ceremony and let it fall onto the armchair.

He knelt in front of her. He moved the fabric aside with his fingers and started with his mouth, slowly, methodically, never rushing. Sofía arched her back and let out a rough moan when the first stroke of his tongue made her belly tremble. He opened her patiently, holding her thighs to keep her still while he licked her from top to bottom, insisting on the exact spot that made her gasp and writhe. Andrés brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her temple.

—Look at him —he murmured—. He’s eating you like he’s been dreaming about it for years.

Víctor looked up for a second, his mouth shining, and answered without stopping the work of his tongue.

—And you know her well enough to know when she’s about to come.

Sofía spread her legs wider on pure reflex, feeling the delicious stab rise through her lower belly. The suction grew firmer, the tongue more precise, Víctor’s fingers pressing against her mound so she couldn’t slip away. Her orgasm hit her all at once, dry and brutal, tearing a loud cry from her that broke in the air while her chest and thighs tightened. She came trembling, with her hands buried in Víctor’s hair and her breath shattered, unable to think of anything except the tongue that kept licking her until she was sensitive and empty.

Andrés held her by the waist when she started to lose her balance. “That’s it,” he told her, kissing her forehead. “Let it come.”

***

Víctor settled himself on the sofa and Sofía climbed onto him slowly, lowering herself little by little, feeling her body open to take him. The sound he made was brief, contained, as if the intensity had taken him by surprise.

She set the rhythm. Víctor accepted it without resistance, his hands on her hips more to feel than to guide. Andrés positioned himself behind Sofía, his lips on her nape, his open palm over her belly, and the sensation of having both of them at once made her close her eyes and draw a deep breath.

—Slowly —Sofía asked, and both men slowed without saying a word.

What followed was a continuous adjustment of rhythms and positions, guided by small signals. Sofía took the lead when she wanted more and held them back when she needed a pause. Víctor read her body with the same attention he’d given the conversation during dinner. Andrés, who had known her for six years, completed what the other two left unsaid.

She leaned over Víctor and kissed him with her mouth open, tongue against tongue, while she pushed against him in a slow cadence that then quickened without warning. He held her hips harder, marking each thrust, and Sofía responded by sinking even lower, until she felt him fill her completely and made her clench her teeth. Andrés pulled the dress off her shoulders and took one of her breasts in his hand, kneading it greedily, while he sucked on her ear and told her she looked beautiful like this, open between two men who asked nothing of her except that she enjoy herself.

Víctor watched her as if he were coming apart in front of her. He stroked her back with both hands, up and down, and then turned her just enough for Andrés to kiss her from the front while he went deeper. The change made her gasp. Sofía threw her head back, her hair disheveled, her nails digging into Víctor’s shoulders. The motion grew faster, rougher, with the sofa creaking under the three bodies and the air thick with breath and hot skin.

—Fuck —she murmured—. Don’t stop.

Andrés laughed against her neck.

—I wasn’t planning to.

Víctor slid one hand between their bodies and touched her where she needed it most, stroking her with wet fingers, firm, precise. Sofía shuddered all over. The second orgasm split her from the inside, more intense than the first, making her clamp around him while she trembled uncontrollably. Andrés held her face and kissed her with an almost cruel tenderness, because the contrast between the roughness and that gesture left her even more exposed.

Víctor lasted a moment longer, breathing in ragged bursts, and then came with a low groan, his body taut, his hands buried in Sofía’s hips. Andrés kept moving behind her for just a few seconds more, until he too came with a broken exhale, resting his forehead on her shoulder. The three of them went still, sweaty, gasping, still joined by that final trembling.

They stayed quiet for a moment, the three of them breathing together.

—Jesus —Víctor said softly.

Sofía and Andrés laughed at the same time.

***

The three of them slept in the bed. Sofía in the middle, one arm from each of them crossed over her belly. The last image before sleep claimed her was the white ceiling with a crack that had been there for years and they’d never repaired.

At eight she heard the water in the bathroom. She lay there for a moment, Andrés still asleep beside her, looking at that same ceiling. Then she got up.

The steam was already fogging the mirror when she went in. Víctor saw her through the shower glass and smiled.

—Coming? —he said.

The water was hot. They pressed together under the spray, soap sliding over their skin, and Sofía felt Víctor’s hands travel down her back with a slowness that was no longer exploratory but recognizing: he already knew what he’d found there and wanted to find it again. He kissed her neck. She turned and kissed him on the mouth.

It was different from the night before. No audience, no tension from the unknown. Just the two of them under the water, the sound of the shower muting every noise. Víctor lifted her slightly by the hips to settle her against the wall and she clung to his shoulders, letting him take her again, unhurried, her body still sensitive. He made her moan as he slid a hand between her legs and found her already wet, ready, and she returned the favor with her mouth, slowing the pace only enough to drive him wild. When they finished, they stayed leaning against each other for a moment, catching their breath.

—Thank you —Víctor said quietly.

—For what? —Sofía asked.

—For the invitation.

***

Andrés made coffee and toast with plum jam. The three of them sat in the small kitchen, elbows on the table, with no need to fill the silence.

—If I’d known alumni dinners ended like this —Víctor said—, I would’ve accepted invitations sooner.

—They don’t all end like this —Andrés said—. Only the worthwhile ones.

Sofía bit into a piece of toast and said nothing, but smiled into her cup.

Víctor left around noon. He hugged Andrés at the door in that handshake that turns into an embrace. He held Sofía a moment longer, his lips brushing her cheek. “See you,” he said from the landing, and went down the stairs without looking back.

Sofía closed the door and leaned against it.

—Good? —Andrés asked from the sofa.

—Very good.

He smiled. She went to get her coffee, which had already gone cold, and sat beside him with her legs folded under her body. Outside, the rain had started in that gentle way Sundays have.

—What did you like best? —Andrés asked.

Sofía thought for a moment.

—When he stopped to ask if I was okay.

Andrés nodded slowly, letting the silence settle between them like a blanket.

—Yeah —he said—. That was good.