Autumn in New York. I love it.
Hands in my pockets, I strolled down the nondescript residential street, laughingly dodging kids playing stickball as I crossed to the other side. Beautiful day, I thought lightly, although it was getting closer to twilight. The sodium lights were popping on sporadically and moms were beginning to hang out windows to call their children in for supper when I stopped in front of a nondescript brownstone. Whistling under my breath, I took the stairs two at a time, happy the leg was feeling fit. I did a quick adjustment of my tie in the glass that bordered the door before taking a look at the list of names next to the apartment numbers.
I ran my finger down the list, grinning when I reached the one I was looking for about half way down. Giving the button next to it a quick jab, I stepped back and waited.
"Yes?" My grin widened at the annoyed tone.
"Ah, I'm collecting for the old spies home?"
There was a slight pause. "I gave at the office."
"Well, that's what I've been given to understand, Mr., ah, Lot. But there was a problem with your last donation."
"What, not enough?" Behind the disgruntled tone I detected a thread of humor.
"No, it was plenty, we just usually prefer them in dollars, not Monopoly money. Now, are you going to let me come up to discuss it or not?"
My only answer was the harsh buzzing of the latch releasing, so I quickly grabbed the door and stepped in.
A few minutes later I rapped on number 407. I heard a thump followed by a muttered curse before the door was flung open. I was about to say something in greeting but stopped when I realized I would be talking to Illya's back as he moved into the living room without a word.
"Ok, yes, thanks, don't mind if I do come in," I muttered and followed him into the room, maneuvering around stacks of opened and unopened boxes. I ended up in the middle of the room, not a chair in sight. Only a small lamp perched on another box gave off any light.
"Uh, Illya, I think you forgot to unpack your furniture."
"It's coming tomorrow." Hmm, Illya was grumpy. Maybe I should rethink that dinner invitation from Kathryn in Decoding. Oh, who was I kidding. I took off my jacket and lay it on yet another box and then yanked off my tie and placed it on top.
"Mind if I look around?"
"Not at all. I'll be with you in a moment." He was ripping open a carton marked "stereo" and I had to smile. Illya and his music.
So I wandered into the kitchen. Not surprisingly, there wasn't a lot there. These enforced moves by housing were normal for an agent. I was about the only one immune from it anymore, thank God. The furniture was standard issue and usually stayed with the apartment, but this time Illya had to move it all because his previous place was in a brownstone due for demolition. Hence the quick move, despite my objections that a man just back to part-time duty after a gunshot wound to the chest wasn't in any shape to move hearth and home across town. Housing would've held off but my partner wouldn't, so here he was, living among his few personal possessions until the rest of the furniture and belongings showed up the next day.
From the kitchen, which I sadly noted had no food whatsoever, I moved back through the small living room, giving Illya a quick glance and a wide berth. He was still absorbed in the electronics so I kept roaming, noting that he had a pretty nice view of a small park across the street. Floor to ceiling arched windows framed a bricked-up and whitewashed fireplace. I liked the apartment; it had character. Rather like its new inhabitant.
Ignoring my growling stomach I continued my investigation. Soft grumbling behind me told me things weren't going well with the stereo installation and I hastily decided to keep looking around and stay out of the way.
That left me the bedroom. It was down a small hall, bathroom on the left, bedroom on the right. After a quick look in the bathroom revealed nothing I hadn't seen before, I pushed open the door to the bedroom, only planning on a quick look-see before really concentrating my efforts on getting us some dinner.
Instead, I stood transfixed. I had imagined an empty room and that's mostly what I saw. But this room shared the same outside wall as the living room and sported one huge arched window, architecturally like the ones in the living room but much larger. It was currently half covered with a sheet, haphazardly tacked to the wall.
But beneath it...
Beneath it was a mattress on the hardwood floor—no box spring, no frame, just a mattress pushed flush against the base of the window. There were several pillows at one end, big ones that I don't remember ever seeing before. Behind them on the floor sat a small butane camping lamp next to a stack of books. At the other end of the mattress was a thick pile of soft-looking blankets, folded neatly. I stepped closer, feeling somehow I was trespassing but I couldn't help myself. I knelt on one knee next to the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the cool sheets as my imagination filled in the rest: pale skin gilded by moonlight, blond hair flowing through my fingers as I knelt over him. The reflection would make his eyes impossibly bright as he looked up at me...
Hold on, Napoleon.
I stood up quickly, brushed a shaking hand over my mouth before executing a smart about face and exiting the room.
That's enough of that.
Back into the living room I went, hands stuffed resolutely back in my pockets and a "What? Innocent me?" look pasted on my face. I needn't have worried.
He was hunkered down on the floor, still fussing with the hi-fi. After looking up at me he jerked his chin over to a box near my feet. I bent down and examined the label, written in his firm hand. The box was marked "records" so I pulled out my Swiss army knife and quickly ripped through the tape.
"Not that I don't applaud your interest in music, but I was rather hoping we could get some dinner. My treat, too. You know the doctor said you're not up to any heavy lifting—"
"Oh, bother the doctor," came the muffled reply as the blond head bent to the task of hooking up the speakers. I paused in my perusal of his eclectic album collection and admired the view offered as he leaned over the stereo to plug it in. I felt a melancholy longing start to well up and cleared my throat, returning to the records.
He's alive. Don't ask for more.
I was glancing through the covers when they were plucked out of my grasp. I drew back like my fingers like I had been burned and then crossed my arms.
"So," I pushed on as Illya sat back on the floor next to the stereo, "weren't we discussing dinner?"
Finally, those big eyes met mine and the look in them caught me off guard. It took me a lot of years to learn to read my Russian but this time I was stumped. He ran a hand distractedly through already mussed hair; the gesture had a little-boy-lost look that went straight to my heart. I moved down next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"C'mon, partner, let me buy you dinner. You look like you could use a good meal." And he did. That lithe dancer's body was just this side of too thin, the shoulder beneath the sweatshirt bony. I gave it a squeeze and was rewarded with a small smile.
"What did you have in mind?" he said quietly, letting his eyes rest on mine. Uh oh. He has no idea what he does to me when he hits me with those baby blues. I cleared my throat and sat down next to him, probably a littler closer than necessary. He didn't shift away.
"Well," I said, rubbing a hand across my jaw, "we could head to Little Italy. Quick cab ride and we could be there in no time—you know me, I'm always ready for a good veal parmigiana." That earned me an oddly fierce little frown. "Ok, no Italian. Hey, I know a great place in 43rd—"
Another frown and shake of his head.
"Pizza?" Rolled eyes that time.
"Er, a hot dog from the vendor outside of Madison Square Garden?"
This time there was a low snort that sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. I breathed a little chuckle myself when I saw the responsive gleam in his eyes.
"Then I give up. Do you have any suggestions?"
He tilted his head consideringly. "There is a delicatessen on the corner."
"Ah, a delicatessen?" I raised my eyebrows questioningly. Here we had all of New York to chose from and he wants deli food?
"Yes," he replied calmly, "a delicatessen. I still have unpacking to do and we can eat here."
Well, put that way it sounded rather—charming. "All right," I said, getting to my feet, "I'll go get us some deli food while you continue to," I waved my hand over the boxes, "ah, do whatever. Any requests?"
He gave me a slow smile that made me a little weak in the knees. "No pickled pigs' feet. So very hard to find the right wine to go with them."
"Right. Got it. Be back in a few minutes." I wiggled my hand in front of his face expectantly. With another little grin he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys, handing them over wordlessly.
I grabbed my jacket and headed towards the door, taking a quick look back as I opened it. Illya had returned to sorting through his records, humming under his breath and looking much more relaxed than when I first arrived. Feeling pretty self-satisfied, I began my mission.
It was getting quite dark by the time I reached the sidewalk again. Low on the horizon I could see a three-quarter moon just starting to rise. A quick look up and down the street and I spotted the little delicatessen, so I began walking in that direction. The cool night air felt great after all the conflicting emotions I had just put myself through.
I had to smile at that thought. Yes indeed, I had no one else to blame but myself for this predicament I found myself in. Oh, it had started long before Sagine and his insane little plot. Couldn't say exactly when, but it had all become painfully clear when I thought Illya was—
I stopped and leaned against a lamppost, suddenly feeling a little short of breath—and it had nothing to do with my recent bout of pneumonia. I gave a halfhearted smile to an old woman as she walked past me, eyeing me suspiciously and fingering her umbrella, obviously ready to defend herself with it if I made an unfriendly move.
Who could blame her—I probably looked drunk. Every time I thought I'd overcome the emotional wallop of the wreck in Mexico it blindsided me again. Looking down that ravine, seeing the burned Jeep—I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. He's alive, remember? You shared a hospital room with him for a week and were about ready to strangle him by the time they released you. At least he's still around to annoy you...
I opened my eyes and blinked hard. That ambush had been just the beginning of this particular nightmare—before we'd gotten deeper into a mission that had taken a lot out of both of us. I remembered the incredible relief I'd felt when I learned Illya was alive, while at the same time trying to conceal it from Waverly, only to have it almost all ripped away when Sagine shot Illya on Lake Mead. Somewhere on that hell for leather flight over Colorado I finally admitted what in my heart of hearts I had always known.
So now, weeks later, things were almost back to normal and here I was loitering in the streets of New York, wishing I had the guts to—to—
Dinner. That I could handle.
Half an hour later I let myself back into his apartment, laden with bags. He was nowhere in sight.
"Honey, I'm home!" I called out, heading for the kitchen. Somewhere he'd found flatware, plates and paper napkins, which he'd laid out on the counter. I'd already started emptying the bags when he joined me.
I glanced at him, then glanced again. A soft blue V-neck sweater, slightly on the big side, had replaced the faded sweatshirt. It had probably fit him before the shooting, but that stray thought went right out of my head when I saw what it did to his eyes—
"No pigs' feet as promised," I joked and returned to the cartons. He came up close behind me and looked over my shoulder. "But," I continued staunchly, "we have bread, cheese, crackers, some salami and oh, here—" I handed him the bottle of wine "—you do have an opener, don't you?"
Fair brows lifted in offended surprise. "Of course. But," he went on sheepishly, "no glasses. There wasn't room for that box."
"No glasses?" I asked with a horror not entirely feigned.
I was favored with a disdainful gaze. "You're in Greenwich Village, Napoleon, not Tavern on the Green. Stop acting like a tourist. Dare to be Bohemian." This last was said in a tone of challenge, accompanied by a mockingly raised eyebrow.
"Ah, right, Bohemian." I bit my lip and looked around, as if expecting two wine glasses to just appear. When they didn't, I sighed the sigh of the greatly bothered. "Ok, well, won't be the first time we've sipped from the same bottle. Here, hand me a plate and we'll just put all this stuff on there. Saves having to wash an extra plate later. That Bohemian enough for you?"
I received a considering look and an approving nod in return, so that's what we did. We piled all the food onto one plate and took it and the wine into the living room and made ourselves somewhat comfortable on the floor, leaning against the cartons. I thought about asking for those pillows from his bed but I didn't want to admit I had even seen them, let alone wondered how Illya would look spread out against them.
Dinner turned out to be very pleasant, especially when about half the wine was gone. There was a stack of classical records on the finally installed stereo, Illya had gotten over his grumpiness and we carried on as usual. If the intimacy of the setting bothered him he didn't show it. It bothered me, but you don't make C.E.A. of U.N.C.L.E without being able to control your emotions. So we drank and ate and argued over the relevance of Ionesco's plays and soon all that was left was a forlorn piece of cheesecake.
"You eat it," I said, stretching. "You could use the calories." By now we were feeling the effects of the wine. Alcohol usually made my partner moodier, but this time it just seemed to relax him further. It generally loosens me up even more, but tonight all I could feel was a growing tension inside me.
He took a sip from the almost empty bottle and shook his head. "No, I'm done." He gave the plate a little shove with his bare foot in my direction. "You have it."
I pushed it back with my stockinged toe. "No," I said patiently, "you're too skinny. You eat it."
He sat the bottle down and folded his arms over his chest. "Napoleon, stop trying to bully me."
I let out a startled laugh, "Me? Bully you? Let me tell you something, you blasted Russian, if I could bully you into anything it wouldn't be eating the last piece of cheesecake!"
My God. I caught my breath as I considered the implications of what I'd just said, but Illya simply rolled his eyes.
"Come now, your reluctance for filing expense reports is infamous but you still haven't convinced me to do them. And you never will," he concluded with an air of smug finality.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I replied, "Well, I can but hope." I glanced at my watch. "In the meantime, I'd better be going." I stood up and stretched again, looking around for my shoes. Illya stood up beside me, then reached down for the plate. I'd just spotted my right loafer when he let out a pain-filled grunt beside me and grabbed at his shoulder.
In an instant I was at his side, one arm around his back and one hand gripping his forearm where it pressed against his chest.
"What is it?" I said worriedly. He was still bent over in my arms, his other hand coming up to clutch mine. I leaned down to look at his face, startled to see it white with pain. "Illya, talk to me!"
"It's nothing," he panted, "I just pulled a muscle. Give me a minute..."
No pulled muscle would have him tight-lipped in agony like this...oh, no, his gunshot wound. He was so dismissive about his injuries that half the time I forgot about them, tonight being a case in point. I could kick myself for my inattention as I held his tense body in my arms, waiting while he worked on controlling the pain.
After a few minutes, he took a deep breath and slowly straightened, both of us still holding on. His eyes were closed and I watched him carefully, looking for the slightest indication of any further discomfort, but eventually he opened his eyes, letting his head fall back a little.
I swallowed hard. Neither of us had made a move to release our holds and for me it was becoming uncomfortable. Not physically of course—my strength was there for him when he needed it. Clearing my throat I started to pull back but his grasp on my wrist tightened and I stopped. My other arm was still draped over his shoulder, holding him close to my chest.
"You ok?" I whispered. A slight turn of his head in my direction and our eyes met, mine concerned, his still clouded with pain.
"Better," he replied softly, then to my utter amazement he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against my shoulder, his breathing still uneven. His movement forced me to draw him closer and I did after a little hesitation, uncertain about what was going on but in no way trying to stop it.
His head now tucked under mine I released his wrist and put my other arm around him. "You idiot," I muttered fondly, rubbing soothing circles on his back, "what did I tell you about not overdoing it?"
"Nothing," he replied, voice muffled against my shoulder. "That was the doctor. You told me not to chase the secretarial pool."
"Oh," I said with an indulgent smile. "Well, that still goes."
A gentle chuff of air against my chest told me he was close to laughing, then he pulled his head back to look at me. Our eyes met and for the life of me I couldn't hold back, couldn't mask the feelings I had for him anymore. Holding him in my arms had broken down every defense I'd ever erected to hide my emotions from him.
I watched as his eyes grew round, searching mine for the truth that I gladly showed him. Finally I shrugged and pulled back again, placing my hands on his shoulders. "Illya—" I began, determined not to go any further down that road.
"Napoleon." His voice was low but firm, and I blinked when I felt his hands come to rest on my waist. "I've something to tell you."
Oh boy, here it comes, I thought. I steeled myself against whatever he had to say.
"All right," I said, giving his shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "Go ahead."
He looked away, then turned resolutely back to me. I waited, trying to ignore how near his lips were to mine. I could see the small scar where he'd bitten through the lower one when he was trying to fight the pain and stay conscious before we grabbed him with the sling.
"While we were in Mexico," he began, then stopped and looked away again.
This wasn't what I expected. "Yeah, go on," I encouraged.
This time when he looked back his eyes were haunted, filled with a vision I suddenly knew I shared. "I didn't know if you were dead or alive," he said simply, as if that explained everything, his accent slightly more pronounced than usual.
I nodded. This was the first time either of us had brought up Mexico. For my part, I had needed to leave the subject alone so that Illya wouldn't know what it had cost me to carry on with the mission, thinking he was dead. All those days in the hospital together and we'd never discussed the emotional toll this one had taken on us. It simply wasn't our way.
But as I stood there holding him, I began to think maybe our way was wrong. "I know. I, uh, had the same problem."
A small smile crossed his features. We were in the dark now, the small lamp giving off only a pool of light at our feet. "You know," he murmured, "I am beginning to believe that you did."
Then he took one hand from my waist and slid it up over my chest. I flinched at the intimate contact but that was nothing compared to the gentle pressure exerted on the back of my neck as his hand combed through my hair, pulling me forward until our lips met.
The first touch of our mouths was brief, less of a kiss than a mere pressing of his skin against mine. I held still, savoring that gentle connection, my eyes closing at the initial union. Then the contact was broken and I felt his warm breath coast across my lips.
"So, Napoleon," came his voice, whisper soft.
"Hmm?" I replied, opening my eyes but having no wish to move from where I was or what I was doing. Deep blue eyes gazed back, the pain washed away and replaced by what could only be described as a wicked gleam.
"Are you going to make love to me or not?" he said teasingly, but with the distinctive edge of a challenge to his voice.
"Whoa," I spluttered, taking a step backward. He came with me, hands again holding firmly to my side. Despite the fact that making love to him was exactly what I yearned to do I was shocked to hear the words come out of his mouth. "Illya, I—"
"Because if you don't, I will seduce you and I'm not at all sure you could handle it." Now his tone was downright smug.
I was catching on—and my treacherous body was catching up. But I needed a little time to make sure I was actually hearing this right.
"I see," I said lightly, raising a hand to run a finger down his nose, "you want me do all the work." I deliberately stayed away from any deeper emotional meaning. Illya was warm and alive and willingly in my arms—would miracles never cease?
He nipped at my finger as it traced his lower lip, causing a bolt of arousal to shoot through me right down to my toes, with a huge detour along the way. He must have noticed my little in-drawn breath and the slight twist of my hips, because the hands at my sides suddenly slid to my back, bringing us closer.
"Of course," he practically purred. "I am still recovering." One of his hands had moved up my back and the other was doing its best to pull my shirt out from my trousers.
"Convenient of you to remember that now," I muttered, feeling the heat rise in my face—and parts further south. His attempts at the small of my back were succeeding as I felt the fabric of both shirt and undershirt loosen and fall. Then his warm hand was pressing against my skin, fingertips dipping beneath my belt.
It was getting to the point where I was having a hard time thinking straight. Long denied desires were surging to the forefront of my imagination, filling me with visions as clear as the ones I'd had in his bedroom not two hours earlier. But we'd gone from a casual dinner between partners to this, whatever this was. And suddenly I really needed to know.
I reached down and gently grasped his arms, pulling them away from my body. Watching his expression closely, my heart sank as his eyes shuttered against me.
"Illya."
Not letting him go, I brought his arms between us and waited until he looked me in the eye. His mouth was parted slightly and he gave a little jerk with his arms, signaling me to release him. I didn't.
"Ok, time for a little honesty here. I'll go first. I looked into your bedroom earlier."
"Yes?" he replied grimly, looking away and giving another experimental tug that I ignored.
"Yes," I said firmly. "And all I could think of was you," I lowered my voice and leaned closer, pressing in until I could touch his ear with my tongue, "bathed in moonlight as I made love to you for hours, Illya. Hours."
That brought on a deep, responsive shiver and as I pulled back his eyes met mine—anger, frustration and desire shooting at me like sparks. "Then why? Why do you hesitate?" he ground out.
I gave him a little shake and took a deep breath. "Because, my stubborn Russian partner, this isn't just a response to the last mission for me. Sure, we almost died—but we've been through that before. It's part of the job. This," I continued, my voice beginning to break a little with the effort to make him understand, "this is how I've felt for years. This is me wanting to tell you that no one I've ever met means half what you mean to me. This is me—"
"Telling me that you're in love with me?" The soft words broke like a wave over my head and I stared at him. The anger that had held him upright and rigid in my arms had faded, replaced by a pliant tenderness that was just now communicating itself to my hands and eyes.
"—telling you that I'm in love with you," I breathed, and watched in wonder as all the love I felt was reflected back at me through a veil of blue. "Son of gun," I murmured in astonishment, trying to pull him closer.
But my perverse partner held back. He tilted his head consideringly and caressed my cheek. "You said it was time for honesty."
"I did," I said carefully, still determined to shift us nearer. "And I was."
He gave me that almost smile of his, a trick I've often admired. "Yes, well now it's my turn." Finally stepping further into my embrace, he put his arms back around my waist. Over the shirt, unfortunately. "Oh, don't look so worried," he went on, faintly mocking. "You must know I feel the same. After all, I could hardly let you go through with this madness alone."
I lifted my head to look at him—his eyes were calm and steady as he gazed back. "I had no idea," I murmured, shaking my head a little as I tried to make sense of all this.
"About what?" he answered quietly.
"Well," I said on a little laugh, "to begin with, that you were interested." It sounded awkward to my ears and I winced a little. He just nodded.
"I've not paraded my feelings for you in deference to your obvious partiality for beautiful women," he said matter-of-factly, but I thought I heard an underlying loneliness all the same.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead, closing my eyes as I reveled in the freedom of it. "Partiality born of duty, more often than not. Guess I always knew you cared about me but this is so much more than I ever dared dream—"
"Dreaming is for children." Long lashes hid his eyes briefly before sweeping up to capture me with a look of such tenderness a lump formed in my throat. "My truth is much more fundamental than any dream." He leaned in, arms tightening as he slowly inclined his head until his lips were just beneath my ear.
"'Whither thou goest', Napoleon."
It was hardly more than a warm breath against my skin and yet the softly spoken vow had me shaking as no T.H.R.U.S.H. opponent ever had. I couldn't ask for a more exquisite expression of love from this complicated, private man. My own feelings multiplied at his admittance, bringing not only an exhilarating sense of liberation but also a renewal of all the desire that I'd managed to place on the back burner since I'd first held him in my arms. There were no words that could possibly convey my response to his tender declaration so I let my body answer for me.
My hand moved to his cheek, gently turning it so that the barest inclination of my head had our mouths meeting, at first hesitantly as we adjusted to the intimacy, then more assuredly. His lips were surprisingly skillful against mine and I opened my mouth to allow him inside. At the first touch of our tongues, something flared deep in the pit of my stomach—and all careful exploration was at an end.
My arms went around him—I couldn't get him close enough. As our mouths continued discovering the sweetness of each other I slid one hand to the small of his back, pausing for only a moment to caress before moving down and running my hand back up under his sweater to touch his skin. His in-drawn breath and slight shudder was a definite indicator that I was headed in the right direction. I was feeling pretty smug about that when he returned the favor with both hands, letting them flow beneath my shirts, up over my hips to rest on my sides, his fingers splayed against my ribs.
Oh God, this is Illya, I thought through a thick haze of growing arousal, my Illya, loving me. And letting me love him back. Eyes that had closed at the first brush of our mouths flew open and I pulled back, then dipped my head quickly for a reassuring kiss before meeting his confused look.
"Hey," I whispered, "let's find a soft landing for this, hmm? Love what you've done with the place but it doesn't look all that comfortable for what I have I mind." I reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead, my fingers shaking slightly with the need to bury them in the velvety softness I found there.
"What do you have in mind, Napoleon?" he asked absently as his fingers slowly danced up my chest, making me shiver. "I assume you know what you're doing?" His voice lost some of its detachment and I could tell he was trying to assess my experience. Boy, was he in for a surprise.
I laughed softly and pulled him closer. "Haven't the faintest idea. You?" I asked the question half fearing the answer; if he had been with another man I knew it would wound me somehow. Irrational? Absolutely—but I guess maybe I've always felt a little possessive where he was concerned.
Blue eyes widened as he took in the implications of my statement. "Really?" Raising my eyebrows, I nodded my head silently, watching with amusement and relief as he frowned in confusion. "Me? I'm—no, I've never—"
"That's what I thought," I said, secretly thrilled at his admission. So I would be his first—and his last, I vowed. And he would be mine. The idea sent a warm shiver through my bloodstream, stealing a little of my breath. "Well then," I whispered, letting a little of my amusement show through, "I guess we're going to have to figure it out together then, aren't we?"
Illya looked at me and nodded, the barest hint of a smile playing around his reddened mouth, then disengaged his hands and stepped away. I immediately felt lost without him so I slid my hands up his arms and kissed him again and he responded eagerly, reaching for me and wrapping his arms around my neck. We kissed over and over, some long and deep, others quick and teasing, all of them adding to the need growing of inside me.
"Illya," I finally managed, resting my forehead against his as I tried to catch my breath, "you've got a perfectly fine bedroom just a few feet away, right? Let's—"
He cut me off by placing a slender finger against my sensitized lips, "Yes, I agree. Let's."
I grasped his hand and turned it over, pressing a kiss into his palm, watching with amusement as his eyes widened at the gesture. "Lead the way," I said simply, retaining his hand in mine.
He turned and started to lead us into the bedroom then suddenly stopped and faced me again, releasing me to plant both hands in the middle of my chest and effectively stopping me in my tracks. Now it was his turn to offer a kiss of reassurance when I frowned, lapping at the side of my mouth before pulling away with a faint smile.
"Wait, Napoleon," he said, ghosting his thumbs across my nipples and not bothering to hide his satisfied little grin when I stifled a moan and bit my lip.
"You keep that up, mon ami, and we'll never make to that bed," I growled, reaching for him again. He eluded me and stepped away, growing serious again.
"No," he said firmly, and I stopped. Our eyes met and I realized he was asking me to trust him. It seemed our wordless communication, something we depended on in the field to keep us alive, was just as potent in this new level in our relationship.
"Ok," I whispered and took a deep breath, trying to calm down, holding my arms tightly to my sides to stop myself from pulling him back in my embrace. "Ok. What's wrong?"
He shook his head, hair falling across his forehead again, making my fingers twitch.
"You are forever jumping to conclusions, aren't you? Nothing is wrong, Napoleon." He looked away and even in the faint light I could see a slight flush to his cheeks. "I'd like to—" he stopped and frowned, looking at me with a touch of desperation.
I did touch him then, resting my hands on his shoulders. "Go. I'll, uh, clean up." He nodded and turned, leaving me to watch his back in longing and not a little frustration as he disappeared down the darkened hallway.
I busied myself by picking up dishes and filing the LPs back in their sleeves, all the while trying to convince myself I should just get out of there. It was madness to stay, to risk so much. We had taken a lot for granted in the last few minutes—as if there were no starting point to either our feelings or our ability to act on them. I wanted him so intensely; none of my usual detachment could ever be found when it came to him. But just because we'd said the words didn't mean we had to follow through on—
"Napoleon." His voice was no more than a whisper yet it carried clearly. I turned to see him standing in the dark threshold of the hallway. The blue sweater was gone and so was his belt, leaving only a white T-shirt untucked over his khakis. Blond hair, obviously mussed when he'd removed the sweater, tumbled over his forehead. My heart turned over at the sight of him, all my reservations evaporating as our eyes locked.
He held out his hand. "Come."
I didn't hesitate. Stepping forward, I laid my hand in his warm, dry palm and his fingers closed around mine. Together we walked down the hall and into his bedroom. Once inside I gave his hand a little jerk and a twist—one of my best dance moves—so that he found himself firmly wrapped in my arms. I stilled the protest I saw forming in his eyes with a kiss which, after a slight hesitation, was returned enthusiastically.
My hand was released and with a quick movement I was liberated of my jacket. I started to break away so that I could pick it up off the floor but before I could Illya kicked it into a corner. I turned a falsely pained expression his way but it was ignored as busy fingers were swiftly unbuttoning my shirt. I tried to help but my hands were impatiently brushed away. In the same economical manner my cuffs were undone and the shirt was summarily tossed onto the crumpled jacket. I was about to protest in earnest this time but Illya used the same mode of persuasion I did—he kissed me.
Then warm fingers slid against my abdomen, moving between my T-shirt and my belt. I flinched a little, the feel of his hand raising my arousal a notch higher. He chuckled deep in his throat, a sound of triumph, but his lips never left mine, even as he undid belt, button and zipper, pushing the opened material off my hips. I groaned a little and he laughed again, running his hands over my backside beneath the loosened trousers.
Stifling a moan, I released his mouth and grasped him by the waist, maneuvering us closer to the mattress. The room was unlit but through the curve of the window above the sheet moonlight bathed us in pale light. It gave me an idea.
Turning back to Illya, my hands still on his hips, I smiled and pulled him close.
"C'mon," I murmured against his temple. "Let's keep going." I stepped back and slid off my trousers, yanking off my socks at the same time until I stood in T-shirt and shorts. Illya had pulled a few of the thick blankets down; the plush pillows were still there. I crawled onto the mattress as he removed his own trousers before following me.
Determined to keep him off balance I reached for him, flipping him beneath me. I could see it in his eyes that he considered to resisting, but I soon engaged his mind elsewhere, kissing him hard as I came to lay full length against him. He bucked up unexpectedly and our groins collided, the friction of the cloth against me almost unbearable. I reared up and sat back on my heels, breathing hard but finally remembering my earlier plan.
Even as he reached for me I pulled further away, leaning over just enough to grab a fistful of the cheap sheet he'd tacked up for privacy. Enjoying the widening of his eyes, I gave the sheet a swift tug and the room was flooded with lustrous moonlight.
"My God," I whispered, a sincere prayer as I gazed down at him.
Over the course of many years I've had the privilege of making love to the most beautiful women on earth in the most exotic places ever found. On pristine beaches, in silk-lined seraglios, over the Atlantic in a private jet. I've inhaled the costliest fragrances and tasted the rarest delicacies this world can offer. I've held women that men have killed for, that nations have gone to war over—and yet I would have traded every one of those experiences just to see Illya like this.
Yes, he was breath-taking, reclining against the pillows, moonlight spilling over him except where my shadow fell across his hips. Even his prosaic cotton undershirt couldn't detract from the extraordinary sight of this man, looking up at me with eyes so huge and so trusting, eyes bleached of their color but not their intensity. I had the feeling that I'd been given the most incredible gift, one of which I was totally undeserving. No one had ever touched me the way he did and here he was, giving himself to me without reservation.
A tiny frown had formed between his eyebrows and I reached down to smooth it away.
"Napoleon?" he whispered, taking my hand and resting our entwined fingers on his chest. "Having second thoughts?" I heard the uncertainty in his voice and damned myself for causing it. I leaned down and brushed my mouth across his.
"No, caro mio, never," I murmured, smiling a little as his lips caught at mine, seeking a deeper connection. Pulling back I gathered our clasped hands to my mouth and pressed a kiss to his wrist. Then I let him go, swiftly reaching down and pulling my undershirt off. Suddenly nothing was more important than the press of my flesh against his. I tossed the shirt into the muddled pile of clothing and then, clasping his forearms, I drew him to his knees, close against me.
I reached for the hem of his T-shirt but was happily diverted when his forward motion brought his mouth to my neck. Closing my eyes, I became lost in the enchantment of his lips and tongue roving over my skin, strong slender hands splayed against my back. My Illya, so stoic and reserved, mapped my skin with abandon, lavishing single-minded attention to every part of me he could reach. It was exquisite, mind-blowing and so impossibly arousing that I wondered feverishly how I had waited so long.
When I couldn't stand to be passive anymore, I took his head between my hands and kissed him hard, thrusting my tongue deep inside his yielding mouth. He took the kiss in stride, allowing me my possession, somehow knowing that I needed more of this—more from him—than either of us had ever imagined.
When I released him, we were both breathing heavily. We stared at each other, a silent world of communication flowing between us. I stole another small kiss, then smoothed the hair off his forehead to lay a line of more kisses across his temple. "So beautiful," I whispered, not embarrassed at all to say this to him. I would have no secrets from Illya after tonight and he needed to know everything I felt, right from the start. So engrossed was I in tasting the silken skin beneath my mouth that I only belatedly realized he had stiffened slightly in my arms.
The cool cotton of his shirt suddenly seemed like a terrible barrier so once again I reached for the hem, eagerly anticipating when my bare skin would meet his. Before I could get it off of him his fingers gripped my wrists, effectively stopping me. Confused, I paused and looked at him for answers, dismayed to see the distress in his eyes.
"Not so beautiful, Napoleon," he breathed, then released one of my wrists to ghost his hand self-consciously across his upper chest. I bit my lip, anxious to understand, willing the pain in his expression to fade.
"Yes, Illya," I remonstrated gently, tilting my head as I tried to make him believe me, "so beautiful to me."
A sad smile chased across his lips and he looked away briefly before returning to face me. "I have scars."
I smiled and caressed his cheek, breath catching as he leaned into the palm of my hand. "So do we all, love. I've seen most of yours, I think. From start to finish, as a matter of fact," I added with tender humor.
His sad smile remained as he shook his head. "Not like this. This one is so new, so ugly. You're not used to ugliness—"
Then I finally understood. The gunshot wound. The T-shirt that he hadn't worn earlier.
"Oh, Illya, no," I whispered, taking his face between my hands and kissing him gently. "It doesn't bother me, not in the slightest. In fact," I continued, still seeing disbelief in his eyes, "I want to see it. No, shh, listen to me," I went on quickly, the mulish set to his mouth warning me he wasn't buying it.
I shook my head and smiled slightly, leaning in for another brief kiss. "Obstinate as usual," I murmured against his lips, still soft and yielding against my own. I pulled back, not too far, sliding my fingers down to his hips and rolling them in the thin cotton.
"Listen to me. When I thought you had died in Mexico, I did my damnedest to blank it out, to not think about you. " Even as my heart twisted with the memory, I began rolling the undershirt up. Not releasing his gaze, I continued, lowering my voice until he had to strain to hear me. "Beyond wanting to kill the men that did that to you, I couldn't think about you, couldn't handle the thought of you gone."
I closed my eyes briefly, feeling him flinch but not pull away as my hands lifted the fabric away from his ribcage. Reopening them, I let him see all the grief I had held in check during the mission. "Then Waverly told me you were alive." I allowed myself another small smile, sliding the material under his shoulders and pushing until his arms bent upwards naturally. With a swift yank I drew the undershirt up and over his head, balled the cotton up and tossed it away before he could react.
"But," I continued, framing his face again between my palms, "I almost lost you again. To this." I released him to glide my hands down to his shoulders, pushing him away slightly so that I could brush my lips across the puckered scar that rested just under his collarbone before pulling back to look at it.
The scar was ugly, no doubt about it. In the color-leaching moonlight it was a dull gray smudge on his pearlescent skin. I shuddered slightly at the obscenity of a bullet striking this beloved body, then quickly shut it out of my mind. Illya sat quiescent under my hands, watching my reaction, and I was determined to show him how much it didn't matter. Drawing him close, I kissed him on his chin, beneath his ear, down his neck, steadily moving my way back down to the scar, reaching it and laving it tenderly.
Slim fingers trailed through my hair as I continued to caress his warm skin with my mouth, loving the taste of him. He had a thatch of fine hair that drifted across the center of his chest and my fingers exulted in discovering its texture. When my thumbs began circling his nipples the hands in my hair became demanding, gently forcing my head back so that he could take my mouth in a fierce embrace. Tongues dueling, I heard him rumble deep in his throat when my hands slid down his back and under the elastic of his shorts.
And there, oh, there I found a new paradise to explore. Softer than I could ever imagine, the skin over the tight muscles of his buttocks was wildly intoxicating. The heat between us escalated sharply when he mimicked the move, hooking his fingers and sliding the confining material off my hips, then running his hands up my thighs while his tongue explored my mouth with heart-stopping thoroughness. Breaking away I tried to hook an arm around him to guide him down to stretch out on the mattress. Instead Illya twisted and pushed me down, shoving the large pillows out of the way. My underwear was whisked off and tossed into a corner, followed by his own. Before I had a chance to share my enthusiasm for this particular turn of events, Illya had spread out full length on top of me, fitting his long legs between my thighs and reclaiming my lips in a passionate kiss.
I almost came right then as my senses were suffused with the unbelievable pleasure of our most intimate contact yet. We were both deeply, intensely aroused and as his erection ground into mine, both of us already hot and slick, I felt the familiar tightening in my balls. My God, I wanted this to go on forever—Illya wrapped in my arms, my tongue buried in his mouth. My hands roamed over him mindlessly, down the sleekly muscled back, over his ribs, finally fitting my palms over his compact buttocks and letting my fingers dance between them, pulling him closer. I desperately wanted to see him, every perfect inch, but there was no time for that now. Now was all about connection and heat and a need to make everything real so that there would be no denying the truth ever again.
Illya began to rock harder against me, his mouth still locked on mine. The tempo increased as the mind-stealing friction drove me higher until I thought my heart would burst. Both of us were moaning in counterpoint with our thrusts, seeking that final contact that would send us over the edge. I barely realized it when Illya grasped my arms and pulled them away from his back, maneuvering them so that my wrists were captured on either side of my head. The vulnerability of my position, the gentle domination of Illya's lips and the increased angle of his unrelenting rhythm finally combined to wring a cataclysmic orgasm from me and I convulsed, hot pulses of liquid flowing between us. Eyes that I had closed at the onset of my climax flew open when Illya suddenly stopped moving. I watched, mesmerized, as he arched against me, his own eyes tightly shut as he came, mouth open in a silent, exultant cry. We were both liberally doused again, his seed mixing with my own on our flushed, overheated bodies. As enervated as I was, his white skin was so temptingly close I latched onto it with my mouth just above the scar, causing another shudder to race through him from head to toe before he collapsed on top of me, releasing his hold on my wrists.
My newly freed arms wrapped him up immediately as he burrowed his sweat-soaked head into my neck, both of us still quivering in response to the incredible experience we had just shared. I felt a wholly unaccustomed vulnerability as I soothed him with my hands and my voice, his weight a welcome burden until I felt him shiver with cold instead of passion.
"Hey," I murmured in a convenient ear, "you're getting cold, aren't you." I gently dislodged him to one side and he rolled bonelessly, still keeping one arm across my waist as I sat up and snagged a blanket. As I arranged it over us Illya reached back and gathered one of the large pillows, positioning it beneath my head as I lay back down.
As I settled in, he watched me, propped on one elbow. "What about you?" I asked, jerking a thumb in the direction of the other pillows.
"That's what you are for, Napoleon," he explained simply before curling into my arms and laying his head on my shoulder.
"Oh, right, sorry." Sighing contentedly and resting my cheek on his hair, I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy the perfection of the moment until we both began to doze, sated and secure.
Sometime later I awakened, amused to realize that Illya had somehow insinuated himself even closer to me than before. I blinked in the semi-darkness, noting the moonlight still streaming through the arched windows, now at a lower angle that cast a white light on the pile of clothing tangled in the corner. I thought for a moment, and then realized with a grin that I didn't care. Seems this night was full of firsts.
A soft moan muffled against my chest told me Illya was waking up as well. I rubbed his scalp soothingly as he raised his head and blinked at me, then he winced and removed his arm from my waist to rub at the healing wound.
My hand stilled. "Hurts again, hunh?" I whispered, remorse striking me hard. In the heat of the moment I had completely forgotten how this all started—with Illya in pain.
He shook his head. "Not really."
I cocked my head, giving him my best "don't try and fool me" glare. A roll of his eyes told me what he thought about that.
"You'd better come clean," I threatened, resuming my gentle massage, "or I'll—"
"You'll what?" he broke in, his arm snaking back around my middle and giving me a light squeeze.
I frowned at him playfully. "Don't you remember me telling you my fantasies? I wanted to make love to you in the moonlight for hours, so by my watch we've only just begun. Now, if you're ok I'd sure like to keep to that timetable." I wiggled my eyebrows and grinned.
A small, wry smile came to his lips. "No wonder all the women vie for your attentions. You're so very persuasive."
"Well, too bad for them now, I'd say, wouldn't you?"
The playful mood was broken as Illya gazed at me impassively. "Are you saying that you'll forsake all others from now on?" he asked carefully.
"Yes," I answered instantly, quietly. "Unless it's in the line of duty, something you know I have no control over. Will you?"
"Me?" He looked away, confusion evident in his expression. "Of course."
Now I was confused. I turned a little, shifting us a little closer. Even as this conversation wore on I was still intensely aware of the long line of his warm, naked form pressed to mine. I swallowed, willing my body to be still. "'Of course'? Illya, I know you like women, right?"
Looking back at me, I saw a little humor reenter his eyes. "As a concept or a species?" I cuffed him lightly on the side of his head and he ducked obligingly. "That's a strange question to ask after I've just made love—"
"—to a man?" I interrupted softly.
"No, Napoleon," he replied, a note of steel in his voice, "after having made love with you."
"I'm a man," I pointed out. My heart started beating rapidly as his hand gently caressed my chin.
"Evidently," he said dryly, watching his own fingers as they drifted across my forehead, learning me by touch. "But we spoke earlier of honesty, correct? I spoke the truth then but it would have made no difference if we had become lovers or if we had not. What happened in Mexico—it made everything clear." His eyes met mine. "Do you understand?" he asked intently, his warm palm cupping my cheek.
I nodded, my breath catching in my throat. I understood completely and was going to tell him so when his mouth descended on mine. It was a tender kiss of promise as our tongues moving delicately against each other in easy, languorous sweeps. It went on and on, receding and then building again. When it finally ended, we were both gasping and smiling. I wrapped my arms around him with a chuckle and then carefully placed him on his back before positioning myself over him.
"So," I drawled, "about that fantasy of mine..."
"Ah, yes," he replied, getting settled beneath me, his arms winding around my neck. "I believe it was 'Illya By Moonlight'." He raised a mocking eyebrow, the effect lost when coupled with an affectionate smile.
"Hmm," I murmured, nuzzling the little scar on his bottom lip, "sounds about right. To be followed by Illya in the sun, Illya by the fire, Illya underwater—hey!" I laughed, his nimble fingers telling me what he thought of that idea. "Ok, ok—how about 'Illya forever'."
His lips met mine briefly. "Not a fantasy, Napoleon."
"No, Illya, not a fantasy. Just another truth."
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