|"Napoleon, look out!"
Illya's warning, the hard impact of his body against Napoleon's, and the explosion occurred simultaneously.
Napoleon sheltered under the weight of his partner's compact body as debris rained down around them. His head was shielded by Illya's arms, his hand instinctively pressing his partner's vulnerable face against his shoulder.
When the explosions subsided, Illya tried to rise, only to find himself trapped in Napoleon's desperate embrace. "Napoleon, you can let go now. Napoleon?"
Napoleon blinked and loosened his grip, letting Illya slide free. The Russian stretched, rubbed at one bruised shoulder, and frowned at his partner, who still hadn't moved. "Are you all right?"
Napoleon blinked again, shaking his head slowly. "Yeah, I think so." But he didn't rise until Illya stood and held out a hand to help him to his feet. And he retained Illya's hand longer than was necessary.
The arrival of an U.N.C.L.E. medical team prevented Illya from voicing the questions visible on his face. Luckily most of the strike force had been farther from the blast, so there were few injuries. The enforcement team operated with smooth efficiency, already mopping up the remaining Thrush forces. Illya immediately proclaimed his own well-being in the face of officious concern. Before Napoleon could follow suit, Illya handed him over to the chief medical officer with an injunction to check him for a concussion. Still a bit dazed, Napoleon shrugged, and followed the man obediently.
He was unaware how much that silent compliance added weight to
Illya's concerned gaze, which remained on him until he passed from
Though Napoleon passed all his medical checks with flying colors, and was subsequently released from Medical Section, he spent the remainder of the day in a distracted fog. Luckily, Waverly wanted to know the formula of the new explosive Thrush had so ably demonstrated, and ordered Illya off to his lab to run tests on the debris. Napoleon had no contact with his partner for the remainder of the day. It was just as well; Illya would certainly have noticed that something was wrong.
Napoleon, of course, knew precisely what was the matter with
him. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to forget those brief
moments when Illya's body had been pressed close to his own and fear
for his partner vied with arousal, paralyzing him. It had never
happened to him before, and he wasn't entirely sure what to do.
Finally, his course of action decided, mind as much at peace as it could be under the circumstances, Napoleon made his way down to the lab just after five. As he'd expected, Illya was alone in the large, antiseptically white room. He glanced up when Napoleon pushed through the door.
"How'd the medical check go?" he asked, his quick glance piercing, judging Napoleon's well-being for himself.
For a moment, Napoleon drew a blank, having almost forgotten the indignity of the unnecessary check-up. "Fine," he managed before Illya became suspicious. "Clean bill of health."
Illya favored him with a small smile before returning his attention to the report he was putting the finishing touches on. Waverly wanted instant results, Waverly got instant results, or as close as was humanly possible.
Napoleon inobtrusively wiped his palms on his trousers. Ridiculous to be in a cold sweat over such a simple thing. But the evidence was irrefutable; he was as nervous as a teenage boy asking his current crush to the prom.
"You doing anything tonight, Illya?"
"No, why?" Illya didn't look up from the lab report. Napoleon didn't mind; he was just as happy not to bear the brunt of his partner's perceptive attention.
"I thought maybe you'd like to have dinner. With me." Illya glanced up, a slight frown on his face. "My treat," Napoleon added hastily, and the frown darkened a second before clearing suddenly.
"I never turn down free food."
It was as clear an indication of acceptance as Napoleon was likely to get. "Come on then. I'm hungry."
Dinner had been a mistake.
More nervous than he could ever remember being, Napoleon talked too much and drank too much. Not enough to impair his judgment or reflexes, but enough to loosen his tongue. He was deathly afraid he'd blurt out something which couldn't be taken back. The alcohol didn't help.
Illya looked at him oddly the third time he cut himself off abruptly, but didn't comment on his behavior. The Russian worked his way steadily through his meal, offering the food his usual close attention. Napoleon was both relieved and irritated to come in second to a plate of lasagna.
Still, by the time the evening was over and they got in the
car for the ride home, Napoleon knew he'd be better off as far from his
bewitching partner as possible.
"Why don't you come up for a drink?"
"No, thank you." Napoleon pulled to a halt outside Illya's apartment building and waited impatiently for his partner to get out.
"Look, obviously something's bothering you. I think we should talk about it."
"No, thank you." He'd learned the polite curtness from Illya himself.
Though Napoleon could feel Illya's concerned gaze focused on him, he didn't turn to face his partner. He was in enough trouble as it was; prolonging the evening would only make things worse. It was with both relief and disappointment that he heard Illya sigh and open the door.
Napoleon was completely unprepared for his partner's sudden about-face. Illya leaned over, turned the key in the ignition and removed it with a quick twist. He was out of the car and striding rapidly toward the door before Napoleon could stop him.
And he had the keys.
Napoleon sat in the car for a good ten minutes, unresigned to the danger of following Illya. Finally, accepting that it was either go in or walk home, he sighed deeply, rubbed his hands over his face, and got out of the car.
Illya's door was unlocked, but the infuriating man was nowhere in sight when Napoleon entered the small apartment. He locked the door behind him, more out of habit than desire. The familiar blond head poked around the edge of the kitchen door, blue eyes regarding him seriously with, however, a hint of satisfaction dancing around the edges.
"Where are my keys?" Napoleon growled. Illya's smug acceptance of his victory put Napoleon's bad mood into overdrive and drove all geniality out of his voice. However, Illya ignored both the question and the surly tone.
"Have a drink, Napoleon." He emerged from the kitchen, carrying his own usual vodka and a scotch for Napoleon, who scowled, but took the proffered glass anyway. It was clear he wouldn't be getting his keys back unless he played along. Stubborn Russian.
Napoleon threw back the drink in one defiant gulp, determined to get this over with. Coughing a little, he gave the glass to Illya. "Now may I have my keys?"
Wordlessly, Illya disappeared into the kitchen again and returned with Napoleon's glass, once more full of scotch. Napoleon took the glass with as much good grace as he could muster. Sighing, he sat down and took a sip of his drink.
"Trying to get me drunk?" he asked, feigning a whimsical amusement he didn't feel.
"Would it help?" Illya shot back, serious.
Napoleon lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug and put his glass on the end table. The last thing he needed was another drink.
"Why don't you just tell me what's bothering you?" Illya's voice was soft, concern evident in his eyes.
"You've always been content to leave me to my own woes before," Napoleon accused. "Why are you so determined to grill me now?"
"You scared me out there today," Illya admitted unexpectedly. "One minute you were operating as efficiently as you ever do, and the next acting like a dull-witted child. I want to know it won't happen again."
"You have my word it won't happen again."
"That isn't enough." Illya calmly downed his vodka.
Napoleon glared at him, but Illya only looked back impassively, clearly prepared to wait forever if necessary. There was no point in fighting him when he got that look. Napoleon picked up his drink and drained half of it in a single gulp. He was immediately ashamed of himself; he'd never needed dutch courage before. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, rolling the glass idly between his hands. Illya waited with silent and seemingly inexhaustible patience.
"Today... when you grabbed me... I felt... I've never felt like that before..." He sighed, staring intently at the glass in his hands. After a long moment, he continued. "I wasn't thinking about the explosion, or the Thrush satrap, or our next move... All I could think was how good... how right... it felt to have you in my arms." He shook his head, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he forced out the next words. "And how much better it would be if only we were someplace private, and I wasn't scared half out of my mind..."
Illya looked remarkably calm. "So that's it. You think you want me and you don't know what to do about it."
Napoleon's head came up with a snap. He stared at his partner for a stunned moment before finding his tongue. "Think I want you?" He shook his head emphatically. "I know I want you. No question about it. I'm sorry, Illya."
Napoleon gaped, thrown completely off-balance. "Why? Well... uh... this can hardly be... ah... comfortable for you. I'm sure you'd like to smash my face in." He rose, stalking stiffly to the window. At least the view was safe.
"Why?" Illya repeated, his half-amused tone swinging Napoleon unwillingly around. Illya stood, moving entirely too close for Napoleon's shaky comfort. "When there are so many other things I could do with it?" He leaned in to press his lips against Napoleon's.
Desire and confusion flooded Napoleon in equal measure and he gasped in shock, tearing himself away from the sweet seduction of Illya's soft lips. He grabbed Illya's shoulders to hold the man away from him.
"What's going on here?"
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Illya leaned against the stiff-armed restraint, smiling in a manner that made Napoleon distinctly nervous.
"Yes, but... I thought you..." Napoleon forced himself to stop stammering and take a good look at his partner. Illya's expression, far from the infuriated disgust Napoleon had anticipated, was full of knowing amusement. The pieces clicked into place, forcing a harsh laugh from Napoleon's suddenly raw throat. "You're a practicing homosexual, aren't you?"
"Certainly not, Napoleon! I'm long past needing to practice." Illya flashed a predatory smile, and just as suddenly turned serious. "You didn't know?"
"I... guess not." Napoleon released Illya and stepped carefully back, feeling rather fragile. "Did you...? In Russia?"
"I'm not suicidal, Napoleon." Illya leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. A defensive posture, Napoleon noted absently.
"Since I came to the West?" Illya nodded curtly. "I've had my share of lovers. I'm more discreet than you are, that's all. So there's no need to be upset over not knowing." He pushed away from the wall with a brusque move, swinging away from Napoleon.
Napoleon grabbed him instinctively, pulling him back around. Expecting resistance, he was unprepared when Illya offered none. The compact body collided solidly with his, forcing the air out of his lungs with a whoosh. He was still trying to catch his breath when Illya's lips closed over his again, and he gave up the effort without a single qualm. Illya breathed out softly, filling Napoleon's lungs with his own air, making him feel oddly light-headed.
Napoleon's arms closed tightly around the smaller man. Illya only moved closer into the embrace. His lips were warm and sweet against Napoleon's, yielding to his instinctive mastery. The broad capable hands which could kill with efficient skill ran lightly up and down his back. Illya's body moved against Napoleon's with sure eagerness, delighting in shared arousal.
It was that very certainty which penetrated Napoleon's passionate haze with a shard of ice. Illya moved against him with every appearance of eagerness. There was no denying his excitement, but Napoleon was too adept at the sensual art of hit and run not to recognize the technique of someone whose emotions are not engaged. The practiced touch of Illya's hands on his body only served to remind Napoleon that at this his partner was no novice. He had done this many times before; it meant nothing more to Illya than Napoleon's legions of women had to him. Though his partner was willing and eager, desire soured in Napoleon's veins. Illya was offering him everything except his heart.
With a broken moan, Napoleon tore himself free of his partner's embrace and took to his heels. Illya's startled call melded with the slamming of the door. Napoleon took the stairs three at a time, managing to outrun the sound of his partner's voice. Breathing heavily, he emerged onto the dark street and made a bee-line for his car.
Both hands braced against the hood, he panted for breath and struggled for control. He had to get out of there. As he reached for the door handle, he remembered.
Illya still had the keys.
Napoleon's fists crashed on the roof of the car with enough force to dent. The growled curses spilling from the normally restrained agent turned the air around him a delicate shade of blue.
The anger faded rapidly and Napoleon looked hopelessly up and down the empty street. No escape presented itself. It was late and cold and very quiet. There were several ways he could get home; even if he didn't want to walk or take the subway, there was sure to be a pay phone around he could use to call a cab. He could even use his communicator to whistle up U.N.C.L.E. transportation, if he wanted to ruin his reputation. "I need a ride home because my partner stole my keys and won't give them back." Yeah, that would go over beautifully. Napoleon winced, thinking of Waverly's reaction to that one. None of it would do any good, of course; his apartment key was on the same ring as his car keys. Even if he got home, he couldn't get inside. His shoulders sagged in defeat.
At least he hadn't locked the car. Napoleon pulled out the overcoat he'd discarded earlier in the evening, shrugged into it and climbed into the front seat, yanking the door closed behind him with a loud bang. Sitting in the cold car was marginally better than standing outside in the bitter wind.
He thought of one or two former girlfriends he could call. Ask them to put him up for the night. But, perversely, he preferred sitting here in the cold.
He knew he was being childish; he should go upstairs and get his keys back from Illya. But he didn't dare face his partner again so soon, not with his body throbbing with desire and, worse, his heart aching with love.
It seemed foolish. Perhaps it was. His body certainly thought so. Why be cold and uncomfortable, when he could be curled up in Illya's bed, with Illya curled around him? Those few touches, that so-brief taste of the man called to him. His body ached with a fine hot passion. It wasn't accustomed to being ignored.
His heart ached too, and that was the greater pain. For the first time in his life, Napoleon Solo wanted more than an easy lay. His cock wanted Illya's body; his heart wanted Illya's love. If he could not have the latter, he didn't think he could bear to have the former.
Napoleon shivered, clutching his overcoat tighter about him. A sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaped his raw throat. What a fine, foolish irony! Napoleon Solo in love for the very first time, and with a man who was willing to offer him no more than Napoleon himself callously offered so many women. He laughed again.
His arms wrapped around himself for warmth, bare hands tucked
into his armpits in an attempt to evade the lowering chill, Napoleon
sat in the cold car, arguing with himself. Eventually, he knew, he'd
have to go back up to Illya's apartment. But not just yet.
A sound like thunder on ice startled him out of his reverie as the whispering of falling snow had not. He was freezing. And no wonder; he could see a thin dusting of white flakes already gathering on the windshield. He'd been too deep in thought to even notice it had started snowing. A fist rapped frantically on the window again, the sound which had roused him. He knew who it was even before he made out the shimmer of blond hair in the streetlight. He rolled down the window.
"What?" It took enormous effort to prevent his teeth from chattering on the word.
"You're going to freeze out here. Come inside."
"No, thank you."
"Damn it, Napoleon!" Several choice oaths in Russian followed, only one of which Napoleon knew. His eyes widened. Illya wasn't generally given to such emphatic profanity. Napoleon noticed his partner fidgeting visibly from one foot to the other and stuck his head out the window to look down at the man's feet. The man's bare feet. Standing in a fine layer of snow.
Illya grabbed him by the collar, simultaneously reaching through the open window to unlock the door. Yanked by his partner, and forsaken by the support of the door, Napoleon tumbled gracelessly out of the car. Still muttering in Russian, Illya picked him up, brushed him off, and gave him a hearty push toward the building.
The heat in the lobby hit him as the cold had not, driving home the chill of his own body. Uncomplaining, he followed Illya up to his apartment, and let himself be stripped of overcoat and jacket. He roused himself, however, when he felt Illya's hands working at the buttons on his shirt. Half expecting a struggle, Napoleon was mildly surprised when Illya only gave him an exasperated look and strode into the bathroom. Minutes later, the sound of running water was accompanied by a cloud of steam escaping through the open door.
Illya returned with a thick blue robe, which he handed to his bemused partner. "Go take a shower and warm up." Seeing that no argument would be accepted, and shivering down to his bones, Napoleon meekly complied.
When he emerged, warmly pink, and absurdly nervous of his nakedness under the robe (his clothes having been spirited away while he was in the shower), he found Illya in the kitchen, preparing two cups of hot tea. Illya silently handed him a steaming mug, and led the way back into the living room.
Napoleon took his usual seat in the overstuffed armchair, fussily arranging the flaps of the robe to cover his knees. He wasn't usually so modest, especially around Illya, but then he'd never been so sexually aware of his partner before. Illya curled up in the corner of the couch, tucking his feet up under himself. Napoleon noticed Illya's extremities seemed none the worse for wear, despite their unprotected foray in the snow; he strongly suspected Illya had been sitting on the heat register while he was in the shower. Suddenly realizing that Illya was watching him steadily, Napoleon turned his attention to the cup in his hand.
He took a sip and grimaced. Illya always made tea too sweet for his taste. But it was hot, and it gave him something to do. He sipped again, avoiding Illya's eyes.
"I'm sorry," his partner offered after a long pause, oddly subdued. "It really upset you, didn't it?"
"No, of course not," Napoleon denied automatically.
"Please, Napoleon, at least do me the favor of not lying to me."
Napoleon shrugged, forcing himself to project a flippancy he didn't feel. There was only one way he could see for them to both get out of this with feelings and pride intact. "I'm the one who should apologize, my friend. I shouldn't have started this. Apparently my ... curiosity wasn't as extensive as I'd imagined."
"No, that's not it," Illya contradicted softly. He set his cup on the coffee table and leaned forward, his eyes glittering with the exhilaration of the hunt. Napoleon had seen it before, when they were after Thrush; he wasn't keen on having that look turned on him. "Your experience is unparalleled, Napoleon. You know how to handle yourself in a sexual situation better than anyone. If you didn't like what we were doing, you would have extricated yourself politely. Not run scared."
"You did," Illya interrupted. "You even forgot I still had your keys. And rather than come back in to get them, you sulked out there in your car for almost an hour."
"While you sat here in your nice, warm apartment. Thank you very much for your concern." Though he realized the attack was unfair, it was the only defense Napoleon could muster at that moment.
"I thought even you had enough sense to come in out of the cold," Illya snapped. He sighed, visibly calming himself. "I thought you'd come back as soon as you remembered I had your keys," he continued with careful patience. "When you didn't, I assumed you used the pay phone at the corner store to call one of your paramours. You must have dated at least half a dozen women within a five minute walk of here. What would you have done if I hadn't happened to look out the window and notice you sitting out there? Sulked in your car all night? This isn't like you, Napoleon."
"Oh, I don't know. You've accused me of childishness often enough in the past," Napoleon sniped.
Illya ignored the tone of voice and responded seriously. "Not as childish as this. You're like an adolescent with..." he stopped, blue eyes widening.
"His first crush?" Napoleon finished bitterly. He stood abruptly and retreated to the kitchen. Knowing he couldn't possibly swallow another mouthful, he poured his tea down the drain. He braced his hands against the counter, waiting for the axe to fall. Illya was a bright boy; it wouldn't take him long to figure it out, not with the clues Napoloen had given him. And then... well, the best Napoleon could hope for was pity. What else could Illya feel after realizing that when he was offering his body for the night, his partner had been blithely rendering up his heart?
Yes, that was it, that soft sound of surprise and revelation. Napoleon drew himself up and turned to face the music. He couldn't bring himself to actually go back into the other room with Illya, however, so he propped his shoulder against the door frame, burying his hands in the pockets of the robe with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. Illya had picked up his cup again and was turning it around and around in his hands with great concentration.
"Well?" Napoleon prompted, when the silence became too much for him.
"I know you, Napoleon. After all these years as partners, I know every bend and twist you've got. I didn't know you desired me. You must not have known it yourself. Until now. But Napoleon," he glanced up suddenly, capturing Napoleon in eyes that burned with blue ice, "I never dared dream you could ever love me."
Napoleon wanted to scoff, to turn aside Illya's too-perceptive gaze and keep the dark recesses of his soul to himself. However, for the first time in his life, he could find nothing to say. No glib answers or quick retorts. He was speechless before that bright gaze.
Illya set aside his cup and rose lithely, stalking his partner with the graceful stride of a panther. His gaze kept Napoleon frozen in the doorway. Finally, he stopped, too close, and lifted a hand to stroke lightly down Napoleon's cheek. Napoleon shivered under the tender touch, biting his lower lip to keep from making a sound. Illya brushed a thumb over Napoleon's trapped lip and made a tsking sound.
"Don't do that, 'Polya." Then he leaned in for a kiss.
Napoleon groaned and gave himself over to the soft lips which covered his own. It was warm and wet, offering no less expertise than the kisses they had exchanged earlier, but replete with the only thing that had been missing then: love. Napoleon sighed as he felt Illya's arms encircle him, the fear in his heart melting under the passion of their embrace. Finally, Illya drew back, leisurely breaking the kiss. The younger man ran a knowing palm over Napoleon's chest, pausing to press lightly over his heart.
"You should have told me," he whispered, and took Napoleon's mouth again before he could answer. It was just as well. There was nothing he could say that Illya did not already know.
Napoleon closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Illya's mouth against his own. His relief made him pliant. He moved with perfect trust at his partner's direction, allowing himself to be led, with gestures and tugs and warm searching kisses, into the bedroom.
Once in that inner sanctum, his mouth and hands were released as Illya turned his attention to undressing his new lover. Napoleon glanced around at the room he'd only entered a few times before, which spoke so certainly of his cryptic partner, and rediscovered his nervousness.
"Ah... Illya? You remember what I said earlier, about how much better I thought it would be, holding you someplace private when I wasn't scared out of my mind?"
"Yes, Napoleon," Illya responded with calm patience, his fingers still working at the knot Napoleon had managed to tie in the belt of his robe.
"Well... I'm still scared."
Illya's fingers stilled as he gazed searchingly into Napoleon's eyes. He didn't say anything for a long moment, no doubt knowing how hard the admission had been for Napoleon. Finally, he sighed. "You don't have any reason to be, you know. This is me, remember? Your partner. It's my job to keep you safe, and protected." He paused, his tongue investigating the furls of Napoleon's ear, making him shiver with something other than trepidation. Eventually, he drew back. "If it would make you feel more comfortable, you may take the more familiar role."
Napoleon blinked at him, confused. The only part of his mind that was working was currently busy worrying over the fact that so little of his mind was actually working. He'd never had any trouble mixing conversation and sex before. Why couldn't he think now?
After a minute, he figured out what Illya was offering, and a frisson of excitement shivered through him. He wanted that, but even more he wanted to feel Illya's body in his own. He stroked Illya's downy cheek with the backs of his fingers and shook his head gently.
"Thank you, Illyusha, but no." He smiled tremulously at Illya's obvious confusion. "I've been in and out of so many beds. Now... when it matters... I don't want to be in any doubt that I'm with you." He couldn't quite find the right words to explain it any clearer: that the "familiar role" was entirely too familiar, and he wouldn't risk turning Illya into just another receptive body. He desperately wanted it to be more than that.
"Don't worry, Napoleon," Illya growled, his voice thick with arousal, "I won't let you forget."
"Good," he smiled, feeling suddenly freer. His fingers made short work of Illya's shirt buttons, and he slid the light fabric off square shoulders. His thumb smoothed over Illya's shoulder, the incredibly soft skin seductive in its seeming fragility. He could feel Illya's fingers working on his belt again, but it no longer concerned him.
Distracted by his investigation of Illya's warm, hard chest, he gasped when his robe fell open suddenly and his lover's hands plunged through to touch him. Illya's caresses were strong and sure, without hesitation. He pushed the robe off Napoleon's shoulders, leaving him naked, shivering slightly with arousal and nerves. Illya embraced him, pressing himself against Napoleon's body, making him gasp with the touch of warm skin and rough fabric. They kissed, Napoleon unhesitatingly opening his mouth to invite Illya's possession.
They broke, gasping for breath, and Illya turned from Napoleon to throw back the blankets. Napoleon allowed himself to be guided down on cool sheets, and watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Illya stripped off the rest of his clothes. It felt very strange to let someone else take the lead, but he was content to remain passive and let Illya do with him as he would.
Nude, Illya climbed into the bed, the lithe strength Napoleon had counted on for years in the field now setting his senses ablaze. A teasing half-grin quirking his lips, Illya slid onto Napoleon's body, allowing his torso to stroke lightly over every aroused inch of him. Napoleon arched with a moan and wrapped his arms around the slighter body, trying to force him into a closer embrace. Illya wiggled free with a soft laugh and settled at his side instead, propping his head on one hand.
"So, 'Polya," he ran a light finger down the center of Napoleon's chest, "what would you like?" His voice held a familiar archly amused tone Napoleon hadn't expected to encounter in the circumstances. It took him a minute to catch his breath enough to reply.
"You, you little Russian tease!" Napoleon grabbed Illya and tumbled him across his chest, snatching a kiss from the smiling mouth.
He laughed as they rolled together on the bed, engaged in a playful struggle for dominance. Their bodies met and rubbed against each other as they wrestled, sparking the friendly battle with ever-lengthening moments of shivering pleasure. Perhaps Illya was better at keeping his head about him, despite his body's interference, or perhaps Napoleon wasn't inclined to prolong the game; either way, it was Illya who ended up on top.
Illya stared into Napoleon's eyes for a serious moment, stole a kiss, then began working his way slowly down his sweat-sheened body. Nibbling teeth went first, his tongue after, soothing the tiny hurts, occasionally sucking on a particularly sensitive area. Napoleon raised his hands over his head, grabbing the headboard to prevent himself from directing Illya's talented mouth to where he most wanted it. The cadence of his moans, however, led his lover there just as surely.
Napoleon cried out when his swollen cock was swallowed whole, Illya's mouth and tongue playing beautiful music on his aching flesh. Napoleon was vaguely aware of the strong hands holding his hips, controlling and guiding his instinctive thrusts. He raised his head, and the sight of his cock sliding into his partner's mouth nearly set him off. His head falling back, he writhed in the extremity of pleasure, only to be cut off abruptly just as he'd nearly reached the edge.
Illya's warm weight covered him again, and he blinked his eyes open to see the blue eyes laughing down at him. With a growl, he rolled over, pinning the smaller man beneath his weight. Far from looking surprised, Illya merely smiled, stretching under the confining weight, his muscles flexing against Napoleon's over-heated body, hips rocking seductively. Napoleon covered the smiling mouth with his own, delving deep between parted lips. Illya was lax and receptive, clearly willing to satisfy Napoleon's need in the most basic way possible. Napoleon broke the kiss and buried his face in Illya's shoulder.
To possess Illya would be a sensual delight, unlike anything Napoleon had ever experienced. But he was afraid that taking a role so familiar to him with his legions of women would leave him, despite the love between them, as untouched by the experience as he had always been with the women. Napoleon wanted to know, down to his heart's core, that he belonged to this man.
He rolled, bringing Illya's weight down upon himself, and spread his legs, trapping Illya's hips between his thighs.
"Just... do it, Illya." He lifted his head to snatch a quick kiss and lowered his voice to a whisper Illya had to bend forward to hear. "I want to know what it feels like... to have you inside me."
Illya groaned, his hips rocking instinctively in shallow thrusts against Napoleon's stomach. Eyes closed, he nuzzled under the curve of Napoleon's jaw, finishing with a sharp nip to the point of his chin. Then he withdrew completely and sat up, reaching for the bedside table. Returning with a tube of lubricant, he tugged impatiently at Napoleon's shoulder.
"Roll over," he commanded, his passion-thick voice nearly unrecognizable.
"No," Napoleon denied. He spread his legs wider, guiding Illya between them with a tug on his arm. "I want to be able to see your face."
The blue eyes flared a deep sapphire, making it almost impossible for him to meet their burning depths. Illya nodded sharply and fumbled at the tube of lubricant with shaking hands. Napoleon took it from him and twisted it open, poured some into his hands and took Illya's erection in an uncompromising grip. Illya threw his head back with a groan as Napoleon's hands milked his swollen cock, his own fingers tightening punishingly on Napoleon's thighs. He could barely catch his breath by the time Napoleon released him and picked up the lubricant again to spread some on Illya's fingers.
Illya caught Napoleon's right leg in the crook of his arm and pushed it back, opening him up. He pressed two fingers into the hot, yielding body, hardly able to find the patience to prepare him properly. Napoleon gasped, his back arching, as Illya's fingers thrust in and out, stretching and relaxing his hungry flesh. When Illya slid a third finger in, he began to shake.
"Do it, Illya. Do it now... please!"
Removing his fingers, Illya lifted Napoleon's hips and shoved a pillow under him, his casual strength sending a throb of arousal through his partner. He draped Napoleon's legs over his shoulders and leaned over him, bending him back. Napoleon looked up at the man hovering over him and felt a shiver of fear. Illya's face was a mask of desire, uncompromising and savage in its arousal. Yet his hands were gentle as they spread Napoleon's buttocks.
It hurt, when Illya pushed his thick cock into Napoleon's body. He'd known it would. He bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan and blinked the tears away rapidly, knowing Illya was watching his face. He didn't want Illya to see his weakness, and cursed himself for insisting on doing it face to face. The pain became almost unbearable as he was slowly impaled on the hot steel of Illya's body, but he was careful not to make a sound. Napoleon focused all his attention on preventing Illya from seeing how much he was hurting.
Finally, he became aware that Illya had stopped moving. The light brush of hair against Napoleon's buttocks told him Illya was buried as deep as he could get. Napoleon felt gentle hands brush his cheeks, wiping away the tears he hadn't been able to contain, and slowly opened his eyes.
Illya smiled tenderly at him, his palms rubbing softly over Napoleon's chest. His hands passed over Napoleon's broad chest in long massaging strokes, soothing and gentling him. Then he kneaded Napoleon's thighs, pressing them against his own chest as he stroked the sensitive skin. Finally, he wrapped his hand around Napoleon's half-erect cock and began stroking him in slow firm motions.
Napoleon sighed, stretching a little. The hard flesh which throbbed within him no longer felt like a burning brand. His movement slid him a little off Illya's cock, and his lover made a soft sound in his throat, pressing home again. The feel of Illya's erection sliding forward that minute amount sent a shock-wave of pleasure through Napoleon's body. He gasped shakily. Illya grinned unrepentantly at him and deliberately rocked his hips, his cock stirring inside Napoleon, almost drowning him in unexpected pleasure.
Gasping with the shock of it, Napoleon reached down and grabbed Illya's hips. His strong grip guided his lover in the first thrust before his hands were taken into Illya's and pressed to the mattress over his head. Illya bent over him again, mastering his body in a series of slow searching thrusts which found no more pain in him, only the soul-searing pleasure. Napoleon's moan was stolen by Illya's mouth, his lover's tongue plunging in tempo with his body.
Illya transferred his grip on Napoleon's wrists into one hand, and took Napoleon's weeping cock in the other, milking in time with his thrusts. Napoleon arched under the weight of the man who possessed him, torn between the pleasure of his stroking hand, and that of the hard flesh which churned in his body, setting off fires of desire. His much vaunted staying power went up in flames and he bucked wildly under Illya, his world flaring into an explosion of color and light.
Illya rode him hard, burying himself deep again and again until the final spasms of Napoleon's climax took him over the edge. Napoleon felt the hard flesh inside him expand almost unbearably, then the wash of Illya's pleasure spilled into him. Illya collapsed against him, moaning and shuddering in the force of his climax. The pleasure of it sent a final surge through Napoleon, and he blacked out.
When Napoleon returned to himself, he heard his own husky sobbing intermixed with Illya's frantic reassurances. Illya lay beside him, cuddling him close in strong arms, trying to soothe the tears he didn't understand.
Truth be told, Napoleon didn't know the cause himself.
"I'm sorry, 'Polya, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" Illya's fingers swept over him, as if to check for injuries, then returned to run through his hair.
He shook his head in wordless negation, brushing his wet face against the warmth of Illya's bare chest. Slowly the sobs faded in the strength of their embrace and he rested quietly against his partner's body, exhausted by the sex and his unprecedented emotional outburst. When his breathing had calmed, but for a few shudders, Illya tried again.
"Are you okay, Napoleon?"
He pulled back just far enough to see Illya's face and nodded. He didn't want to talk, for once; he just wanted to lie quietly in Illya's embrace, where he felt safe and warm.
The familiar blue eyes searched his for a long moment, their frantic glitter fading as Illya was convinced that Napoleon really was all right. Finally, Illya smiled softly and shook his head, as if to say 'who can understand this crazy American?'. Napoleon buried his face in the curve of Illya's shoulder, releasing his breath in a deep sigh as he felt his partner's arms encircle him tightly. Before long, he heard the change in Illya's breathing which indicated he had succumbed to sleep. He lay for a long time, basking in the warmth and smooth pleasure of Illya's encircling limbs.
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