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Afternoon Nap

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Napoleon slid his hand up his lover’s thigh, fingertips barely brushing the pale flesh, palm gliding a teasing warmth slowly over that soft skin, his lips following after to nip and kiss and trace secret patterns there. Napoleon could feel the tremble of muscle under the skin as his partner tried not to arch into the caress, holding out as long as possible before surrendering to the need for that touch, the need for something other than feather light teasing strokes, the need to demand more and harder and faster and please. More soft skin called to Napoleon, he opened his mouth over the juncture of thigh and torso, the skin there protected and fragile, and when he lapped his tongue along it, he could hear a moan from his lover and he smiled and started to suck, leaving a trail of reddened circles to blaze his trail slowly towards his goal, each one darker than the last, marking his lover deeper and harder with each move inward. Closer and closer to the center of his lover’s heat he kissed and sucked and licked and slid his fingers over and around…


Napoleon’s response was unintelligible.

“Napoleon, we have an hour to get to the stakeout and relieve Baker and Smithsen. Wake up.”

Napoleon started to roll over on his back to tell his partner he was most certainly awake when he thought better of it. Instead he mumbled something about coffee, hoping that Illya would take the hint and abandon the bedroom doorway for the kitchen and allow him to make his way to the master bath without having to explain too much. He hoped he hadn’t been talking in his sleep before Illya woke him. As he stripped and headed for the shower, he wondered why sleeping in the middle of the day made his dreams so much more vivid. And he wondered why every one of his afternoon dreams while they were doing this evening stakeout starred his own partner in the best most x-rated show he’d ever imagined. He stepped under a very cold shower spray and tried to put the whole thing out of his mind.

Illya stood in front of the coffee pot in Napoleon’s kitchen, listening to the drum of the shower spray from the other room, echoing his heartbeat with a rapid thrumming. He had walked into Napoleon’s bedroom to wake him, something he had done dozens of times before, but today he had found himself imagining waking Napoleon with a kiss to the back of his neck, imagined sliding his hands into dark hair not yet tamed and combed and turning him so that he could trace his tongue along his partner’s lower lip, sucking it between his own before tasting his partner’s tongue with his own, waking him warm and with edges still soft with sleep. He had retreated to the doorway quickly, calling for Napoleon as if he had never entered the room and stood for unknown minutes staring and letting his imagination wander and want.

Illya shook his head and lit the flame under the coffee pot. Then checked his watch. “Damn,” he muttered. There wasn’t enough time to go back downstairs to his own apartment for another shower, a cold one this time. He started to recite the decimal places of pi in his head as he watched the flame under the coffeepot burn bright blue and the rhythm of the shower in the other room beat against the wall.