Their honeymoon is long and lacking neither in adventure nor long, lazy afternoons spent lying in bed, Dimitri entertaining her with stories of his exploits in Moscow - both the legal ones, and otherwise. Mostly otherwise, really. He teaches her how to pick pockets in Prague and yanks the pants down on a guard in London. Half the things they do, were they to get caught, would result in scandal; Anya suspects Grandmama is more aware of that than Dimitri realizes.
Today, however, their honeymoon is almost over. It's been two months, and Anya is aching to return to Grandmama and Sophie and even Vlad, with stories of all their adventures. Right now, though, they're spending the last two days before they return in a tiny, beautiful hotel in the heart of Paris.
It's all open windows and white sheets, and Anya is in love even before Dimitri bows and says, "Allow me to fetch you your morning sustenance, Princess."
That, actually, just makes her laugh; a lot of what Dimitri says with exaggerated care does. She's still chuckling to herself when he comes back in with two plates and coffees on a tray.
"Your Highness," he says, setting the tray down at their tiny table by the window. He does it with flair, and Anya smiles as she wraps a robe around herself (silk! she can have silk robes now; it's still a shock after two months) and pulls him in for a kiss.
"Thank you," she says, smiling at him.
She's expecting a flippant remark. She gets it, actually, but first he kneels and smirks. "I live to serve."
She stares down at him. She can still feel marks on her from last night, on her inner thighs and shoulders, a warm spot on her neck. They're suddenly very obvious as he looks up at her, his initial smugness fading until the joke isn't really a joke anymore.
"Dimitri," she says. She's as surprised as anyone when her voice is relatively steady.
"Your Highness," he says again. He leans forward and brushes his lips over the back of her hand, so lightly it's barely a kiss, before saying, "How may I serve you?"
"That's not funny," she says, because her legs feel a little wobbly, now, and her…well. Certain parts of her are showing an interest.
A complicated expression passes over his face. He's still so hard to read, but right now, she'd say he's almost laughing at himself. "It wasn't meant to be."
"Then what -"
He bows his head and takes her hand, placing it at the nape of his neck, tightening his fingers - and thus hers - around the strands of his hair. She blinks, then blinks again, shivering when he says, "I'm here at your pleasure, Princess. I'm here to serve you."
"Dimitri," she starts. She's going to reject him; she has to. But when he looks up at her, the words catch in her throat. The part of her that went with them to begin with, the part that slapped him, the part that defeated Rasputin, the part that ran away with him: that part sits up and takes notice, and she finds herself tugging his hair on her own.
"Your mouth," she says. She thinks she manages an appropriately regal voice. Or close to one, anyway.
For once, he doesn't smirk or say something smart. He just nods and reaches up, sitting back on his heels enough that he can tug her robe open.
She's naked underneath, and she watches as he catches his breath and studies her. But her body is taking such strong interest that she says almost immediately, "Get to it, Dimitri."
He nods, but says, "Can you sit down?"
She almost walks over to the bed, but…it will be better, she thinks, if she sits on the chair. Her hesitance is fading; she drops the robe to the floor and sits down on the edge of the chair, naked, the sun falling on her skin. He somehow makes closing the distance attractive, despite the fact that he's more or less walking on his knees. That stops being an issue, though, when he braces his hands on her knees and says, "May I?"
She understands what he's asking for better, now. She nods, then says, "Yes," returning her hand to the back of his head and guiding him down to the apex between her thighs.
He lets out a shuddering breath, and she senses he needs reassuring, so she tugs his hair sharply and sets her free hand on his shoulder, nails digging in. "Well? Are you going to do what I told you to, or should I have someone better sent up?"
Presumably, he knows she'd never do that. But it works. He leans forward and licks her, once, slowly.
They've done this a lot in the past two months, and she knows she likes it. But it's different like this, with him serving her. She feels so tightly wound, and pretty terrifyingly responsible. It's her job, she thinks, to be good for him; it's her job to hold him here and reward him for good service. With that thought in mind, she tilts forward a little, urging him on.
He licks her steadily, but he doesn't use his fingers; they're gripping her knees like vices. After awhile, she starts using his mouth. It makes her redden a little, but he seems to like the way her hips twitch, the way she grinds against him, if his groans are anything to go by.
But it's not enough. She could come like this, but she wants more; she wants her body to feel the intensity of what it is they're doing. So she says, voice rough and harsh, "Use your fingers, Dimitri. Two of them. Hard, or I won't be happy."
He doesn't pause, just presses the fingers into her, fucking her roughly and riding the movement of her hips. His mouth never even stops on her, rubbing over the best spot - her clit, he knows the words and has been sure to tell her - tracing where his fingers meet her body, sucking lightly and rubbing and driving her completely out of her mind.
She curses, faster and louder the closer she gets, and she can feel him smiling. She gets him back by digging her fingernails into his shoulder hard enough that it has to hurt and saying, "Curl your fingers, do it. Now."
He does, and she comes, arching her back and pressing herself against him. She worries, when she becomes more aware again, that she's hurt him; but when she scoots back in the chair, he looks up at her with a dazed expression as he reaches down to himself.
"No," she says sharply.
He stops immediately.
She didn't think before saying it, and now she feels adrift, but the way he's looking up at her grounds her. "Don't touch yourself," she says. "I'm not ready to be done, so neither are you."
He swallows and nods.
"Now," she says. "Go to the bed. Lie down. Spread your legs."
He's not graceful when he gets up, exactly, but he crosses the short distance between the bed quickly and without mishap. He sheds his clothes - a sight that still makes her catch her breath, more than a little - and then lies down with his legs spread. He braces his hands on either side of him, palms pressing into the mattress.
It's a big bed. There's a lot of room. Anya…Anya likes that.
She stands up, absurdly proud when her legs don't shake like they were before, and goes over to him. She should probably get on the bed, but for now she stands over him and strokes the side of his face, watching him shiver.
"What do you want?" she says quietly.
He huffs out a breath and then smiles, a happier echo of his old cynicism playing across his face. "Anything Your Highness wishes to grant me."
So that's what he wants. Very well, she thinks. "And if I want you to touch yourself?" Does she dare? Of course she does, she thinks fiercely, and says, "If I want you to work yourself open?"
He stiffens in every sense of the word, and she sternly orders herself not to blush.
"I'd say we have that bottle of oil for a reason," he finally says.
That doesn't make her hands shake, but it does make her feel like she's up in a balloon, staring down at the suddenly-tiny countryside. "Right," she says, shaken. "Of course." She swallows and stands, going over to their trunk and finding the small bottle of oil.
He tilts his hips when she gets back, but his eyes are hooded and it's obvious that he's waiting for something. So she tells him, "Don't touch me. Grab the sheets if you have to," and tilts the bottle to coat her fingers with the oil.
It feels shockingly wasteful for the moment it takes her to press a finger against his entrance. After that, she's pretty sure there's nothing she'd rather be doing with it.
He's noisy, like he always is only moreso; he clutches the sheets so hard she's a little surprised they don't rip, and when she presses one finger in all the way, he says, "Anya - please."
"You'll get to fuck me," she says. It's the kind of language they didn't even use in the orphanage, but he lifts his head enough to look at her and then says, "Oh - oh, God," voice weak.
And then, somehow, she knows exactly what to do. "Shh," she says, stroking his knee. She pushes another finger in, crooking them and saying, "You're so good with me."
"No." She lets her voice be a little hard. "Don't say anything."
His head falls back onto the bed.
"Good," she says again. "So good. God, I didn't even know you could do this, and you really like it, don't you?" She thrusts her fingers, copying the rhythm he uses with her and stroking his thigh. She could reach up and really get him off, but she wants him to fuck her; she wants to keep going. So she doesn't. She keeps her fingers moving slowly, just enough to torture him. And he pants and obediently doesn't move his hands from the bed.
"I like it, you know," she says before it occurs to her that maybe she shouldn't.
His undignified response is, "Huh?"
"The stealing, the lying, the cheating even when you're gambling. Especially when you're gambling." She keeps moving her fingers steadily, stroking his thigh, the line of his hip, and up his ribs. He's not ticklish, she knows, but he does shiver. "I like when you do it."
"It's for you," he manages to say. The words all rush together; he's close. She's going to have to pull back soon.
"I know," she says. "I like it." She pulls her fingers out, not that gently at all. "It's fun."
"Well, that's good," he says, voice breathy but also not a little sarcastic.
She taps his jaw, just hard enough to make him wince. "Watch your mouth," she says.
He tilts his hips up, wordlessly seeking. And he has, she thinks, been patient enough; so she wipes her hand on the bed and rolls a condom onto him, straddling him and slowly sinking down.
"Anya," he says on a sigh.
"Good," she says. She rides him slowly, exactly how she's learned he likes. "Raise your hands. Grip the headboard."
He obeys, and she runs a hand over his chest, pinching his nipples harshly enough that his hips jerk. "This is all for me," she says, making sure she doesn't quite sound soothing. "You're serving me so well, Dimitri."
He arches his back, hips pressing against hers hard enough that she's jolted upwards. She returns the pressure, bearing down on him and tightening herself around him. "Good," she says. "So good for me, aren't you?"
He doesn't say anything else. She runs her hands over his arms, down to his chest again, and keeps riding him. His movements get more and more erratic, his eyes fluttering open and shut as he tries to hold on. This is good, but she's so aroused she can barely move independently, much less keep track of what he's doing; so finally she lowers her hand to her clit and says, "You can come, if you want."
He does almost immediately after, as she fucks herself on him. It's easy for her to follow, pinching her clit and leaning back. She's showing off, she knows, but it's worth it for the admiring look Dimitri gives her.
It takes her a minute to realize his hands are still white-knuckled on the headboard. "Relax," she says, and climbs off of him, pulling the condom off and depositing it in the waste bin. She sits at the head of the bed, then, pulling his head into her lap and running her fingers through his hair.
He turns toward her, contentment settling in his expression. "You did well," she says. "I'm pleased."
"Good." He smiles a little. "I always want to please you, Your Highness."
"You can again," she says. "This is…this is something we can do again."
He shifts a little more, until he can tuck one hand under her knee where it meets the bed. "Good," he says.
They drowse half the day away, sitting just like that. Anya really, really doesn't mind.