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The Just Desserts Affair

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"I could give you a massage."

Our inn was quaint and remote, quite unprovided with such things as masseuses or limitless hot water. Illya probably would say we provide enough of that ourselves. His command of idiomatic English never fails him at such moments.

"An offer I can't refuse." I fetched a towel out of my luggage while Illya moved the dressing screen between the window and the beds. I stretched out on mine.

Illya attacked the first knot so quickly that the pain faded into relief with a hot burn. Methodically he worked his way across and down my back like a mine sweeper. He combined kneading with knuckle tapping, manipulating the muscles into relaxation. Only Illya would inject acupuncture into a rub down. Effective.

I pondered that muzzily, as I slipped deeper into relaxation. Nice to be able to relax; Illya could keep the lookout. Couldn't relax completely with a professional, they might be Thrush or Thrush might come calling. I wondered if you pulled back all Illya's layers, if there was anything there. Weird images of onion domes, stacking dolls and Faberge eggs floated by lazily.

There was a lot that went unsaid between us. Even if the KGB and the rest of the USSR's alphabet soup intelligence honored the agreements with UNCLE, THRUSH or even the CIA (or any of our alphabet soup) might pass along information. The more history I read, because I couldn't just ask Illya, the more questions I had.

One, or parts of several questions, were making their way to my lips when the kiss was dropped on my neck. I was still gathering my wits when the towel was flipped aside and a weight settled over my back. A well known weight, as often as we'd been trapped, flung together, or rescued the other. What was not explicable, was the hot hard length pressed against me. How had he undressed?

It felt good. Not It, but the weight of the rest of Illya. I sighed into the tender kisses dropped on my shoulders. Illya rocked against me, sliding. Far from losing my erection, I was getting harder. Rolling him off was the furthest thing from my mind. Actually, him breaching me was the furthest, even as he pressed inside. Even as he stroked. Especially as he hit my prostate. Repeatedly.

I kissed the bite I'd made on his hand. Later I'd find a matching one near my collarbone. Illya started to get up. "Don't." I rolled from under him, pressing him towards the wall side. I bent over him, stealing a kiss. Amazing I could surprise him. Wonder if he learned to kiss from the Art of War. "What brought this on?"

"I suppose I can't claim a Thrush gas."

"Good thing I didn't let you out of my sight this mission." Illya's skin, free of scars, is very smooth. My hand read him like Braille. "Was it any good?" I took the affront and hint of an upturned lip as all the affirmative I'd get. "You can slip off for a shower later." I pulled him closer and threw the towel to the floor, before going to sleep.

I woke up in the morning, the dressing screen back in its normal place. Illya's bed had clearly been slept in, though it was now empty. I grabbed my shaving kit.

We were back in New York the next day, and on assignment again later that week. Not the best conditions to figure out what to do about Illya, and that wasn't even quite how I wanted to think about it. What should I think? All I knew is that Illya was unlikely to say anything about the matter without some sort of prompt. That might be fine about economic theory or political systems, but I take my sex life a bit more seriously.

He'd likely laugh at that. Seriously wasn't the right word. But with Illya? Serious like a finicky bomb. I had no idea why he'd done... me, and I had a sinking suspicion he wasn't certain either. Illya uncertain frightened me. Myself I expected to want and not want somewhat on whim. Illya by necessity balanced every pleasure against penalty.

"Come by for dinner tonight." Illya, of course, agreed. You'd think as much as he likes to eat he'd know how to cook. Or at least not skip meals. Normal agents exceed their weight limits; Illya is the only one I know of that drops below his regularly.

I push that from my mind as I pay for my groceries and head for my apartment. Instead I think about Illya engrossed in the lab, or reading some exceptionally arcane tome. I smile as I recollect an Erasmus quote.

"Do you want to sleep with me?" I've let most of the meal pass first, waiting until Illya is demolishing dessert. His fork barely clinked as he set it down. "I admit to being intrigued." I stretched out my open hand on the table. The seconds before he dropped his hand into mine and clutched my wrist were the longest I'd ever endured. Until he resumed eating his dessert. And mine.