Ivan Press

Ivan

The original plan was to go to Hawaii, but perhaps they forget that for a while in Montreal. There's an entire city here, after all, replete for what passes for culture and refinement this side of the Atlantic. They indulge. He takes her out to dinner at the finest restaurants; they lunch on the riverwalk. He whiles away a few hours at a cafe, reading on his tablet while she shops. At one point they discover a dance academy -- some small, amateur thing nestled in the heart of Old Montreal -- and Ivan pays some inappropriately exorbitant sum to grant Hilary access for the day, the week, as long as they'll be there. Sometimes he watches her dance. Once, he went shopping, and wouldn't tell her where or for what.

They fuck on every imaginable surface in that gorgeous hotel suite. They end up tangled in the sheets. Morning after and they don't wake until eleven o' clock. They are creatures of the city and they almost never go into the wilderness, but some madness strikes him now and he wants to have a picnic up in the mountains. The servants pack them a meal, crusty artisan breads and rare cheeses and wine and cold cuts. Ivan drives, top down, wind in their hair. Well; wind in his. Hilary possibly wears a scarf.

Red diamond might still be on her finger. He holds her hand some of the way there, idle, fingers loosely linked. He's wearing sunglasses. Looks lean and dapper in well-cut jeans; a quarter-button shirt, dark and soft; a thick but short jacket that buttons in a diagonal across the upper chest.

Eventually, when they've left the city behind, he finds a small lot and parks. It is the middle of a workweek. They are quite possibly the only people up here. Ivan gets out and goes to open Hilary's door, holding his hand out for hers.

It is colder than she would like here. Hilary tells him so; they are far north and it is not the season for convertibles and open shirts, which he so favors. Dubai was warmer. She complains. She wants the fire on, and then she complains about being stuck inside with a fire, it's no different from Novgorod. She's a veritable pill about it for an entire day, in fact, sour and sulking, even down to the point when she lays in bed, and the hunch of her shoulders reads as helplessness, hopelessness that she never seems to have any protection against. She is so cold, and so hard, and so raw, and so vulnerable, and when she needs him the most to make her feel safe, he touches her and she flinches away from him, irritated at his attempts to embrace her, comfort her, do what little he has in him to show her that he cares. That he loves.

But they go out anyway. He takes her to fine dinners that she barely eats, lunches with her on the riverwalk while she stares at the water and primarily ignores him. She shops blandly, coming back with bags she doesn't bother to unpack, expecting the hotel staff to dry-clean and care for everything, which Ivan eventually has to snap his fingers to make them do, since Hilary also complains that it hasn't been done yet. No one has read her mind yet.

One of the first times he sees her even remotely engaged, for days, is when he finds the dance academy, takes her there. He had Miron or someone gather Hilary's dance things, her practice shoes, and hand them over to FedEx to soar across the Atlantic just so she wouldn't have to break in something new. And Hilary actually, finally, seems pleased. She seems a little startled and lost, in fact. But then she begins to go, each day for a little while, to practice. Because this always feels right to her. This always feels comforting, and calming, in a way that even Ivan and even Anton sometimes are not.

Sometimes he watches her. And she twirls across the floor and she stretches her limbs in her warm, skin-fitting workout clothes, mostly black but for the light lilac sweater she wears or the white toe shoes he got her that have been beaten in and scuffed and generally destroyed for the sake of being useful to her. She wears her hair up for the most part, severe but functional, and does not seem to notice his comings or goings unless the music has stopped.

Of course he does not tell her what he went shopping for. She never asked.

--

One day, however, is absurdly warm for this time of year. The sun glitters and the city is erupting with activity, people out and trying to worship the sun as much as they can. In this part of the country, a sunlit day like this can be a rare thing. Hilary is coaxed from bed and adorns herself: straight, silken hair, glinting jewelry on her finger, in her earlobes. She was going to wear a new Balenciaga wrap dress in raw silk, but he wants to go on a picnic and even in the sun it will be too cold for that. He wants her to walk around outside and she can't wear the heels she would have worn with it, either.

He talked her out of going to dance first and she's annoyed with him about that, too.

So Hilary wears something else: either a very long sweater or a very short dress. It is loose and almost shapeless, with a slight cowl to the neckline that still falls enough to almost bare one shouder. Her hands are almost hidden by the chunky sleeves. It covers her ass and then an inch or three. She wears boots that almost cover her knee, black ones. And then he wants the goddamn convertible top down, their eternal argument, and a scarf doesn't go with this outfit but she rather bitterly puts one on anyway, seething out the window while he enjoys the fucking wind in his hair. She wears sunglasses and stares outside, and he tries to hold her hand and she refuses him wordlessly, laying them in her lap instead.

He finds a spot and parks. She waits for him to come around and open the door, takes his hand and steps out, leaving the stupid scarf behind, her hair falling free again. She absolutely loathes him and his selfishness. She looks around, sort of dismayed by the idea of a cute little picnic, but she waits sullenly to be led.

Hilary is clearly not enjoying herself.

Ivan notices. He noticed long before they wound their way up this mountain. He noticed her stiff silence, her refusal to be touched, her sunglasses hiding her eyes. He notices, now, her swift and spiteful shedding of the scarf. The way she takes his hand, even: cold and distant and angry. He should not laugh at her -- and indeed, he doesn't quite laugh -- but Ivan is, in the end, cruel enough to be a little amused. She's so sullen.

But he is merciful, too. He does not take the picnic basket out after all. He simply offers his arm, or his hand if she'll have it. He leads her on a short trail, a dirt path for god's sake. Not far, though. A thousand paces; perhaps less.

To the edge of a bluff, where a low wooden fence protects visitors from tumbling to their demise. Here they have a view of the entire city below, the modern and the old, clinging to the banks of its river.

"Do you like Montreal?" he asks her, though he already suspects the answer. "There's a house on the river, there," he points, "five minutes' drive from the old city, ten from downtown. Sixteen rooms. You can see the river from every south-facing window. We could buy it, if you like it here."

Hilary doesn't even notice that he leaves the basket of food. If she did, she might ask him why. She might get angry, tell him that if he was going to drag her all the way out here for a stupid picnic the least he could do is feed her. As it is, she puts her hand on his forearm so that she has something to hold onto for walking on a fucking dirt path. She is not wearing high heels, stilettos, but those boots do have a bit of a heel of their own, thick but still a few inches high.

They walk in silence. She is brought to a bluff, and a fence, and the sight of the city. Because the sun is not in a position to blind her, Hilary removes her sunglasses. He asks her a question but does not wait for the answer. He points, and she watches his finger, tipping her head, wondering if she can see it. Sixteen rooms. Every possible view of the river. They could buy it.

She says nothing at first.

"I miss my lake house," she finally says. Flatly. Rather quietly, all told.

Utterly inexplicably, this makes him smile. He smiles at her, sun dappling his hair, turning him golden. Pale gold. It is winter, after all.

"With the studio and the kitchen," he says, as though affirming what he already knows. "Even with the water all around?"

"All of it," she says, her brow wrinkling tightly. Not specifically the studio, the kitchen. The altar of the bed. The dock. The walls so bright and the surroundings so private. The house nearby that she could not see and did not ever, ever have to go to if she didn't want to, but where Anton and his servants could live, where Ivan could live and leave her alone. The water underneath her, the water all around her, terrifying and comforting at once. A familiar void. A place to watch Ivan splashing around, when he liked to, golden and muscular.

All of it.

Hilary's brow tightens even more, almost a scowl. Or a pout. "But we cannot live in that city. Nor do I wish to. I have discovered that I hate the cold."

She says the word with the emotion, her teeth on edge, vicious and throat-tearing.

"We'll go somewhere warm," he says, easily enough. Ivan leans against the wood railing, looking down the steep drop. Wind moves in his hair. It is unseasonably warm; still cool. Fifty degrees, perhaps verging into sixty. Shocking for this latitude, this time of year.

"We can build it again," he adds. "Your little house on the lake. Or the ocean. We can be Californians." He smirks. "You can dye your hair blonde."

She is smoothing a bit, soothing, as he talks of a lake, an ocean, even California -- though she thinks that place is culture-less and tawdry. But she's taking him seriously, until he teases her about coloring her hair.

Hilary shoots him a sudden, sharp glare. And heel-turns, walking back the way they came.

"Darling," there is a laugh in his voice; he turns, he follows, but by the time he catches up he is serious. Contrite. "Hilary. Stop. I was joking. Why are you angry?"

She does not stop at darling. She walks quickly, her long legs carrying her far more gracefully and effortlessly than her demure little arm-hold on the way out here would have led one to believe she was capable of. Hilary never falls, trips, twists her ankle. She seems incapable of it.

Says her name, and he says stop, and she stops. He nearly collides, or would, if he were someone else.

Truly: their child may never skin his goddamn knee, he'll be so dextrous.

"I was not joking," she spits.

"I wasn't either."

There is no danger of collision. None. She stops, sharp and sudden as metal caught by a magnet. He flows right around her, comes up in front of her, takes her shoulders in his hands. His grip is gentle. It is conciliatory. It is also,

perhaps,

just a touch controlling. Steadying, in their strange way.

"Not about the house. Not about the water. We'll find a place you like. We'll build a house on the water, just for you. I was serious about that, Hilary."

Frowns at him, her sunglasses still off. "You mocked me."

As though he never does. As though she never does. As though they never spar like that, wit to wit.

Somehow, though, she always expects him to know by miracle when she's tender about something.

She says it stubbornly, but there's a slight softening under the surface, a response to the control, just as immediate and perhaps unconscious as the way she stopped when he said the word.

"I did." At least he has the dignity not to lie, not to sugarcoat. But he senses her softening, the way any master would his pet; any hunter his prey. And he comes closer, slowly, tipping her chin up until they face each other, a scant few inches between.

"And I shouldn't have. You don't ask me for much, but you're vulnerable when you do. It was cruel of me."

Hilary breathes in. He steps closer, touches her skin, lifts it, and he sees it spark in her eyes, ripple down her body. Her lips are parted, but not overtly. It's pliancy. It's submission. A sort of drugged sleepiness that overtakes her, makes her... suggestible. It's subtle. It would be invisible, to anyone who didn't know her. Was invisible to him, once. Near enough.

Now he can almost smell it.

What he says is true, though, and not something even Hilary knew about herself. It's strange, to see it reflected back at her, seen so clearly, stated so simply. She blinks, as though inwardly startled by the revelation. Takes another breath.

"Where will you take me next?" she murmurs.

"To bed," he says, simply. Because he can see it. Because he can smell it. Her pliancy, her submission, her softness -- when a moment ago she was hard and brittle, and minutes before that she was angry and sullen. He holds her by the chin, delicately; tastes her mouth. "To fuck."

And then he winds his arm around her waist, guiding her back along that dirt path.

"And after that, to Hawaii. You still want to, don't you? Maybe you'll like it there. If not, we'll go to California." He turns; kisses her temple at her hairline. "You'd look strange blonde, anyway. You're much too refined for that."

Hilary is kissed more than she kisses. She closes her eyes. Her crossed arms loosen, and then fall. He has tasted her, and told her what he intends to do. Not a picnic, then. No romantic, dirty fuck in chilly but sunny air on a blanket, Hilary's mouth covered while he snarls on top of her, skirt rucked up and panties torn off, perhaps even left in the woods after he's left his cum in her.

Nothing like that. He says bed. She drowses, and nods, and they are several feet along the path before she realizes they are walking. Hawaii. California. She does not think she will like it in Hawaii, or California, because she sees so many pictures of very poor people and tourists in the one, and very dumb people and tourists at the other. Hilary has never been. Not that she recalls.

"All my hair would fall out," she says, half dreamily.

"Not a chance," Ivan is quite firm about this. "Not with your genes."

They're back at the car. He never even unloaded their picnic. Perhaps Hilary doesn't even realize there's a picnic back there. Perhaps Ivan thinks they'll eat in bed later. Or perhaps on the terrace, overlooking the river. They'll leave Montreal soon. They may never return. It hardly seems to matter; even the world, sometimes, seems disposable to them, consumable, expendable.

"We could go to Mexico too," he says as they drive down the winding mountain road. "Baja California. But I suppose that might remind you too much of Dion."

Back to the car. The sight of it reminds her of the ride up here. She frowns as she picks up her scarf again, fingering the silk between her thumb and knuckle. She lays it over her hair again, and he hands her into the passenger seat, and puts on her sunglasses once more.

Mexico, he says, and she thinks on this.

"No," she murmurs. "It wouldn't. I... think of you."

She looks down her stomach, almost expecting it to be swollen again. She remembers.

"I thought you would abandon me, when I was fat," she tells him.

She thinks of him. This is unexpected, and it shoots him through with that strange, warm ache that he has come to recognize as love. He looks at her: scarf over her hair, unhappy in the wind.

And he puts the top up. It is automatic, and it doesn't take very long. When it seals shut, he rolls up the windows, turns on the air.

"I thought I would too," he confesses. "I thought that would be the end of it, that night on the lake. With the fireworks. A lovely, bittersweet, fitting end to our little Russian novel. But then you left, and I couldn't stop thinking of you. You'd steal into my thoughts at the strangest moments. And I remembered you, and the fireworks, and that day you came to my place just to sleep. I missed you. It drove me a little crazy.

"So I followed you. And we spent that day in that hacienda of a hotel. And you made me catfish. I made them make me catfish in Dubai, you know." He laughs at the memory, softly; but not without an edge, a certain viciousness. "It was terrible. I don't think they had the least idea what to do."

His humor subsides. He drives; he thinks.

"That was where I fell in love with you. In Mexico. I was quite infatuated before, but I think that was where I knew I loved you."

You want me.

I can't have you. Not really and not ever.

And he took her back to port. Saw her again, flirting with that Italian brat who started howling her secrets to the clan in a tizzy of guilt and confusion. Moron. Saw her again, exhausted by her husband, and then they were not done with each other. They had been, more or less. Not officially, not loudly, not even stated clearly between them. They both understood, as elegant people understand, that it was over.

It was fun for a while, after that risky, dashing tryst in his apartment. Just the pretense of harmless fun again. Fucking each other. Exploring their shadows together. Deciding to say fuck it and continue the affair. They actually got to know each other a little better. Even when they found out she was pregnant, they just... carried on. Went to Lausanne together, because Dion had run off again. Carried on, and on, and on,

until she left him. Until she finally went away to continue being pregnant with a child she just assumed would be Dion's and he worried might be his.

I've deided to go to our estate in Mexico. I don't want to be apart from you. And I'll miss you. We'll spend Christmas there, but I'll be staying behind.

...Do not hate me.

Hilary remembers. Remembers him trying to insist to her that it wasn't all sex, it wasn't just her body, quite frankly pleading with her not to go, not to leave him. But he could not promise her that he wouldn't look at her differently. He couldn't promise her that he would still want her.

But he did. She hated him for it, panicked over it, but he made her take it. As he always makes her take it. And she is grateful to him for that.

--

She never thanks him, though. Next to never, that is. Doesn't thank him now for the convertible top going up. The scar does slip from her hair, drapes over her shoulders and around her neck in loose, colorful folds. Doesn't thank him for the houses, the trips, none of it. She expressed her gratitude for Anton. She thinks she did. She's sure he must know.

Hilary glances at him. "You forgot Lausanne," she tells him, amused at his slip. Neither of them can be quite certain of the day of Anton's conception, but she thinks it may have been that one exhausted day. Could have been before, though. One of those last times they thought they were having. "And all the stupid ducklings and that idiot Italian boy and Katherine Bellamonte trying to mother me."

She smirks past the window. She drove him a little crazy. She remembers.

"You did follow me, though," she murmurs. Remembers the gardens, the fruit stands, the hotel he stole her away to. She wrinkles her nose at the mention of catfish. "You have abyssmal taste in seafood, Ivan. In most food, really."

She looks at him. "You would think I would hate those memories of Mexico. I hated being pregnant. I still shudder to remember it. But..." it's hard to explain this part. "You still wanted me. I never expected that."

"Did I?" he muses: forgetting Lausanne. "Hm. I thought that was after Anton. Never mind," blithe, "I suppose I fell in love with you there, too."

Thinks a few beats.

"Rather enjoyed our little room on the French side of the lake. Maybe we should visit the south of France. Spain."

They drive. She smirks past the window. She has her sunglasses on; reflects the world and reveals nothing. He glances at her, faint little smirk of his own toying with the corner of his mouth. She recounts the ducklings, her little Italian bantam, Katherine Bellamonte. All the poor souls they fucked with and fucked up, and now smirk about.

Awful, awful people that they are.

"I have excellent taste," he disagrees. "I like everything you make."

And here she looks at him. He sees himself reflected in those lenses; reaches over to guide her sunglasses gently up to the top of her head so he can see her eyes. Truth is perhaps they tell him even less. She has never been, will never be one to let love shine from her eyes. Nothing could shine from her eyes. They are black as an abyss.

"I never expected you to keep me around so long as you did," he says softly. "I watched you, those early months. The cabana boys and the sons-of-first-ex-wives and the nephews-of-senators. You never kept them for more than a dalliance or two."

"I was pregnant," she affirms, regarding their trip. "No soft cheeses, almost no wine at all." This, of course, she remembers. She stares out the window; he mentions the south of France, or Spain. Hilary says nothing of her thoughts on this. The corner of her mouth curves in pleasure at the thought. "Perhaps."

He says something pathetic, and tries to take off her sunglasses, and she swats at him, waves his hand away. "It's bright," she argues, amused by him, by the stupid things he says. He has to drive. He speaks of watching her. She scoffs.

"You imagined more indiscretions than there really were," she informs him. "I was careful." A beat of thought. "Though Dion's son was a regrettable mistake. Amazed he kept his mouth shut. Probably feared his father too much."

Fine. So he doesn't take her sunglasses off. He catches her hand when she tries to swat him, nips at her fingertips. Possibly he is slapped for it. Regardless:

he returns to driving. She informs him she was careful. He mentally strikes a few of those imagined dalliances from ... whatever record he has in his mind. Perhaps he doesn't have one.

"Mistake?" This is only idle curiosity. "Why?"

"Drive, you fool," Hilary huffs at him, when he's nipping at her fingers. She doesn't slap him. She's not concerned about the list in his mind, if there is one. He knows her. He knows she was never faithful to her second husband. From what she's told him, it sounds like she had no choice but to be faithful to the first, isolated in some castle-esque mansion somewhere. He knows she has not always been faithful to him. He has not been always faithful to her, either.

Not until lately. And recently, it isn't as though she would have much opportunity, unless she wanted some yokel from Novgorod proper. Or Miron.

Even Hilary thinks that would be appalling. Besides: she and Ivan have made promises to one another. They have kept them. They make them so rarely, after all.

"Too oedipal," she says, with a slight one-shouldered shrug. "If ever his fear of his father waned, he'd make a drama out of it. Ruin everything. Too close to the family, to have an affair with my stepson. Too risky."

"Hm." Ivan drives. He lounges even as he drives, languid in the driver's seat, wrist draped over wheel. "Don't think I've ever regretted an affair, per se. Certainly some ended messier than others, but I haven't felt the need to take one back.

"Well." He favors her with a smile, wry. "Ancient history at this point."

Hilary raises an eyebrow. She thinks of a few she thought he regretted. She also thinks of what she said, and what he has taken from it.

"I said it was a regrettable mistake, Ivan. Don't put extra words in my mouth. Or compare yourself." She looks away. "Besides. I can think of a few you should regret, even if you don't," and this is dry as sand, even more abrasive. She does not see, or ignores, his wry little smile.

Sometimes,

Ivan can see the chasm, the danger, the yawning maw. Sometimes he ignores it and leaps right over the cliff anyway. This is one of those times.

"Oh? Which ones?"

"The big-breasted Fang virgin you threw in my face while I was pregnant with your son comes to mind," Hilary says, lightly.

"The whores you had when we fought, and I left the lake house."

Hilary sometimes still smokes. She would now, if she had them with her.

"I don't have a number on those. You said you lost count."

Ivan is quiet for a long time. It's hard to say what makes him do these things. Plunge off those cliffs; ask those awful questions. Press the bruise, probe the wound. Maybe he thinks he's lancing the boil.

Maybe he's just sadistic.

After a time, he murmurs: "I do regret hurting you."

"It's not the same," she says, and continues looking out the window. Something between them has changed. And it's unpleasant; a shift in the air from its light, mocking caress to... whatever this is. She is frowning at the landscape.

"If you regret the pain, and not the act that caused the pain, then you don't really regret any of it. You only feel dismayed that I happened to be hurt. And it isn't the same. It means nothing to me."

They have descended from the mountain. They weren't up that high anyway. They are still on winding byways though -- the lining trees barren with winter.

Ivan pulls over. There is a turnout, where slower vehicles might allow others to pass. This is where he stops, and puts the car in park, and turns to his lover.

"What can I do? What would mean something to you?"

The car slows, and slides to one side, and he leaves it on but he stops so he can turn to her, fully, look at her.

Hilary turns her head, frowning at him from behind her sunglasses. He can see the wrinkle of her brow.

"You should regret being unfaithful to me," she says, like she's talking to an idiot. "Not brag to me about how you've never wished to take one back."

There is resistance. His fine mouth flattens, hardens. "I thought you were gone for good," he says, too lightly. "Both times."

"And discovering that I wasn't did not make you regret?" Now she just sounds bewildered.

She's right to be bewildered. When she puts it like that, Ivan looks mildly confused, too: as though faced with a language he's never seen before. He is silent for a while; he stares through the windshield at the sun-dappled road.

"I never... thought to be," he says after a time. "It's not my habit to revisit the past. To pick it over and determine what I should and shouldn't have done. What I should be stand by, and what I should regret."

He looks at her again. Softer: "It's never occurred to me to regret my dalliances, Hilary. Not because I treasure them, but because they're all passed and gone. They don't matter enough for my regret. But your pain is in the present. And that, I do regret."

He uncovers himself. Discovers himself for the first time, in a way, and then shares himself: raw, vulnerable, unformed, bewildered and bewildering. And Hilary could not be a worse person to do this with. She's untouched by his vulnerability. She just frowns at him.

"My pain is not in the present until I recall it. Or you boast of your callousness," she snits at him, irritated. Irritable in general, if we're honest. 'Prickly', if we want to forget that her aggravation sometimes is a violent, horrific thing, and not just a cute fit of pique.

She falls dead silent for a moment. Just one. She is uncomfortable.

"I have never really left you, vladelets," she says quietly. "I only tried the once, before I was even pregnant, and it didn't work. I haven't tried to truly depart from you since."

There's something quick and aching in the way he looks at her; turns eyes and head, even his shoulders. He knows better than to reach out to her; try to touch her, hold her. He just watches her.

"I know," he answers, just as quietly. "I know that now, devushka."

Sometimes she can sense he wants something from her, and she doesn't know what it is, or how to give it to him. He looks at her like he's waiting, without realizing he's waiting. She doesn't know why. She doesn't know that a touch now to his cheek would give it to him, that the simplest and softest caress would make him feel the absolution -- the forgiveness -- that he may not even realize he craves from her. Hilary does not understand intimacy. She understands starvation, despair, terror, and how Ivan is somehow the balm for these things. She does not quite connect that capacity for healing to the fact that he does not reject her for needing them.

So it isn't from understanding, or from a desire to show forgiveness, or even for his own need, that she reaches out and brushes the backs of her cool, smooth fingers against his cheek. Strokes down his jaw, watching him from behind her dark glasses. Touches him the way she might sometimes touch Anton, whom she also loves, and sometimes wants to be close to without understanding it. She would like to see Ivan shiver from the contact, the caress.

Her thumb moves over his lower lip.

"Bite me," she whispers, without knowing the words are coming to her tongue before they escape into the air.

He does not realize he craves absolution. Forgiveness. He hardly even realizes he craves her touch until she touches him. But then he knows it: then he recognizes it, like a cool flood in the soul. Ivan closes his eyes. He exhales softly but audibly, a short puff through the nostrils, as the back of her hand traces the side of his face. His jaw is smooth and clean. Sometimes, rarely, Ivan is deliberately scruffy, but that takes cultivation. He is a refined, sleek thing by nature.

And his eyes flash when they open. He is a hungry, violent thing. He does not hesitate: he bites her, rather hard. Her thumb, because it is right there. And then he wraps a lean hand behind her head, and it's startling how much sinewy strength can be in him. He pulls her to him. He bites her mouth, then, teeth in her lovely lower lip.

Hilary gasps. Wasn't expecting that hard, harsh bite on her hand. Her hand jerks, but only a little; she doesn't pull away. He pulls her closer and she doesn't resist, isn't resisting now, cries out a little in ecstatic pain when he bites her lip.

"Ivan --"

Ivan actually snarls, beast-like, when she cries out. And he holds her fast; licks her lip. Faint taste of copper there. He can't remember the last time he drew blood. If he's ever drawn blood.

He kisses her now, though, long and luxurious. And when he is done he lets her back into her seat. He settles back into his. Turns the key in the ignition; throws the car into gear. Without a word he begins driving again, faster now, whipping down the road and through the curves, back to the city.

--

The tires actually screech when he pulls up in front of their hotel. He isn't even at the curb: he's simply stopped in the middle of the street. A valet hops to, trots down to greet them and to clear the way. Ivan leaves the keys in the ignition, gets out, comes around, nearly shoulders aside the doorman who's come to hand Hilary out of the car. Ivan doesn't hand her out of the car. He grabs her by the wrist, this lovely, elegant woman; hauls her up to her feet and then up the steps and the into the hotel where he pulls her alongside him; puts his hand on her lower back.

People are staring, a little. They are wondering, they don't know what to say or where to look. There are people waiting at the elevator but -- for no reason they can readily discern or voice -- they stand aside; they let Ivan and his lady board alone. The doors shut. The floor lifts.

Ivan is watching the numbers move as he speaks to her, softly and with great certainty:

"When we arrive, you'll go into the bedroom. You'll remove all your clothing. You'll leave your jewelry on, and your shoes. You'll sit on the edge of the bed and wait for me." He considers a moment. "Cross your legs. At the knees." He reaches over, touches her lip where he bit her earlier. A soft, tender caress of the thumb. "Like an expensive, well-trained whore."

He has.

She remembers every precious time he's hurt her so badly that he drew blood. Left a mark, a bruise. She remembers every time she's felt a rush of deep sorrow because he's insisted on healing her of these marks, these proofs of how well she pleased him, how good she was. It's like a theft of her memories.

They kiss, and it hurts a little, but she loves it. She closes her eyes through it, sinking into it, sighing when he lets her go. She is pushed back into her seat when he starts driving again. They aren't far. Hilary still hasn't quite caught her breath when he squeals to a stop at the hotel.

She's lifted up from the car, or rather, hauled by the arm. She doesn't stumble, but comes close, pulled after him into the hotel and over to the elevators. He's humiliating her -- or she would think so, if she were another woman. But this woman doesn't feel that way. She feels paraded. She feels almost shown off.

The doors close and he doesn't let her go. She listens, staring ahead, to his orders. He touches her lip and they part, instantly.

Hilary gives no sign that she has heard him, or that she will obey him. Not for a few heartbeats. Then, quietly: "Yes, vladelets."

--

They return to the suite. And Ivan... goes wherever he goes. Does whatever he does. Hilary goes to the bedroom. She doesn't close the door, because he didn't tell her to. She takes off her sunglasses, and out of habit tips her head as though to remove the diamonds from her ears, but then remembers. She takes off her dress, all a single piece, simply pulled off. She even hangs it up. She tries to remember, standing there in lingerie, if he told her to remove it or leave it on. No: just the shoes.

Hilary folds her arms back and unclasps her bra, sliding it down and off, laying it on a closet shelf. She works her panties off down over those black suede boots that cover her knees. She leaves those with the bra. She was never wearing a necklace. It's just the red diamond ring and the white diamond earrings that adorn her now, as she walks over to the bed.

And sits.

And crosses her legs at the knee.

Hilary folds her hands on top of her knees.

Their suite spans much of the penthouse floor. There are many rooms, many windows, many doors. The doors to the master bedroom remain open. Through that frame of rich wood they can glimpse each other, should they look. He can watch her following his instructions, so docile, so obedient. She can watch him going about his business, passing to and fro. He removes his coat. He steps out of his shoes, and his socks. He pours himself a drink, ice cubes dropping into fine crystal; liquor splashing. Cracking the ice.

He opens a closet door. There is rustling, a paper shopping bag, tissue paper. Then he comes into the bedroom, ice clinking in his tumbler. It's scotch. He should know better than that: ice in whisky. Perhaps she thinks of him as a foolish boy. Perhaps she's already too deep, too far gone.

Ivan has hardly looked at her. There is a box under his arm, matte white, long and slender and flat, not unlike something one might carry a dozen roses in. The corners are wrapped in silk ribbon, black. It is rather an elegant presentation. He sets the box on the bed: lengthwise along the long side. His side of the bed, if one is keeping track. There is no rattling, no thumping, no indication of what might be within.

Box set down, he comes around to face Hilary. His drink is still in hand, and he sips. He savors the whisky as he savors the sight of her. She's almost prim. She's almost proper. Even with her legs crossed scandalously high. Even naked, adorned in boots and earrings and ring, cunt hidden, nipples pink.

Ivan reaches out. It is the hand with the drink. He extends a forefinger; tips her chin up. Touches her lips. Opens her mouth. He sets the tumbler against her mouth and he gives her a drink, delicately, just a sip, so precise and so careful that she knows, she just knows, it can't possibly be an accident when he tips it too far. Feeds her too harshly. Makes that fine, expensive, ice-cold liquor spill down her chin

and down her throat

and down in a straight thin trickle to breastbone, to navel, to where her legs cross together.

Ivan draws back. His eyes glitter. He drinks; he pivots, he sets the tumbler down. He comes back to her and he pushes her down on the bed. He slides his palm between her knees; he uncrosses her legs and opens them and quite without preamble, quite without warning he licks her between her thighs. He follows that line of liquor slowly, oh so slowly up her cunt.

The frame of the door holds her, when she sits. Looks through it at him, while he makes himself a drink. She does not do anything. She waits. She does not bend forward to try and see what is rustling when she hears it. Her ears perk but she stays right where she is.

Not being a whiskey drinker herself, she has no opinion on his ice cubes. Whiskey is a drink for old gentlemen and young fools trying to seem as important as old gentlemen. Someone may have told her that once. She can drink whiskey, but she doesn't prefer it.

Her eyes, but not her head, slide to the box he's carrying. She wonders, and then she looks back at him. He moves behind her, to the side of the bed, and she does not turn around to watch him. She remains seated at the center of the foot of the bed, looking forward, hands folded. She lifts her chin and looks up at him when he comes back around, stands before her, looks at her. It's cool enough in the room that those pink nipples of hers are taut and hard, eager.

Opens her mouth and exhales a little, when he pulls her lip down. She closes her eyes when he insists she take a drink. She does, and starts to withdraw, take her mouth from the rim to swallow the burning, bite-searing mouthful he wants her to drink, but not before he tips. Pours too much into her mouth, which she cannot swallow and does not try, because she would cough, which she hates. It spills from her mouth and her neck and down her breasts, slowing to a trickle as her skin tries to drink it in.

Hilary's eyes flash at him. She doesn't move to clean herself up. She says nothing. Her lower lip burns from the alcohol on the bite he gave her, throbs red in her mind.

His hand moves to her throat and closes around it. She looks at him, rapture and gratitude in her eyes. And he presses, hurting her, shoving her down to the bed. Hilary arches, her thighs unfolding even before his hand quite gets there. His mouth is between her legs. His tongue is on her. She gasps, squirming a little. Even a drop or two of alcohol -- and that is all that has made it from her mouth to her pussy -- burns, and she cries out from it, whimpering. The licking, for once, is soothing.

He still has his hand at her throat. Not quite grasping, no, but near enough that the intimation is there. His long fingers, his long hand, his long arm: it gives him the reach. He could grip. He could choke her senseless while he licks her senseless, and god if that isn't a fucked up thought, and god if they aren't fucked up for liking it.

He doesn't, though. He keeps pressure there. Keeps her down. He has his other hand on her thigh, prying her open as she squirms; gripping her hip to keep her still. The alcohol is barely a flicker of taste; mostly, he tastes her. He laps at her, slow and indulgent and luxurious and

selfish, devouring her wholly to satiate his own hungers. She cries out and he reaches up farther; he covers her mouth. He has a gentleman's hands, uncalloused and smooth. He has a thief's hands, lean and dexterous and strong.

"Shut up and take it," he mutters. "Don't you know that's what you're good for?" And then his mouth is on her again.

The liquor burns in her chest, and in her brain. Hits hard, and quick, not so smooth or seductive as wine or champagne. When you drink whiskey you know what's happening to you as it happens; the slide is not so smooth.

Hilary squirms, and she gasps against his hand on her throat. She is silenced, but he stretches his arm to do so. He tells her to shut up. He tells her this is what she's good for. Hilary makes a sound, whining and protesting, even as her cunt gets that much hotter, that much slicker against his tongue.

She pushes at his head. Pushes him away.

His own fault for leaving her hands free.

The show of -- pluck, shall we say? -- surprises him. Pleases it. But he pretends it doesn't, the way she pretends she doesn't want to be fucked, doesn't want to be tied down, doesn't want to be made a whore, a slut, a filthy little fucktoy.

She pushes him away. He grabs her hands, cat-quick, pins them hard to the mattress. He puts his mouth on her again and maybe she twists now, maybe she squirms away. So he bites her: there on the inner thigh, that slender quivering band of muscle that she uses to close her legs. Perhaps it's serendipity. Perhaps he, knife-wielder, backstabber, dirty fighter, knows the anatomy.

This is a hard bite, too. Not so vicious and bloodletting as the one on her lip; but enough to sink in, leave a dull ache. "Stop," he commands her. Gives her wrists a squeeze as though to remind. "Legs open. Let me taste that cunt."

Hands pinned, Hilary closes her thighs on his head. Hard. Perhaps he snarls; he bites her, and she shrieks, legs opening again by reflex. Her thighs tremble. She flinches a bit, fighting his hands, trying to close her legs again.

"No," she pants. "No, Ivan."

"Now," Ivan snaps.

She gasps, delighted. "No," and slides up the bed, wriggling from his grasp, slithering away from his mouth.

So he springs up. Onto the bed. Agile as a panther. He pins her, straddling her thighs, hands on her wrists. Wrestles her to stillness, to submission, stares her down until her thrashing and bucking and squirming and writhing subsides.

If only momentarily.

And then he rears up over her. He undoes his belt, strips it out, whips it loose from its moorings. Maybe she thinks he's going to unzip, feed her his cock, but he doesn't. Yet. He snaps the belt on itself, a sharp crack of a threat, and then he grabs her hands and winds the belt around her wrist. She can slap and push all she wants; he's singleminded, intent. When that hand is leashed he starts on the other. He binds her tightly.

Her dark eyes are shining with delight. She can't contain it, and doesn't bother. Her mouth stings from his bite. Her thigh aches. She wants to laugh, and she fights him, squirming in her boots and her earrings and little else, panting softly.

He has to clench down on her wrists. He has to really hurt her for a moment before she takes it seriously. Whimpers, and finally obeys. Goes still, looking up at him. Breathes, somewhat heavily, across her parted lips.

Ivan takes off his belt and she only thinks of two things: that he might hit her with it. That he might bind her with it. Either pleases her. She doesn't even consider his cock just yet. Her arm is yanked up, and bound, and then the other. The edges of the leather dig into her skin, and Hilary's cunt clenches as Ivan is finishing the cinch. She groans softly.

One wrist. The other. And a length of belt left loose, that he wraps twice around his fist.

Now she's held fast. He stares at her as she groans. He bends to her and his tongue darts, licks at her skin like a flame: following haphazardly that scotch-trail. Neck and breastbone, a nipple -- a fierce suck there -- and her ribs, where a skipping droplet had bounced. Her abdomen, just to the right of the navel. Her abdomen, just above the hairline. And then,

back to her cunt. Slow and savoring as ever; luxurious as ever. He tastes her, murmuring; noses her open, licks her wet and slick.

It's stuck to her skin now, drying, an afterimage of the whiskey he only partially enjoyed before it was poured all over her. He scents it out, follows the errant droplets to whatever spot on her skin they landed and soaked through. Licks her. Tastes her. Cleans her, in a way, before he returns to her cunt, laps at her, finds her squirming and whining at him again.

All the same: those booted legs of hers fold gently, gently, over his shoulders.

This time he stays with her. This time she doesn't -- can't -- push him away. This time he has his fill of her, her taste and her scent and her wetness, her hotness, the secret arousal she pretends she doesn't ever feel. Liar, liar.

And somewhere in there her legs fold over his shoulders. And somewhere in his hand opens; closes again over her wrists. He holds like that instead, the belt-strap pinned between her arms and his palm. It is somehow a gentler grip. They pretend it is not. They pretend she does not welcome him, too.

But she does. This time, she does. And he senses that. He takes shameless advantage of that, and he fucks her with his mouth, his tongue; laps at her insistently and relentlessly and remorselessly and mercilessly. He eats her out until she comes.

Or until she gets bored. Either is possible with Hilary.

Oh she could still throw a fit. Kick him. Scrape her heels down his back. Thrash. He tied her wrists together but hasn't tied her down. Perhaps it means something that she doesn't. Perhaps that's part of the pretense: Hilary pretending he's really stopped her. For both their sakes, he is more wary of the line between thrilling her and hurting her.

The truth is, though, and has always been, that these particular interludes are always more for Ivan than Hilary. She sometimes cannot help herself, sometimes she comes anyway, but today is not one of those times. Hilary is happy to be bound, pleased to be tied up at least a little, and his tongue makes her wet as much as the leather does. But Ivan can sense it, some time after she puts her legs over his shoulders.

She's not fighting him anymore -- she got what she wanted, for now -- but she also isn't working up towards an orgasm. At least she isn't disgusted by this, begging him to stop. But he can sense the detachment. He knows.

Truth is he loves to make her come like this. It's one of the few truly selfish things he does with her. Everything else and he pretends with her: pretends she doesn't want it, pretends she doesn't enjoy it. Pretends it's all for him.

This, though. This truly is something he does for himself. He loves the way she tastes. He loves the way she sometimes -- rarely -- once in a long, long while -- comes in spite of herself. Even though she'd rather have it some other way. With a cock inside her. With a cock in her mouth. With a whip falling across her back. A hand around her throat. Sometimes, in spite of all that, in spite of lacking everything else,

sometimes this is still enough.

And that does thrill him.

--

Not today. It's fine. He senses her detachment, and in this, Ivan is consummately a no-moon. He doesn't mind. He doesn't take it personally. He doesn't grow an ego over it. He lets it go -- lets it wash over him. And his licking slows; it ceases. He lays a soft, secret little kiss on her cunt and then he gets up, wiping his mouth.

Walks away from her for a while. Leaves her there, tied up at least a little bit, mostly naked on that bed. He goes to find his drink again, and then he drinks.

When he comes back, he yanks her up by the belt. It is rough, and crude, and he doesn't bother to make sure she's comfortable or even stable. She's so graceful; let her figure it out. He pulls her right off the bed, back on her feet, and then he grabs her by the shoulder and spins her around. Ivan marches her around to the long side of the bed, opposite the box. He undoes the belt; tosses it onto the covers where it lies limp as a dead snake. There are faint marks on her wrists where the leather bit in, but soon enough they're obscured

because he's twisting the canopy-curtains into ropes. Wrapping those ropes, makeshift as they are, around her wrists. Without a word he strings her up like this, arms spread and raised. He does so love to tie her up. He loves how it elongates her body, raises her breasts. He loves her.

So you would think she'd love it. To be so entirely used, to be bent completely to his pleasure, to give herself wholly to him. But that isn't how it really works, no matter what they pretend. No matter what she might like to believe of herself, that isn't the way it really is.

Besides: she doesn't know why he tries to do this. Maybe it's only because she doesn't like it, maybe he wants to torment her. She cannot sense things in him that are not laid out for her. She cannot feel his interest wane until he steps away from her, and even then she usually thinks it's just part of the game. Hilary doesn't always know what is pretense and what is not, though. And she rarely knows how he feels unless he tells her.

It is not enough this time. And Ivan doesn't mind. He doesn't force it. He doesn't sulk, as Hilary herself might when she doesn't get her way. He just withdraws, looking at her as he lifts his head, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

Hilary sits up. When he doesn't immediately undo his slacks and start pounding away at her. When he doesn't speak. She lowers her bound hands to her chest and she sits up, with that dancer's core strength she has, looking at him. Watches him as he drinks his whiskey. The ice is melting. She tips her head. Her cheeks are pink, her hair tousled. Her cunt smells like arousal, tastes like it too.

Ivan comes back to her. Grabs the belt and hauls her up; she half-stumbles and falls against him slightly, panting out a breath. Is turned, no more gently, and led to the side of the bed rather than the foot. Her eyes find the box again and gleam. Hilary licks her lips, and doesn't even notice at first when he starts to unbind her. Feels the loosening, though, and turns to look at him over her shoulder.

"What are you doing, darling?" she murmurs, but then

he's reaching for the curtains. Those silken, gauzy things. Her heart skips. So pretty. This is actually more dangerous than the stiff leather; so easy for rope to dig into the wrong vein, cut off circulation. Ivan is deft. Ivan is as careful with her as he is with any of his toys.

Moreso. Let's be honest. She is his most precious pleasure.

"Ivan," she breathes, as he ties her. Climbs up over her or tosses the makeshift ropes over the canopy, whatever he does: lifts her arms up over her head, bound together and now bound upwards. Knots are checked. Slack is tested. Hilary bites her lip. Her thighs squirm together.

"What's in the box, Ivan?"

Ivan is quite practical about tying her up. He puts himself to this task swiftly and surely, first winding the gauze into rope, then winding the rope into shackles. He redoes her left wrist twice; the first time it was too loose. The second time she is just right, strung up. The makeshift ropes are snug around her wrists, but they do not cut. Her hands are not red with congested blood; they are not pale for lack of circulation. She is fair, as she always is. She is flushed, as she gets when they're like this. Playing.

The ends of the curtains he unwinds. Lets them fall, loose and open and fluttering to either side of her, framing her like art.

So pretty.

And she looks at him over his shoulder now and then. She breathes his name. She bites her lip and she squirms and there's wetness between her thighs, her own and his. He could be cruel to her, could speak to her harshly and shortly. Well; he is cruel to her. But he smirks at her, sidelong, and teases.

"What, indeed."

And he touches her. That long, lovely body. He rubs his palms up her back and over her shoulders; clasps her there, warming her. Kneading gently, though she's far from sore. She has the stamina of a dancer. It serves her well when they play.

He steps into her, then. He is still fully dressed -- except for the belt. His jeans are soft as butter, his shirt soft as skin. His warmth seeps right through the fabric as he comes up against her, his groin to her ass, pressing. She can feel his erection, insistent behind his fly. His hands wander up her belly, cup her breasts.

"I should have brought your diamonds," he whispers: plays with her nipples, tugs, pinches. "How forgetful of me."

And then he slaps her breast. A quick, light upstroke of his open palm, extended fingers. He leaves her on that note, stepping away, circling around. She can see him watching her, prowling his way around that bed. Staring at her now through gauze, now across open space. As he passes behind one of the posts of that four-poster bed he reaches up -- it is a languid gesture -- takes his shirt by the back of the collar and draws it off. He has a Silver Fang's arrogance in this. He knows he, too, is beautiful: beautifully formed and beautifully made, all sleek, svelte lines and tight, toned flesh. The shirt is dark; it makes the golden undertones to his skin all the more apparent.

The shirt goes on the floor. Barechested, his jeans hanging low on his hips, he faces her across the bed. When he reaches out, the very tips of his fingers graze the top of that box. It is so quiet she can hear the friction: the imprint of his fingertips, the matte, textured top of the box.

"I don't know if I should show you. I don't know if you can handle it."

Ivan is quite practical about tying her up. He puts himself to this task swiftly and surely, first winding the gauze into rope, then winding the rope into shackles. He redoes her left wrist twice; the first time it was too loose. The second time she is just right, strung up. The makeshift ropes are snug around her wrists, but they do not cut. Her hands are not red with congested blood; they are not pale for lack of circulation. She is fair, as she always is. She is flushed, as she gets when they're like this. Playing.

The ends of the curtains he unwinds. Lets them fall, loose and open and fluttering to either side of her, framing her like art.

So pretty.

And she looks at him over his shoulder now and then. She breathes his name. She bites her lip and she squirms and there's wetness between her thighs, her own and his. He could be cruel to her, could speak to her harshly and shortly. Well; he is cruel to her. But he smirks at her, sidelong, and teases.

"What, indeed."

And he touches her. That long, lovely body. He rubs his palms up her back and over her shoulders; clasps her there, warming her. Kneading gently, though she's far from sore. She has the stamina of a dancer. It serves her well when they play.

He steps into her, then. He is still fully dressed -- except for the belt. His jeans are soft as butter, his shirt soft as skin. His warmth seeps right through the fabric as he comes up against her, his groin to her ass, pressing. She can feel his erection, insistent behind his fly. His hands wander up her belly, cup her breasts.

"I should have brought your diamonds," he whispers: plays with her nipples, tugs, pinches. "How forgetful of me."

And then he slaps her breast. A quick, light upstroke of his open palm, extended fingers.

She looks so pretty.

She feels pretty, stretched out like this. She feels the gauzy curtains and it makes her wet. She watches him out of the corner of her eye as he teases. She closes her eyes, her head tipping to one side, as he strokes his hands over her. Pets her like an animal. Molds his palms over her like she's made of marble. He keeps her warm. He warms her when he presses against her. Hilary bites her lip, groaning behind the stifling. She's obedient for now; she doesn't try to rub herself against him.

Ivan's hands cup her breasts. He says something of her diamonds while he teases her nipples, hardening them between his fingers. There's no doubt which diamonds he's talking about. Hilary just pants:

"They're... in the velvets,"

by which she means: the velvet bags and little trays with which she has transported her other jewelry, one place to the other. She shudders, and this is when she arches her back, presses her ass against his groin, crying out with a gasp as he slaps her tit. Perfect, that stroke of his palm. That uplift, the way it makes her bounce. She loves it.

Ivan pauses. He is amused; intrigued.

"Oh, are they now."

And then he slaps her. And she gives that crying little gasp. He's so aroused by it that he can't help himself; he leans in, bites her on the side of the neck like a goddamn vampire. He would know; he's met them.

Sometimes at his own parties.

He leaves her, then. She is stranded there, like Andromeda on the rocks. He is not far away but he is out of her sight, occasionally reflected in windows, mirrors, surfaces. He stirs through her jewelry with those thief's fingers of his, plays past the tennis bracelets and the chokers and the necklaces and the pendants, the earrings, the clasps, the brooches, the pins, the watches, the rings, the rings, the rings. He wonders how many of these she bought for herself. He wonders how many were showered upon her by Dion, by that frenchman -- what was his name?, by her pretty muscular boys, by himself. He must've bought some of these. Christ, he's forgotten.

He does remember the diamonds though. He finds them almost at once, recognizes them the instant his eye lights upon them. They are distinctive. The clasps, the open ends. He lifts it, uncoiling it from her velvets in one long, glittering, fiery string.

--

They are cool over her shoulder. That is where he drapes them to keep them in place: hard, beautiful little things. Press too hard and they would cut into her skin. They are diamonds, after all, harder than any other natural substance. He doesn't press, though.

He steps into her again, right where he was before. This time he grinds on her, just a little. He lets her get the front of his jeans wet. And he finds her by touch, his hand cupping her breast; his fingers teasing her nipple to its fullest.

He is almost gentle, when he slides that first clasp on. Turns the little screw so very delicately. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough.

Then he lets the chain drop. It tugs sharply; it swings. He catches it in his fingers and then he repeats the process, affixes it to her breasts, decorates her. Now she has diamonds on her ears, diamonds on her finger, diamonds on her tits. He tests them: places one finger at the lowest curvature of that string, pulls just a little.

"I've half a mind to take pictures," he whispers. "I could show the whole world what a beautiful little whore I have."

Hilary gasps; Hilary moans. He slaps, he bites. And she wants him to cup her tits and caress them, slap her again, grind that cock into her ass to tease her, but he doesn't do any of those things. He just leaves her there, hanging by the curtains, and she has a moment to catch her breath. Has a moment to shudder by herself. Hears him going through her jewelry: eventually he'll find the velvet bag, silk-lined, where the clamps on their diamond chain wait to be taken out and played with. The velvet is black; the silk is pink. Of course it is.

Ivan pours them into his palm, and takes them back to the bedroom. She fights a smile when she sees him; she suppresses a shiver when he drapes the chain over her shoulder. Comes back and keeps her warm all over again, cuts through the chill of the room's air with his own body heat. She says nothing now, while he rubs against her, lets her rub against him. She spreads her legs, bending forward a bit, whimpering as his jeans stroke her clit.

"Tighter," she breathes at him, when he's screwing the clamp onto her nipple. Just another turn, just another twist; she begs for it. Begs for the sharpness, the pain. Cries out, breathy and sharp, when the chain swings free, dangling from her breast. "My god," she murmurs, as he's catching it. As he twists. Twists. As his hand brushes her breast, his fingers delicately attaching the toy to her body.

Ivan pulls. Hilary moans. That means they're perfect.

"Don't you fucking dare," she mutters at him, while he's threatening pictures.

Tighter.

Word arrows down to his cock; stirs him. Ivan presses his lips together; breathes evenly. Turns that little screw. Just a little more.

Later on she cries out. Later on she prays to god. Later on she moans because it's perfect, it's perfect, he knows her body so well.

And she curses at him. That makes him laugh, sudden and genuine. His knuckles trace her spine: "Of course not. I'll just have to remember you exactly as you are."

He leaves her on that note, stepping away, circling around. She can see him watching her, prowling his way around that bed. Staring at her now through gauze, now across open space. As he passes behind one of the posts of that four-poster bed he reaches up -- it is a languid gesture -- takes his shirt by the back of the collar and draws it off. He has a Silver Fang's arrogance in this. He knows he, too, is beautiful: beautifully formed and beautifully made, all sleek, svelte lines and tight, toned flesh. The shirt is dark; it makes the golden undertones to his skin all the more apparent.

The shirt goes on the floor. Barechested, his jeans hanging low on his hips, he faces her across the bed. When he reaches out, the very tips of his fingers graze the top of that box. It is so quiet she can hear the friction: the imprint of his fingertips, the matte, textured top of the box.

"Take a guess," he invites. "What's in the box?"

The first time, he was turned on and horrified in equal measure by the way she spurred him: harder. harder. He had never imagined this. He hadn't imagined himself doing this. When he'd seen her on her yacht, those stupid boys splashing all around her, he'd never imagined someone like her... being like this. Tied up. Degraded. Bruised. Begging him to hurt her tits, slap her again.

Another moment given to catch her breath. Hilary watches him, her eyes taking on that drugged, drowsy quality he knows so well. Watches him remove his shirt and licks her lips. She rocks slightly; makes the diamonds swing and tug at her tits, makes them slap against her flesh. Pants, ever so softly, as he goes to the box. Touches it the way he touches her sometimes.

Hilary takes a breath, says carefully if uncertainly: "Something you're going to fuck me with."

Ivan tilts his head. It is feral. Lights in the room bring out the gold in his eyes. That is feral, too.

"Darling," he murmurs, "I would only ever fuck you with my own flesh and bone. You're far too precious for crude implements."

He hooks one finger under one corner of the box. He starts to lift.

"Try again," he encourages.

There's a flicker in her eyes when he says that. Only his own flesh. Precious. Crude. Hard to read.

But her gaze drops to the box. She doesn't want to get it right.

There's a flicker in her eyes when he says that. Only his own flesh. Precious. Crude. Hard to read.

But her gaze drops to the box. She doesn't want to get it right.

"Something for me to wear."

"I did promise you a collar, didn't I?" he muses. "How forgetful of me.

"Maybe next time."

There's a gap now, an inch or two and rising. Soon enough he could flip the cover off and expose the contents.

"Last guess."

[EMPAFEE 8,9,3,2,9]

That glint in her eyes is... disappointment. Not in his flesh, his bone. Him, fucking her. There was perhaps a part of her that wanted...

or maybe it was just a whim, anyway.

Now he is talking of collars, and she is on edge, where the teasing could so easily slip to boredom, to detachment again. She squirms against the ties. "No," she says, refusing to guess again, frustration edging her tone. "I don't know."

Sometimes he looks at her, and he sees her so clearly. Not quite to the pit of her soul, no. That would be impossible. She is bottomless; fathomless. A singularity.

But deeply, and clearly, and legibly. Now is one of those times. He reads the disappointment, and he files it away. Interesting. He reads her frustration, too, and that razor's edge she balances on between excitement and detachment. That, he reacts to.

Simply, crisply, and with little flourish, he flips the top off the box. The outside was white, but the inside is satin-lined, a deep and royal violet. Resting upon those lustrous folds, securely tucked in, is quite possibly the most beautiful, most brutal instrument he's ever presented her with. The handle is a single block of beech, so pale and so fine-grained and sanded so smooth it takes a moment for the eye to register wood. The fittings are steel, polished to a mirror shine.

The straps are leather, napped on one side, smooth on the other. The straps are thick enough not to break skin. The straps are thick enough to give weight and heft. The leather is white, white, pristine as can be, and each individual strap -- there are nine -- is soft as a pair of good kid gloves. She would know that if she touched it. She can't touch it. She's tied up.

"It's a toy, krasivaya devushka," he murmurs, watching her face. "Do you like it?"

A moment ago she was approaching aggravation, which in Hilary scorches the earth, ruins the evening, wrecks everything in her path. She's destructive, in the end. Thank every god, every spirit, she was not born a Garou. Thank every god that she is limited to the body she is in, which cannot turn her bottomless fury into wholesale slaughter. Thank every spirit that she is clothed in beauty the way she is, long-limbed, pale, elegant, refined.

Red lip, pink wrists, black boots, white silk.

Thank god.

--

Her breath shoots in through her lips when he flicks the box-lid off to the side. She stands on her toes to see more clearly, leaning forward, like she aches for it. Those lips of hers quiver slightly. He has her attention again, all of it, immediate and consuming and undone.

He cannot see, feel, the way her cunt clenches on nothing at the sight of it. But he can see her eyes, and how they flicker. He can see her tremble. He can hear her make a sound, soft and whimpered and longing. Eager. She pulls a little at her ties, rubbing her thighs together, trying to work her own skin against her clit, grant herself some relief.

"Pick it up," she says, barely doing more than panting the words. She sounds desperate. "Pick it up."

Like a ghost, a smirk crosses his mouth and is gone. Smile, maybe. Too quick to see.

He strokes the handle. Touches it like he touches her, or himself. Trails his fingertips one way; his knuckles the other.

"Pick it up?" he echoes. "And what shall I do with it?"

Hilary is brought almost to tears. "Pick it up, Ivan," she says, just

begging.

So he does. Quick, smooth grab and it's in his palm, the wood smooth in his sure grip. He slaps the straps lightly into his open palm; grips with his fingers to feel the texture, the weight, the softness and give. He gives it a practice swing: the straps whistle through the air. Put enough force behind something like this and one could do real damage. Leave marks. Draw blood. Lay skin open.

It's not a toy at all. It's dangerous, a weapon. Perhaps that's what excites her so.

Ivan picks up the empty box, then. He drops it thoughtlessly off the side of the bed. He climbs onto the bed: stepping smoothly up, those sleek muscles moving easily beneath his skin. Grasps the top of the canopy briefly for balance, and then he walks across the immense altar of a bed to her. Stands over her, the cat o' nine tails in hand; swinging it up so the leather straps brush her breasts, fall against her chest.

He uses the end of the shaft to tip her chin up. Through the bundled leather, the steel is shockingly cool. He keeps her like that, head tilted up, hair falling down her back. Draws his touch over her lips; slips the tip of his thumb between her teeth.

"What should I do with it?" he whispers.

She's watching. Her eyes are open when he takes it in his hand, but her mouth flies open when he cracks the straps over his palm. She gasps as though he's touched her. Entered her. Is already starting to fuck her. Her eyes fall closed in rapture a moment later, while he's toying with it. Testing it out. She looks like she's going to collapse, to see it in his hand. His gorgeous hand.

The box clatters to the ground and Hilary opens her eyes again, sees him climbing onto the bed in his jeans. Nothing else. She does like to look at him. The first time they fucked she made him undress for her. Pretended she wanted to be in charge. Pretended she wasn't trying to see if he'd push back.

Pin her down.

Fuck her until she screamed.

Hilary remembers, and lusts. She opens her mouth, looking up at him, as though she expects him to unzip his jeans and feed her his cock while he stands there. That would be fitting. It would be lovely. That is not what he does.

He lets the leather touch her breasts. Brushes past the clamps, over her blood-filled, hyper-sensitive nipples. Slap her a little. Hilary thinks she's going to come. She's so wet she can feel it on her inner thighs, and it's killing her. She looks up at him, forced to. He speaks to her.

She exhales.

"Anything you want."

Ivan tips his head, pleased.

"That's right," he murmurs. "Good girl."

The leather stirs: moves over her breasts, her clamped nipples. He doesn't quite hit her. He sweeps the straps over her chest, heavily, setting that string of diamonds swinging. Tugging. And then he reverses the toy. Uses the polished endcap to arrest the diamonds; lift that chain. He holds it up to her, an inch from her lips -- which he rubs his thumb over once more.

"Hold it in your teeth. Don't drop it."

The softest cry, at the way the chain tugs on her breasts. She loves it. He knows that sound; he knows it's why he bought them for her. Why he does any of this. How much she loves it. How much she needs it, how much

she's his

when he does this to her.

Hilary's mouth opens. She takes the diamonds in her mouth, like she might wrap her lips around his cock. Like she wants to. Bites down, lightly. Holds them.

He loves her so much. No; it's more than that when they're like this. She pleases him so much. He's so pleased with her, so happy with her, his little slut, his little toy.

She takes the diamonds. He lays his fingertips over her lips as though to seal that covenant.

And then he reaches up; grips the top frame of the bed -- off to the side, past those makeshift ropes that bind her. It's sturdy, well-built, and it hardly even creaks as he lays his weight into it -- hangs from that hand, that flexed armed. Lets himself drop off the side, landing almost without a sound. When he steps forward she can't see him anymore. He's behind her, and he's soundless, a shadow that shares her space.

So it comes quite out of nowhere: the lash of those nine tails across her back, sudden and brilliant and hot. A diagonal from left to right. The sound cracks off the ceiling. It's a light blow, such as these things go. It's still enough to raise hairs: the very thought of someone like her, someone so precious and fine and pure and royal, subjected to this sort of treatment.

Immediately after, he steps into her from behind. He presses the front of his jeans to her ass. He has the cat o' nine tails in his right hand, relaxed, the straps brushing the sides of their legs. Grinds against her as he undoes the button, then the fly. Slowly. Takes his time.

Truly, Hilary expects him to stroke her. Caress her back. Rub himself against her. Tell her how pretty she is. She knows he's shy sometimes about this; he prefers the fuck, she thinks, not the lash. Hurting her is the price he pays to make love to her.

But she forgets: he likes this too. She forgets that this is how they came together. This is why they have stayed so long together.

--

It hurts, and she screams. Cries out, really; there's still some measure of control to it. She bends forward, and instantly drops the diamonds from her mouth. They swing and bounce and tug on her nipples and she whimpers.

His cock is against her ass. Hilary groans, helpless and grateful, slicking his pants, his hands, rubbing herself against him.

She drops the diamonds.

Of course she does.

His retaliation is near-instantaneous, and brutal: he lashes her. Twice. Each harder than the last, forehand and then backhand. It happens so quickly that the pain takes a second to catch up; at first, just a warm numbness. The sting comes only later,

and by then he's bent her over as far as her bindings will allow. He's bent her over and he's shoved himself into her; he's grabbed her again by the back of the neck, like a misbehaving pet. He's railing her over the side of the bed, selfish, uncareful.

"Dirty little slut," he snarls: that velvety tone he uses when they're playing, when she's disobedient, when he's really going to let her have it. Nails her on every word, every syllable: "Dirty, messy, careless little slut."

Twice. Hilary cries out again, sharper, longing. She loves the sting, the slap, the sound of it, the burn, the delay before the ache, the rush of pain through her skin. She bends and her arms are behind her head now, her breasts dangle, and diamonds dangle from them.

There are tears coming now, quick and furious and hot and welcome. She sobs. He is already fucking here and there is a glimmer, a mere glimmer of her soul that's disappointed he didn't tease her longer, but it's quickly doused by the feel of his cock sliding deeper. Quickly.

Starts fucking her. Tells her she's a whore on every breath and she sobs again, or moans, or begs -- it's hard to tell the difference now.

"Hit me," she begs, when she can breathe. "Hit me, hit me, please -- I'm a whore, Ivan, please --"

He doesn't hit her. What sort of vladelets would he be if he did? He keeps fucking her; harder with every moan, every cry, every shriek she lets out. "Shut up," he tells her. "Shut up and take it."

Until she's quite beside herself. Until she's hanging helpless from that knotted gauze; the force of his thrusts setting her diamonds swinging, her hair, her tits. Until she's making those noises, incoherent and unclear; until she stops begging -- at least with words -- because he's driven the words from her mind.

That's when he stops. Pulls out of her, sudden and complete. Slaps her hot little cunt where she's bent over, displayed. Ivan steps back. Ivan hits her. One, twice, three times, four times in quick succession, back and forth, controlling the strokes. She can't imagine the control this takes. The concentration: to fuck her, to stop fucking her, to hit her and not let it get out of hand. He never feels so alert, so attuned, so focused as he does when they play. He breathes evenly, steadies his thoughts.

Swipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. Hits her again. Comes up behind her and wraps his arm around her roughly; manhandles her, pulls her upright against his body. Grabs the diamonds and pulls them taut. Swipes the cat o' nine tails against her belly now, and this is riskier; he's hitting blind.

"Can you come like this?" It's a taunt. "Do you think you'll come if I play hard enough?"

He doesn't hit her. He fucks her, hard enough that she can't talk. Hard enough that she's making these sounds, these terrible sounds, and perhaps only Ivan knows how much she fucking enjoys it. Can hear those sounds and reconcile them with the bliss on her tear-stained face. Recognizes bliss for what it is. She tries to shut up. She fails. She tries so hard to take it like he wants her to,

fails, fails.

Hilary just gets fucked. And she's losing track of whether or not her arms hurt in this position; she's forgetting to notice if the diamonds scratch her where they slap her, or if the clamps are starting to hurt. She takes it. And they start to find a groove, a rhythm, where he's fucking that hot little slut pussy and she's starting to work herself up to the orgasm that's been building since he told her to undress and cross her legs like an expensive, well-trained whore.

That is when he stops. Grips her hips, her ass, and pushes her away from his cock as much as he pulls out of her. Hilary's eyes fly open. The world drops several feet and then rebounds, turns in midair, and she doesn't know where she is. She is shaking all over, terribly. He helps her, can't know how he helps her, when he slaps her cunt. She is brought immediately back to a strange version of equilibrium, her eyes focusing, her body centered on that ache.

Her mouth opens to beg, but he gets there before she does.

Hits her with the the cat, slapping her back, her ass, her shoulders, careful not to bruise her upper thighs, careful not to let the leather harm that precious cunt. It takes unimaginable control; he has to hit her hard. He has to stop himself from abusing her. He has to hit her fast; he can't lose himself in hitting her. He has to stay in his head, focus his mind.

Hilary loses hers. She cries out, on the verge of orgasm, and he can hear it. Those loose, open vowel wounds, let go into the air of their beautiful penthouse. His cock isn't even in her anymore and he can hear her trying to come from this. She doesn't even notice the pause while he wipes away his sweat. She does feel it -- his body, his cock -- when he pulls her up. She sinks against him, whining. Her back is sore, raised red welts showing where he's marked her. She rubs the salt of his sweat into her skin, the sear of it lighting up her mind.

She knows who she is. She knows who Hilary is. She is okay with who Hilary is. She is at home in her body and there is nothing but acceptance. She does not judge herself for her madness. She remembers her brother. Her parents. Those horrible nights with her servants, dying. She remembers the nightmares and the dead animals and the bad drawings that made her teachers mad at her. She remembers wishing she could cut that stupid little brat out of her belly and burn the offal. She remembers learning to dance, and running in her little tutu across the floor, giggling, her fine dark hair in a bun. She remembers how hard she practiced, how obsessively she repeated each little lesson on her own, over and over and over and over and over because this was a thing she could do and it was perfect and no one hated it. They would smile at her and clap and sometimes she was even hugged and back then, it felt good to be hugged. She remembers that culinary school she went to, and how she was finally able to practice her French with someone other than the maid and the cook who were long gone by then, and how shy she was with the people who flirted with her, and how anxious their flirting made her, and how she reacted in anger. She remembers chopping onions and tomatoes and everything else until she was perfect, perfect, until the knife flew as effortlessly and elegantly as any pirouette she could spin her body into. She did not like hugs anymore, but no one offered them. She remembers her whole life, laid out before her with all its horrors and all her strange reactions and that brief period in time when she knew she was going mad but did not know what to do and had no one to speak to and so she began taking the pills, escaping the panic of her own descent. She remembers Anton's foot in her hand, and remembers seeing him in his crib asleep, remembers the first time she held him since the day he was born and how she felt, how her chest fluttered like a bird in a cage, how she knew that he was a part of her, and always would be, and that she would empty herself, hollow herself out, for love of him.

And all of it is acceptable. All of it simply is. This is her life. There need be no self-recrimination, nor self-loathing. There need be no grief. This is who she is and who she has been, and it is all

okay.

--

Hilary loves him so much. She cries from worship, rapture, the ecstasy once thought reserved for saints. She is with her god, and her god forgives her. Her god loves her, and fills her with grace. With her god, she can walk in brief faith that she deserves any of the peace that floods through her now.

Her skin is on fire. Her veins are filled with gold. Her heart beats only because of his love, electrifying, breathing life into what is otherwise inert matter, a doll body, a dead soul.

He pulls on the diamonds and she screams, her eyes closed, her body trying to grind against his, her back arched against him. He hits her, slaps her in sensitive spots with that beautiful leather gift, that instrument of salvation, that means of meditation.

"Yes," she says, tears streaming anew into her eyes, past her lashes. There is no shame in it. There is only the truth of her, and who she is, and what she is. "Yes, my love, my love, I will. Please."

Ivan can't possibly know what he does for her. Not really. How could he guess? She never says it; couldn't put it in words if she tried. She can't tell him how this affects her. How the way this feels -- the pain that is like a sharp hot fire, like heat focused so tightly it cuts, sears -- seals something in her. Fuses the cracks. Closes the gaps. Makes her airtight and flawless and perfect, smooth and round and whole.

It is okay. It is all okay. Everything that she is, everything that has transpired: in this moment, in that heartbeat between one lash and the next,

it is all suspended, wiped clear of conscience or blame. Okay.

--

She screams. She cries. There are tears on her face and her hair is sweat-stuck to her neck, her temples. She is a beautiful, beautiful ruin and they are frightening their neighbors. The people on the street eight floors below.

She is praying. It is a ritual. Yes, yes, yes, a repetition like any catechism. And he can't possibly know what he does for her, but he has some inkling; he has some guess. He has ears, eyes, a body that feels. A heart that beats, and a soul that -- on some terrible, frightening level -- understands hers.

His arm around her, so tight. He kisses the side of her neck, furiously and passionately, his eyes shutting and his brow knitting with it. God, he loves her. He is a god to her, and all that he is loves her.

And then he grabs that chain of diamonds. He bends her down by it: pulls until she bends, bends until she's suspended, taut, arms pulled back, nipples elongated. He stretches her out and then he draws back the cat o' nine tails and

he hits her

very hard.

As hard as he dares. Almost as hard as he can. Fast, a flash of leather across her infinitely finer skin; and instantly there's a welt. It makes him ache. It makes him lust. They are such mad, contradictory creatures.

Kisses her where he bit her earlier, thinking of bloodsuckers, vampires, demons. Hilary rests her body against his, adoring, accepting. Submitting, but it's more than that. It's always been more than that.

He grabs diamonds.

Hilary cries out.

They are still playing, if anyone could call this a game and not a ritual. A holy thing. She whines, loudly, moaning at the pain, falling forward lest the clamps give way. She bends, and bends, and he's not fucking her yet she thinks he might she hopes he'll

hit her again. This time she screams. No controlled crying out. This is a scream, bloodcurdling and full-throated, raw and red. Pink flashes across her flesh. Wetness, new and fresh and hot, slicks her cunt.

She can come if all he does is hit her. She can come if all he does is play with her, hurt her like this.

And yet.

All the same, she gasps for him: "Ivan -- Ivan, fuck me. Use me. Oh my darling, fuck me --"

Who is he to deny her?

Who is he, in the end, to deny her anything?

He fucks her. There's no pause; there's barely enough time for the words to cross the synapses, go from sensory to motor, sensation to action. She begs for him. He grabs his cock, shoves it into her. She screams or she moans. The gauze snaps taut. Those heavy wooden beams creak. He fucks her, her thighs pinned between the mattress and his momentum; her body caught between one brutal pull and the other.

And he hits her. He uses that toy, only it's not a toy, is it? It is an instrument of salvation, a holy thing. He uses it, and this is their ritual, this is their altar, he is god and priest in one. He uses that fine, sweet, rarefied body of hers, desecrates it in every way possible; does it because

this is what she asks of him. And who is he to deny her?

She never calls it what it is. Says so in whispers, anxious and secretive. That she wants him to use her. That it pleases her. He has learned, by intuition more than anything, how much she needs him to pretend that none of this is for her. But right now, this afternoon, she tells him to use her. And he sometimes denies her, teases her, refuses to do what she says because he is her vladelets -- not the other way around.

Not now. Now that would be a break, a disgrace of what is between them.

So Ivan fucks her. Bends her and pushes into her, comes back to her, starts to fuck her like he can't stop, and he can't stop. Fucks her and keeps one hand free, using it to slap that beautiful whip across her back, her side, her ass. Whips her to make her fuck him faster, take it harder. She's going to come, and he can hear it in every cry. He can feel it, the way the heat is building in her, all around him.

The way she cries out when she comes. After all that it seems so strange, so simple, so soft. She clutches at her bindings. She tenses up and her body quivers and yet... it seems so soft. It flows through her like water, gentle as rain. Over, and over, and over again, falling across her raised red welts, her scratches, her sore muscles, her tears. It goes through her like a baptism, and he might think she's about to pass out but she doesn't, she's stronger than that, she's too lovely for unconsciousness.

Now she is not screaming. Little cries, perhaps, if he keeps hitting her. Little moans, and gasps, and whimpers, while she works her orgasm out on his cock. It goes on for a while. She rocks against him, against the bed, happily.

Happy.

For all the wanton, rampant brutality of their play,

this climax goes through them both like rain. It is simple, unadorned, soft. It catches them up and bears them aloft. He wraps his free arm around her as he comes; bends over her, mouth open against her back as he pants, shudders, gasps. There are welts there. He can feel them, all but taste them. He kisses her fervently, adoringly.

She is happy. He can feel that too, just as simple and unadorned. That is a rare thing, more precious than gold.

--

After a while he reaches over and starts to undo those knots. This takes concentration too, and skill. His fingers tuck and weave and tug and strip, and eventually the snug fit of those makeshift bonds loosen. Her left arm comes free first, and he covers her shoulder with his hand, warming, massaging. Then her right arm.

He gathers her up, then. Lifts her onto the bed; follows, sinking down on all that decadence with something like relief. Their toy rolls against her thigh, but for the moment Ivan can do nothing with it. He looks at it, beautiful thing, beautiful toy for his beautiful girl. He wraps his lean arm around her waist; holds her.

Nothing is said. For the moment, silence is sufficient.

His sweat and her own sting Hilary's back. The red weals across her back are brilliant against her pale, smooth skin. He's never marked her like this before, coloring her flesh livid and angry. He's never quite whipped her. Not like this. No more than a few teases here and there, little more than a slap. Her flesh is on fire, her entire back throbbing. There's a pulsing ache in her shoulders, a raw pain in her wrists. She can feel Ivan's cum inside of her. She can feel the filth where they're joined, wet and hot. She all but hangs there by where he tied her up, the last tremors of her orgasm rippling through her.

Before they collapse, Ivan reaches up and unties her hands. Does so quickly, one-handedly, focusing his mind when there's barely any energy in him to hold himself up. Hilary gasps as one arm falls, blood rushing back into the limb, painful. Ivan touches her, rubs her skin where it is unmarred, helps soothe her. Then her other arm. She shudders, curling up in a ball as he picks her up. He slips out of her, and she shakes as though she's cold. They fall into the bed, her still in her ring and her earrings and her boots, he in... nothing at all, of course. The cat drapes over her thigh, and Hilary goes on trembling, quivering.

Perhaps Ivan wraps her up in his own limbs. Perhaps he pulls the covers over her. Her body is acting as though she has a fever, at least for a few moments. It takes time for her trembling to cease. Takes time for her breathing to start to normalize again. But it does. It always does.

In a way she does have a fever. It's the same chemicals in the blood: catecholamines, endorphins. Released from strained muscles; bled from cells and vessels damaged at a microscopic level. And that's not even considering the emotional impact. The cost of this strange absolution.

Ivan wraps his lover up in his arms. He draws the topmost layer of the covers over them. It is a light coverlet, more decorative than functional, but it will do for now. While she shivers, he undoes the clamps on her nipples; covers her with his hands until the first hypersensitivity is past. He undoes her boots, peels down her stockings. And last, he takes off her jewelry: the earrings; whatever bracelet she may wear.

Not the ring, though. He leaves that where it is. Neither of them have commented much on what it may or may not signify. Neither of them comment now.

When he's rendered her pure and clean and bare, he wraps his arms firmly around her again. He holds her, quiet and aware, alert now. The act of caring for her brings him back to himself. Calms him, cools his blood, focuses his mind.

Hilary had all but forgotten about the clamps on her nipples until Ivan's soft hand slides up her ribs and begins unscrewing them. She cries out; she gasps. She bucks slightly against him, overcome with pleasure as the clamps loosen and his palms cover her. Her cunt clenches and it's unbearable. Her lip quivers as he holds her.

Some of that subsides. Slowly he tugs her boots off, having to sit up a bit to do so, they're so long. Peels off her stockings. Her toes curl, her feet rub against the blankets, under the blankets. He unfastens the diamonds in her ears, carefully, setting them aside with the long chain attached to her clamps.

If she notices that he does not remove that heavy red ring, she does not mention it.

--

There is nothing pure, or clean, about this. Nor even quite bare: he has covered her with the blanket, and with his body. He has covered her, most sacred of all, with all those beautiful marks. She can't wait to see them. She can't wait to feel them underneath a blouse or dress as he takes her out to dinner. She can't wait for them to keep her warm all night. She can't wait to find a spot of blood on the sheets from a stripe that was a little more rough than the others, a tiny scab opened while she slept. Every time it will remind her of this. Every time it will remind her of how she feels right now, how she felt when he did this to her.

Hilary begins to laugh. He might think she's hysterical. But she starts laughing, and then laughing so hard that she's shaking in his arms.

Hysteria is perhaps too cruel a word to apply, but yes: Ivan thinks it may be some minor madness that causes this laughing jag. He is quite silent for a while. Then he lifts his head; looks at her as she laughs. Brushes her hair back from her face.

"What's so amusing?"

When he lifts his head up, looks at her, he sees the bliss on her face. It's not far from how she looked while he was whipping her. She's laughing, her mouth wide, her nose wrinkled.

She laughs too hard; she can't answer. Just shakes her head at him, giggling.

Well; bliss is not bad. Bliss is good, generally, and so Ivan is unconcerned. He lays his head down. Nuzzles her back; nips at her shoulder.

"Absurd woman," he says, fondly.

She laughs at that, too. The nip. The way he fondly calls her absurd. But she does wear herself out eventually. The laughter fades with a sigh. She yawns a little. She nestles into the bed, but not to sleep.

"Darling, we are filthy," she complains, after a few more quiet moments.

While she laughs, Ivan smiles. She can't see this. She hasn't the empathy to sense it, feel it. But he does. It is a soft smile, uncomplicated and hidden; and truthfully, he never means for her to see it. It is something he keeps for himself, tender, because the truth is even now Hilary is wont to crush anything that even remotely whiffs of softness.

Eventually she wears herself out. And he rubs his hand over the outside of her arm, idle. "Yes," he agrees quietly. "We rather are."

And exhales, lifting himself on an elbow. He has a little distance; he can see the marks on her back. He tries not to ache. He resists the urge to heal, to fix, to remove. He knows she would be so angry; sulk for hours. It's so rare that he makes her happy. He leans over her, kissing the soft swell of her shoulder.

"Shall I bathe you?"

A deep, deep breath. She inhales, her chest expanding, her lungs filling. It's a lively, energetic sort of thing, that breath, the way she welcomes it all in, drinks it like wine, savors it, lets it fill her like light fills a room. She is smiling, still so blissful, so happy, as he's lifting himself up, kissing her shoulder.

Hilary exhales more slowly, turning her head, looking up at him past that shoulder. Her eyes almost twinkle. They seem sleepy and calm, satisfied. Pleased. The way she never looks at him, or anyone.

She gives a little nod. "That would be wonderful," she murmurs,

almost tenderly.

Ivan't can't remember the last time she was so happy. Perhaps it was that night in Chicago, when she'd divorced Dion, gotten her own place. She was eating doughnuts. He was baffled; he ruined it.

He doesn't ruin it now. He looks at her, his pupils widening every time she looks his way. It's absurd how much he adores her, dotes on her. He'd find himself absurd if he weren't caught up in the moment, the affair. She speaks to him tenderly and he smiles, and this time he doesn't or can't hide it.

Tries, though. Presses his lips to her shoulder again, soft. "All right, devushka."

And on that note he gets up. The paraphernalia of their play is everywhere: the toy, the gauzy curtains half ripped down, her clothes stripped off lazily in the aftermath. His shed in the preamble. He picks the toy up on a whim, slings it over his shoulder with the straps swinging gently against his back. He kicks his jeans out of the way as he holds his hand out to her, unless of course she doesn't want to get up. Then he slides his arms under her, lifting her with that ease that frankly speaks more to her slightness than his strength.

In the bathroom, he runs hot water while she waits. Their tub is large, free-standing, clawfooted. Even with the door shut the room is spacious enough that steam takes a while to build, and so he wraps her in a thick towel to keep her warm. Constantly, he tests the water, adjusting minutely one way and then the other. Warm, but not too hot: her back, her welts.

He smiles and she doesn't eviscerate him. Doesn't turn away in disgust. For perhaps the first time, certainly one of the rare times, they are both permitted to be happy in the moment. They smile at each other, and it isn't fake. It isn't a performance. He smiles, and she sees it, and she grins as he kisses her. Calls her his soft Russian nickname for her.

Hilary waits for him still. She watches him get up. Watches him drape the cat over his shoulder; the smile drops from her lips, but only due to the surge of lust that goes through her like a spike. She breathes in again, staring at him as he comes around. Unfolds her form the blanket, and she doesn't want to get up on her own: his arms slide underneath her, against the weals, against the marks that will bruise. She hisses a little, but it pleasures her.

As Ivan carries her, she toys with the end of the toy. She touches it, carefully and hesitantly, because it isn't hers, really, it's his, it's for him, he uses it, not her. She looks up at him, as though to make sure that it's okay.

There's adoration in her eyes, there. And gratitude. And perhaps even hope.

--

In the bathroom, palatial and gleaming, he sets her down. Hilary, trying to be covert a bit about it, lets the towel he wraps around her slip down and looks at her back in the mirror behind her. It makes her breath hitch in her throat; she can't think of a time she looked so beautiful, felt so perfect. It hurts her heart a little, to see herself, all those crisscrossed slices of color. She feels loved, then. That he would do this to her.

It occurs to her, as it never has before, especially outside of the moment itself, that it hurts Ivan to do this to her. It is hard for him. He does it because he loves her. He does it because he wants to make her happy.

And without knowing how to verbalize that, because she has never recognized it, Hilary crosses the bathroom while he is filling the tub, coming up behind him. He is adjusting, focused on the water intently, to make sure it is perfect for her. That is what he's doing when Hilary's arms slide around his waist. When she brings her body against his, still-reddened nipples and smooth belly and tender cheek, coming to rest against his back. Holds him, as she never ever does.

"Ya lyublyu tebya, vladelets,", she murmurs. She does okay. It's not perfectly accented Russian, but she gets the words right.

It's not that Hilary has no mind of her own. It's not that she never makes her own decisions, never expresses her own wishes, never acts on her own impulses. She does. She has very distinct opinions on certain things -- acceptable cars, acceptable foodstuffs, acceptable methods of cooking. But when it comes to intimacy, physical contact, it's almost always Ivan who initiates. Especially after one of their bouts. Especially while she waits to be bathed.

When she comes to him, so unexpected is it that her touch makes him startle. A tiny little jerk of awareness, and then he relaxes: surprised but pleased. Happy. She slides her arms around him, leans against his back. His body is categorically different from hers, though in so many ways they are similar. Both of them lean, both of them graceful, both of them smooth-skinned and lovely. Still, there is a line that divides his body from hers unequivocally. He feels different. She feels different. He revels in the contrast.

He wraps his hand gently over hers. Out of nowhere, he remembers a time she wrapped herself around him like this. They were on his boat. He was angry at her. He was thinking of leaving her, and she leaned against him; whispered the way she does when she wants to pretend she never did.

Don't leave me.

And he never did.

--

"I love you too," he whispers. Draws her hand up to his mouth, kisses her fingers. "Quite profoundly."

He startles and she, being who she is, tightens her hold on him rather than retreating. He settles into it, and he revels, and she does too. She feels accepted when he touches her hand, but she did not fear rejection when she embraced him.

Hilary does not remember begging him not to leave her.

She is very good at pretending.

--

His lips touch her fingers. She breathes in, her body pressing to his back, and exhales. They stand there, while the bath fills. Stand there elegant and beautiful as they are, water cascading into that lovely tub, until Ivan determines that it is full enough, and of the right temperature. When he moves, Hilary begins to unwind herself a bit, taking a step back, blinking up at him. Ivan removes the cat from his shoulder and sets it at the edge of the tub. Then he helps her into the bath, either by stepping in himself and helping her over, or by helping her in and making sure she is settled before he sinks in with her.

The water is warm but not searing. She sinks into it and hisses as though feeling erotic pleasure when the water laps at the scrapes and welts on her back. She makes a low moaning sound as her body acclimates, leaning forward. Ivan is settling with her, reaching for soap. No washcloth. No loofah. Nothing but his own hands, his own palms. Perhaps that's all he trusts, right now. But he washes her, like he does. Sweeps her hair upward, over her shoulder. He cannot give her a backrub as he often does; he finds spots where there are no marks anyway, tries to soothe them. Washes her all over, and then they drain the tub, and refill it.

Hilary smiles, as fresh water is starting to rise around them. She stays close to him, stinging back and all, to keep warm. And then she turns around, looking up at him, wordless. Hard to read. Turns fully, as steam lifts up off the surface of the water and around her hips, her breasts. She faces him, kneeling in the tub, crawling over him to straddle his lap. All she does is watch his eyes. All she does is press herself against him, tits to his chest, hands on his sides, waiting to see if he wants her again.

Or,

if he'll let her have him.

By the time Hilary turns, Ivan is drowsing lightly in the tub. Water is rising higher and higher around them, making them weightless, warm. He has bathed her -- so gently -- and he has kneaded and soothed what he could. Those talented hands of his rest on the sides of the tub now, dripping occasionally onto the floor.

When she moves, his eyes open. He looks at her, wordless as she is, waiting to see what she does. She turns. Water laps, ebbs. She crawls over him, a careful underwater choreography of thighs and knees, sides and hips. He watches her as she watches him, and when she leans into him his eyelids droop a little. It's a lazy, languid, wanton sort of regard. He kisses her, his hands and arms relaxed where they are; his head lifting to meet hers.

He can't easily remember the last time she initiated lovemaking.

He can't easily remember the last time she rode him.

--

She does, though. She is on top, and her hands brace against his chest, his shoulders, the tub. The water keeps flowing. They've both forgotten, or else they never cared. They raise wavelets in the wave. The tub overflows. A hidden drain somewhere drains, drains, but the bath mats are sodden and the ground gleams with spillage.

There are too many marks on her back for him to clutch her there when he comes. So he holds her by the hips instead, groaning against her throat. Rubbing his hands over her ass, the outsides of her thighs. Pulling her onto him, down and grinding, again and again.

Afterward, he has to let the water out again. He has to fill the tub again. He cradles her against his chest, nestled together as they are; lifts the showerhead fixture from its cradle, finally, to wash them both clean.

When she cries out this time, it rebounds off of the marble, tile, porcelain that fills the bathroom. She rides him slowly at first, thinking one of them will turn off the water, but by the time it is too full, she can't think of it anymore. She stays close to him, grinding, kissing, moaning against his cheek. Fucks him eagerly as they ramp up, slowed by the weight of water but not by hesitation. She's sweating, her hair soaked from the bath and from exertion now, bouncing on him so unabashedly that her tits bounce.

He doesn't make her do it. Doesn't ask her to. She just does. She just climbs onto him and fucks him like that, and near her orgasm she grabs the cat o'nine tails where it rests and holds onto its shaft the way she sometimes clutches at sheets and mattresses. Lets out a ragged, overcome noise when it hits her. She doesn't lift the toy, would never think in a moment like this to strike him, doesn't want to. She just holds onto it, like it helps her get there.

--

Afterward she's collapsed, overheated. She shakes her head, mutters no when he tries to fill the tub. She can't handle the heat. She stays on him as the water drains, though, and as he lifts the fixture, turning the water a bit more lukewarm so she can bear to be washed. Her hand has fallen limply away from the toy. It takes longer to catch her breath and slow her heart, this time. She doesn't burst into delighted laughter. She just wraps her arms around him, her marked back visible in the mirror, just like the faint smile on her face.

The water is gentle as it goes through her hair, coursing over her back. Ivan is gentle, as he strokes her hair off her cheek, cleans his beautiful girl.

"Thank you, Ivan," she whispers, her fingers caressing the back of his neck.