Ivan Press

Hilary

Hilary is not dressed for being out on the water, and does not have the shoes for it, so she boards gingerly, and tucks herself close to Ivan as soon as they are sitting together. Perhaps he gives her his jacket to cover her bare legs; perhaps there is a blanket somewhere.

They are holding hands even now, as their helmsman leads the little sailing yacht from dock and out properly into the river. Hilary is not looking at Ivan now; she looks at the city, lit up after dark as it is, glowing against the night sky. She looks up at the undersides of the bridges they pass; she breathes in deeply, even though it makes her shiver.

The play of light is lovely across her skin.

Beneath the blanket, or his jacket, or simply between their legs, she holds his hand with ferocious tightness, her knuckles pale from the tension.

This vessel is rather unlike those sleek, powerful craft they typically sail. It is small enough to feel the river, placid though the Seine is by this point in its journey to the sea. It is small enough that if they were to lean over the sides, they almost touch the water.

There is a tiny cabin belowdecks with just enough room for a miniature galley, head, and berth; for now, though, they remain in open air. Ivan, who can be chivalrous or even caring when it comes to Hilary, does indeed lay his coat over her bare legs. He even disappears belowdecks for a moment, reemerging with a blanket to wrap around the two of them.

It is not until they've left the small dock and begun to drift downriver, moving more by current than by wind, that he recalls that harrowing story: her first mate, what he would do to her. He understands without needing to ask why she holds his hand so tightly. After a while, he wraps his arm around her under their shared blanket, pulling her against his side and into his warmth.

"Relax," he whispers. "I'm not going anywhere. And you know how to swim."

There's a strange dissonance between Hilary's face and the tension in her hand. Her eyes have something almost like wonder in them, but Ivan knows better: it isn't wonder. Hilary does not quite feel... wonder. But she appreciates excellence, and beauty, and even has a faint sort of fondness for things like this: Paris at night, fireworks, even the occasional sunset. And on her lips there is almost a smile, however much it is shadowed with wryness, as though she's simultaneously pleased with her surroundings and amused by her own pleasure.

But she holds his hand so tightly that it telegraphs her fear, even when she won't let herself fully acknowledge it. She does not reach over the side to brush her fingertips over the water. She does not look at the water, or how black it is right now, how it reflects everything as clearly as a mirror until their boat cuts through it.

And Ivan knows why. Why she does not quite feel what people refer to as wonder, and why she feels so wry (when not openly irritated) by her own pleasure, and why she holds his hand as though her life depended on it. This last one is, of course, the easiest fear to understand, in terms of cause and effect.

He holds her closer. Acknowledges that fear, though she does not, and reassures her.

Tells her she knows how to swim. Hilary scoffs at this. It's true she's been practicing, though it's a bit like trying to get a nine year old boy to sit down and practice the piano. It's true that she's been learning, and that her physical dexterity and intimate understanding of her own body has made her a relatively fast learner, at that. But she scoffs anyway.

Not at his promise that he is not going anywhere. That, she believes.

So they sail their way through the city, passing cathedrals and palaces, bridges and landmarks. They pass near the foot of the Eiffel Tower, blazing alight, sparkling silently at the stroke of the hour. The Seine bends as it leaves city limits, as though it too were loathe to leave the city of lights, arcing back around Paris's more modern northern half.

Eventually, they drift away from the heart of Paris. They sail past more prosaic parts with unremarkable buildings and utilitarian bridges, and then past treed suburbs. Another great turn or two of the river and they are in the countryside again, gliding past little stone houses and great old trees, the moonlight a pale glitter on the water. As the lyrical Ile de France gives way to Normandy with its windswept history of campaigns and conquest, they pass short limestone cliffs and broad riverplains, low mountains and rolling hills, across meadows, through forests. Small towns dot the way, each a tiny cluster of buildings, many with history stretching back through the centuries and the millennia. Overhead, the skies are remarkably clear, dotted with far more stars than they can see from the city.

There are snacks and hot drinks aboard the little vessel. Ivan drinks hot coffee from a thermos; eats grapes and cheese. Perhaps they go belowdecks to nap. Perhaps they drowse where they are. Certainly, Ivan sleeps -- possibly dropping his head against Hilary's shoulder if they remain seated.

It is possible she doesn't sleep. It is possible she remains awake, eyes dark-adapted, watching the northern French countryside go by.

It takes some time for them to reach their destination. An hour and a half by car, but several hours by river: it is late night by the time the forbidding silhouette of the Lionheart's ruined castle etches into the sky. Ivan is awake again by then, drinking a refreshed thermos of coffee as his keen eyes pick out the details of the tiny town, the ancient keep.

The sailboat drops them off at a private dock behind a small house. Like so many others in Normandy, it is constructed of stone, the roof steeply sloped and tiled. Rich ivy covers the walls. Linden trees and rambling rosebushes fill the garden. It is not, as one might first suspect, a house entirely leased by Ivan. It is something far more mundane than that: a little bed-and-breakfast that they will share with a handful of other guests, managed by a middle-aged couple of otherwise private citizens.

Take me somewhere, she said.

This, apparently, is where.

The world grows older and older as they leave the banks of Paris behind. Hilary notices this, and is oddly comforted by it. This reminds her more of Nice, which she has started to think of as her hometown. There are fewer people, fewer lights, and she focuses on the moon and stars more now. She is still satisfied from their meal, and does not partake of hot coffee or snacks. Nor does she want to go belowdecks.

Nor does she let Ivan nap. He starts to, and she wakes him, perhaps with less urgency than he would expect, given how frightened she is of being out on the water in a smaller vessel like this. She doesn't want him to sleep. She, almost ruthlessly, does not let him. Perhaps it is a good thing there is coffee.

In truth, Hilary had no idea it would take this long when she got on the boat. She learned to cook and she learned to dance and she learned a bit about history and geography and science, but seldom used most of it and has never been to the town they're going to. She does, in fact, get a little bored. She gets a bit restless. She asks Ivan how long til they get there. She asks him where they'll stay. She complains that her feet are sore, her legs are cold, and her hair is getting frizzy. It really isn't, but she complains in part to keep Ivan's attention.

Eventually even being petulant bores her, and

appallingly,

she falls asleep on his shoulder, her hand still holding his tightly.

Her sleep is light, if in fact Ivan does not turn her own cruel seflishness back around on her and keep her awake. As the boat is slowing she's easily stirred, looking at the ruins of the castle without knowing what it is, or how it came to be there, or what it meant to the people who built it, lived within it, were imprisoned within it, died for it, or were saved in its shadow. It is just a ruin to her.

There is an audible sigh of relief from her when they come to the dock. She is eager to be off the boat, even though she clearly enjoyed parts of the journey. She is shivering, though, now in the middle of the night, no longer wrapped in Ivan's jacket or a blanket. She does not complain, now, as they step onto the dock. She is looking into the darkness at the stone house, the ivy, the sleeping roses. She holds her little shrug around her. She looks at Ivan.

"Will there be a bath?"

It does not occur to her to thank the helmsman, or tell Ivan how beautiful it is, or how glad she is to be here, or how brave she thinks she was on that very long trip. Immediately, she is cold. So immediately, she wants to know if he'll give her a bath. Or something to that effect.

Ivan is gentle with her, and patient with her petulance. In truth, it is not always so. They have had -- likely will yet have -- their share of vicious, soul-scarring fights. Yet tonight, at least, he seems to understand her. Seems to intuit the source of her cruelty, which is not cruelty at all but a form of fear.

He is first off the yacht, taking the gap between deck and dock in a single sure stride. He holds his hand out to her, though they both know she is his equal when it comes to feats of balance and dexterity. As she steps back onto dry land, he lifts a hand in farewell or dismissal to their helmsman.

Then he guides her through that garden, his hand on her back. "Of course," he reassures her. "And a soft, warm bed."

There is a rather large common area with a sitting room and a dining room. At the front of the house, a foyer contains a registration desk. This late at night, a middle-aged couple of otherwise private citizens can hardly be expected to man their posts. Ivan instead finds an envelope with his name on it. Inside, a pair of keys to their room -- which turns out to be a suite with windows opening onto the garden and the river beyond it. As they move quietly past the rooms of their sleeping neighbors, a clock in the living room chimes one in the morning.

Despite the time spent walking, and dining, and walking again, and sitting on the yacht, Hilary has not taken off her heels. She has not undone her hair. She looks much as she did when she walked out tonight, though with a few stray hairs and a slight fade to her lipstick.

She slips her arm through Ivan's as they walk up the path, which is -- other than whining on the yacht -- her only suggestion of weakness, or weariness. She smells the flowers in the garden as they pass, and catches sight of a little cat ducking under some brush after a mouse. He can feel the thrill go through her: yes. This is her type of place. Her hand brushes the ivy as they step inside.

Indoors, it's quiet. A clock ticks steadily, then chimes softly, just the once. Ivan leads her to their little suite, and closes and locks the door behind them, and she thinks briefly of the other hotel, the other suite, the penthouse standing empty tonight. She thinks of the pastries she ordered, suddenly: she had forgotten. Remembering them makes her smile.

Then she sits on a little cushioned bench at the foot of their bed, which is a bit smaller than the king-sized palaces they have at their respective homes, their usual haunts. She can still hear the clock. She feels younger than she is, for a few moments, in the dim, room, lit only by moonlight through the curtains. She stopped him, in fact, from turning on the light if he reached for it. She thinks of sneaking out of her room to explore her house. It was long after her parents died. It was before her brother did, though. She can't be entirely sure she is remembering, rather than imagining, because she would have been so young. But she thinks she remembers exploring; she wasn't as frightened of the dark until after her brother was eaten.

Hilary stirs from the half-memory, and resumes removing her shoes.

"Will you draw the bath, darling?" she whispers, into the shadows.

They have no luggage with them. They don't even have a change of clothes. They have only themselves, carefree and incredibly wealthy, and the baggage of their subtly fractured psyches.

She loops her arm through his and he feels absurdly, giddily happy. He waits while she leans over, graceful as a willow, to smell a rose. Watches the ivy-leaves tremble under her fingertips.

Inside, the lights are low. The hall is dim and their room is dark. Moonlight through the curtains give them enough to see by, if only barely; he reaches for a light, but her hand on his arm halts him. His hand falls after a moment. In the darkness she can feel him looking at her, attuned and aware, curious.

She sits, a slender shadow. He follows her after a moment. As she removes her shoes she feels his hands brushing hers, helping with the straps. He sets those cork-heeled shoes aside; bends to kiss her on the knee, reverent.

"Yes," he whispers, but his hands are slipping under her dress to draw her panties down.

It is difficult but not impossible to see her in what little light fills the room. Most everything is in shadow, but the paleness of her skin pulls the moonlight towards her, illuminates a cheekbone, her shoulder, the subtleties of her mouth. Her eyes, as ever, retreat from the light, and are all but lost to him.

He helps her with her shoes, and her skirt rustles as she uncrosses her legs. It rustles again as Ivan's hands slide underneath, reaching up her thighs towards her hips. He dressed her, several hours ago, every last article. She wonders briefly if he came to help with her shoes because he wants to undo his earlier work, piece by piece.

She thinks he probably just wants to fuck her. He can be so poetic, at times. He can also be so carnal. So base.

Hilary does not stop him right away, but she smirks at him. Then she turns, showing him her back, and the little metal tab of her red dress's zipper. But as soon as that is drawn down, she does in fact pull away from him, and his searching hands. He has not gone to fill the tub with hot water, or fragrant salts, but she doesn't chastise him, or insist. She just pulls away, standing, shrugging out of her dress and letting it fall to the ground around her ankles. She steps out of her own accord, dressed in those scant bits of lingerie he picked out for her when she insisted.

The room is cool, especially now. Hilary gives a slight shiver, but doesn't comment on it. She sits again. She reaches up, tilting her head, unfastening the clasp that holds her hair up, pulling out a few pins that aided it. Just because Darya usually does her hair does not mean Hilary is incapable, after all. The clasp and pins are set on the bench beside her, as her dark hair tumbles down around her shoulders, every curl filled with the scent of her. She tousles it with her fingers a bit. Maybe Ivan has left her, to go to the tub. Maybe he stays where he is, close to her, watching her.

Regardless: Hilary starts removing her jewelry. Earrings. Bracelets. They clink against the barrette and pins that were in her hair.

Of course he is watching her. He told her he would draw her a bath, which means he will, because he does not lie to her. He didn't tell her when. And so he is there, consciously or unconsciously undoing what he did; helping her with her shoes, her zipper. Watching her as she removes her adornments piece by piece.

Dark shades and high ceilings give this little suite a hint of elegance, but at the end of the day this is a small hotel in a small town. It is humble. He can imagine living a life in a place like this. The two of them, not in this life but perhaps in another, living in a small town in a remote and pretty part of the world.

When her last bracelet is set aside, he gives her his hand and pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her. He can't remember if he's ever picked her up before, but he does now, lifting her feet from the floor, carrying her into the en suite.

There is a freestanding tub in there, clawfooted. He doesn't set her in there because it is empty. He sets her on the bathroom counter instead, which is rustic and wooden, supporting a brass sink. While she perches there, he leans over the tub and turns on the faucets. One for hot, one for cold. Water begins to thunder into the tub as he pushes a stopper into the drain.

While the tub fills, he comes back to her. He finishes what he started earlier and takes those panties off. When they've fallen to the tile he pulls her to the edge of the counter, going to his knees before her. Wordlessly, deliberately, he lifts her feet over his shoulders. A fool would know what he's about to do. There can be no surprise at all when he spreads her with those dexterous fingers of his; puts his mouth lazily, lovingly to her cunt.

Oh, she could swat at him, tell him no, put her down. She doesn't, though. She is cold and he is so very, very warm. When he sweeps her up in his arms she leans into him as if by instinct. She knows, even if he has forgotten, just how often he's lifted her up. Sometimes she is broken. Sometimes she cannot stand on her own.

In any case: he lifts her, and she sighs at the warmth emanating from his chest, hardly paying attention to whether he is carrying her to the bath or to the bed. It turns out to be the former. The wood is less cold to her bare thighs than granite or marble would be, and she doesn't gasp when he sets her down. She watches him, still in darkness, until he comes back to her.

He goes to take off her clothes, and again: she stops him. Not by turning away this time, but with her hand on his chest. "Wait," she whispers, but it can't be because she's afraid. It can't be because she doesn't want him.

Hilary stays on the counter where he put her. And her hand moves on his chest. Brushes over the space where his tie once was, til he got annoyed with it on the yacht and took it off, tossing it over the side of the boat into the river. She finds his buttons and then, deliberately, begins to unfasten them.

"I want you with me," she whispers, as she undoes his shirt down to his waist. She leaves it to him to pull the tails out, while she starts on his belt. But he will have to do it blindly: she leans into him as she takes off his belt, lifting her mouth to his jawline, scraping her teeth across skin and the bone beneath before her lips touch his. She kisses him drenchingly, hotly, pulling him closer by the waist of his slacks.

He dressed for her tonight, and for their little excursion. He isn't so slovenly as he sometimes was in Chicago; he makes an effort now. He doesn't take her pleasure for granted. The tie is gone, and his clothes are rumpled by hours of walking, dining, sailing. Still, the shirt is of fine, smooth material; the colors, before they were lost in darkness, speaks of the tail end of summer. That's what the two of them looked like tonight. Like carefree summer, blown in from the south, lingering still in the cooler, autumnal north.

She undoes the buttons. He pulls the tails out and sheds it. She kisses him, hungrily as he often kisses her, skimming across jaw and chin until he utters a low sound into the cool air. She kisses his mouth, then, and finds him kissing back hard enough to furrow his brow. She pulls him closer. He presses against her, full body contact, his hands coming up to grasp her face, her hair, her shoulder.

The belt whips through the belt-loops. He takes it out of her hand and casts it aside. It hits something with a clatter. He undoes his slacks and lets them drop, going back to her panties at last. Well. Almost. Goes to her bra first, and indeed he is better at taking these things off than he was at putting them on: gets the clasp open in a heartbeat, tugs the article down, down, dropped on the floor. He wraps his arms around her again, pulls her against his chest, groans into her mouth as though relieved at the contact, as though it were the completion of something a very long time in the making.

Twice now -- since they got inside, at lest -- he's tried to get at her, touch her, have her somehow. It's been hours since he was inside of her, and that was just a few of his fingers. It's been a day, at least, since he well and truly fucked her. She is not surprised. She is not taken aback by how hard he kisses her now, how heavily he leans into her. She is not startled by his hands, and how they push into her hair, pull her even nearer.

Ivan yanks his belt out of its loops when she is done with it. He is kissing her as he pushes his slacks down to his socks and shoes, and she is angling her hips toward him, pressing against his body through whatever lowerwear remains on him. It's soft; she can feel that through the lace. He is getting hard; she can feel that, too.

Her bra is gone; she barely notices him removing it, so intent is she on kissing his mouth, gasping, their breath mingling. When he pulls her near, their bare chests touching now, Hilary wraps her arms and legs around him, her ankles crossing at the small of his back, her hands opening over his skin. She soaks in his warmth, touching him greedily, moaning softly into his mouth when she feels his cock twitch against her through the few remaining layers of fabric between them.

"Bend me over," she says to him, the words scarcely more than breath. "I want you to fuck me."

Words like that light him right up. Scorch a path from his ears to his brain to his cock. He pauses a second, synapses too alight to function. Then his hands are on her face again. He holds her gently, firmly between his palms, kisses her with eyes open, mouth open.

"No," he mutters. "I want you just like this. Close to me. Looking at me."

He pauses, but Hilary is still kissing him, her mouth moving to his neck, her tongue slipping out to taste his throat. His hands on her cheek bring her back to him. Her mouth is open, willing. Her eyes flicker open, close again as he kisses her. She groans.

Ivan refuses her. And something in her hitches, trips slightly; Hilary shudders. She opens her eyes. She looks at him for a long moment, trembling somewhat from a mixture of the chill in the air and the lust she feels for him.

Maybe something else, too. Some other kind of need. Not for warmth, not even for sex. Something else...something that neither of them has ever been fully able to put into words.

"I... need you to make me, then. Force me, a little," she whispers, even quieter than before, the words almost lost underneath the rush of water into the tub behind him. "Please."

He's pushing her. Somehow -- in that way they both can understand but neither can verbalize -- this is more difficult for her than the lovely afternoon, the lovely dinner, the lovely sail, this lovely little inn. Somehow all these hours of closeness and tenderness still pale to this one thing, this one ultimate act of intimacy.

He understands that. She feels it, keen as a knife's edge. She shudders; he does not think it is entirely from desire. But he kisses her all the same, slowly and ... knowingly, if that can be the word for it. Their eyes still open. Their bodies still pressed together.

There is deliberation in the way his hands move. Deliberation in how he drags his touch down her body, heavily, claimingly. He grasps that lingerie he picked out for her. He pulls it down her legs. They are so close together that the coil of lace tangles and snags, but eventually it falls to the floor like everything else. Like his boxer-briefs, following.

He comes back to her. He takes her by the hands. He takes her by the wrists, which is something else entirely; watching her face, watching those pitch-black eyes of hers, he folds her arms behind her. His arms pin hers to her sides; his hands lock her wrists to her back. It is equal parts embrace and imprisonment.

"Just like this," he repeats, a whisper now. "Looking at me."

It's that...and yet different, too. It isn't solely that a sort of softer, more tender lovemaking is harder for her than all the rest; it is as though all the rest has drained her reserves somehow, as though she has spent so many hours in gentle, sweet normalcy that it has left her somehow disconnected from herself, confused about who she is and how she feels. Who he is. What they are, together. No wonder when they first met she begged him always to be more and more brutal with her; she spent all of her time those days pretending to be the right sort of wife, the correct sort of woman. She was always pretending. She was a person divorced from reality, but -- most of all, more than anything -- divorced from herself.

Hilary needs something other than heat, something other than sex, something other than love right now. Something stranger. But something vital. Not because the intimacy is hard, but because she wants that intimacy so terribly. And she wants it to be real. She wants to be herself, in it.

And she knows so few paths to get there...to herself.

--

Ivan kisses her again. It's still hungry, and she is still hungry, and though his eyes are open, watching her, Hilary's are closed, as they were before. She only presses herself closer, begging him in silence not to deny her, still wishing on some level that he would turn her over, bend her over, hold her down and fuck her like she's nothing to him. Knowing, at the same time, that this costs him something, and it is not a price he can or will pay right now. Some part of her understands that, after all this time; some part of her learned, a while ago, that she is not the only one who has needs, who has things one cannot do, things one must do.

She hopes he will at least hurt her a little.

He doesn't, at first, and she's almost flinching now in her trembling, like she cannot stand how slowly and how deliberately he tugs on her panties, lifts her hips up off the counter to get them off her ass, pulls them past her knees. She is shaking, and not quite kissing him back now, and then

Ivan binds her. With nothing more than his own body, he ties her up against him, and feels a shudder go through her again. This one is different; there is something of relief in it. She feels a flicker of shame, or of something similar: she wants, sometimes, to be capable of more generosity than she is. But she is grateful, too. So very much.

Her eyes are closed still. Have been closed. He tells her to look at him, or that is what she hears in the words: Hilary opens her eyes and looks at him. Whispers, as both an immediate plea and perhaps a request for the moments to come:

"Harder, vladelets. Pozhaluysta."

Harder. Please.

The words glint in his eyes like silver catching light. He pulls her arms back farther. There's strain in even her supple shoulders now. He can see it, there before him when he looks down, there in the mirror when he looks past her. He grips her wrists in his one hand, long fingers around slender bones, and in this is a flicker of something earlier and far gentler. Even when they are civilized, these chords resonate within them.

"Pozhaluysta," he echoes back to her, softly, showing her the vowels, the consonants. And then something else altogether: "Pozhaluysta yebat menya. Say it."

Hilary gasps; she tips her head back with the increased pressure. She's wet for him, now, longing for him now; he can see it in the way she angles towards him, tries to get to him. He brings her a flicker of pain; she answers with lust for him that verges on desperation.

Behind him, water is still pouring into the tub. Neither of them pay it any mind.

Her eyes are on him as he repeats her word back to her: murmurs it, and she almost hears it as a plea of Ivan's own. Just for a moment, though. It passes, and he murmurs something else, which she doesn't quite recognize. It's on the tip of her tongue, but

she does not need comprehension to obey him. Not right now.

"Pozhaluysta yebat menya," she recites for him, breathlessly, hopefully. Achingly. "Pozhaluysta yebat menya."

It makes him laugh softly, viciously. That's how easy it is for him to step from light into shadow, to go from the tender, gentle lover he was on the boat, on the path into the house, to this. This dominating, ravening beast. This demanding, devouring lover who grasps her by the jaw, kisses her hard enough to bruise.

She feels him take his cock in hand. Feels him slide it against her cunt, filthy, shameless. Feels him biting her neck now, biting his way from her shoulder to her mouth, like he's forgotten how to kiss. He hasn't, though. He kisses her again when he enters her, kisses her until he grasps her hair in his hand, pulls her head back,

starts fucking her like that, hard, caught in his grip like something fragile and beautiful, a butterfly pinned.

She is beautiful. She is not so fragile as she seems, though.

When he rubs it against her, she starts moaning. Rocks against him, her lips open, her eyes struggling to stay open. She doesn't let them close until Ivan bends to her, bites her throat. She bites her lip in the same moment, whimpering for it now, opening her legs a bit wider for him.

She's rewarded by his mouth on her mouth, and by the head of his cock sliding, pressing against the slick wet opening of her cunt. She's rewarded by his tongue in her mouth and the force of his cock pushing into her pussy, filling her up. And in a way, she's rewarded just as much by the way his free hand tangles in her thick hair, yanking her head back, pinning her and holding her where he wants her, keeping her in place to be fucked.

Hilary, ever obedient, forces her eyes open again before he thinks to demand it of her, before he growls at her to look at him. She looks at him. She stares at him, longingly, even as he's pounding at her like this. She certainly looks fragile. She certainly feels pliant and inviting and helpless, caught in his arms like this. She certainly sounds weak, the way she's whimpering and moaning for him on every thrust.

It was only hours ago that she was swatting at him, insisting on paying for their dinner. Deciding where they'd go and what they'd do as they strolled. She was so decisive. She was so self-possessed.

But in a way, she was even just moments ago, telling him what she needed.

No. She is not as fragile as she seems. Even she is finally starting to realize that.

They do like the fantasy of it, though. The false but seductive notion of her fragility and her helplessness and even -- riskier, this -- of her unwillingness. They play rough; they skirt the boundaries. She wants him to make her. She wants to forget she asked him to. They have no safewords and no lines in the sand.

Just the subtle unspokens that hang in the air between them. Just their eyes locking; his breath on her face, her moans on his tongue.

--

Earlier tonight he fucked her under the table; gave not a thought to his own pleasure. Maybe it's only fair now that he fucks her atop the table -- or a counter, anyway -- and gives little apparent thought to her pleasure. Maybe it's only fair he grabs her, traps her, pounds her like she's nothing to him, even if he's looking at her like she's everything to him.

There's no slowing down. There's little savoring of the moments. There's certainly no holding back. The little en suite resounds with the noises they make; their breathing, their moans, the impact of their bodies together. It's a matter of minutes before he's close. A matter of seconds after that before he's coming, groaning, holding her eyes, letting her see it.

Closes his eyes only when the crest of it passes; when he drops his mouth to her shoulder and kisses her, or perhaps licks her, or perhaps that's meant to be a bite. Hard to tell. He's hardly able to think.

The tub is still filling. He unravels his fingers from her hair; unlocks his grip on her wrists. He leans into her heavily, their bodies pressed together, his arm tight around her. After a while he drops a hand to the counter, a point of stability.

A still point. A turning world.

Hilary is trembling. He can feel her all around him in the aftermath of his orgasm; the sweat on her thighs where she holds him between her legs, the strain of muscle in her arms, the softness of her hair, the pulsing heat of her cunt. That is perhaps the most searing, most immediate sensation of all, even more than her panting whimpers. Every time his cock twitches or throbs inside of her she moans, or gives a plaintive little gasp. It's so rare that he comes before she does, or that she doesn't come at all; but this was over quickly, and her desire didn't quite catch up this time.

So she trembles, and quivers, and she doesn't try to disentangle herself. She doesn't even try to rub herself against him. He is, after all, still holding her, even though he lets go of her hair to grip the counter. He is in this blasted, beautiful place, and she shivers in place, waiting for him.

Gradually,

in pieces,

he comes back to her. He kisses her shoulder. His fingers grip at her back. He wraps that other arm around her and lifts her, cradling her. As though that interlude on the bathroom counter were only a detour, he takes her back to the bathtub. Steps in, his balance ever certain, the water rising almost to the lip of the tub as he sinks into it with her.

The bathroom falls silent when he turns the taps off. The absence of sound is nearly as loud as its presence. Ivan leans back against the gently sloped side of the tub, pulling Hilary with him. Reaching out, he picks up a washcloth, a small bottle of bodywash.

The water in the tub has overflowed. Not much; it only just began to slip over the sides. The floor is wet. The water is hot. Ivan lets some down the drain, or lets it erupt over the sides of the tub when he takes Hilary with him into the water. She sighs as the water hits her skin, resting her head against his shoulder. She doesn't leave his lap.

Without a word, Ivan begins to wash her. It seems like ages since he last did this for her. She is stronger now, more self-reliant. He loves her all the more for it, but he would be lying if he said he didn't miss this just a little.

This silent adoration. This careful, caring little thing he does for her, soaking the towel in the tub, working up a lather, running it over her skin to cleanse the day, the evening, the night from her.

Hilary exhales. She listens to the water. And she lifts her head to look at him. Meets his eyes. She doesn't say anything, but she wants to.

The towel pauses. He lifts his other hand, wet, gently cupping her cheek.

His eyes are questioning.

She exhales. Whatever it is, whatever is on her mind, she's struggling to say it. He is, after all, just supposed to know.

Hilary tries, nonetheless. "I didn't..." she begins, but can't finish. She tries again, some other angle, as she shifts closer to him, water sloshing against his chest. "I want... I want you to..."

The smallest of smiles ghosts over Ivan's lips. Still cupping her cheek, he kisses her. It's the slightest thing: just a lift of the chin, a touch of the mouth.

Then he lays that washcloth over the side of the tub. He slips his hand into the water; down between their bodies. Not for the first time tonight, he finds her, touches her. Starts to stroke her even as he starts to kiss her again, both of it light, delicate.

He understands. And when he touches her, and her eyes close, and she exhales a soft gasp, it isn't just pleasure, but relief. He understands her. And he doesn't make her say it, or ask for it directly. She sighs, welcomingly. Leans into him and kisses him as he strokes her.

"I want all of you," she murmurs, her hands on his jaw, her lips close to his. "I want you inside of me when I come." Kisses him again, harder, her flickering desire blazing to life again because it was only ever temporarily banked. "Fuck me again," she whispers, arching her back in the water.

One imagines most the world once saw Hilary as untouchable and unarousable, as lovely and graceful and cold as marble. In Chicago, in Mexico, in France before that, she was the unattainable wife of a powerful man. And before that, when she learned the culinary arts and the performing, when she went to school to learn just enough to be a charming conversationalist, just enough to be the trophy on some powerful man's arm, perhaps her classmates thought her something similar: cold, lovely, graceful, unreachable, frozen.

These days, not many people see her at all. She does not keep up the appearance of a proper wife anymore. She does not go to the clubs and the meetings, the gallery openings, the fundraisers. She keeps to herself, a private citizen. She pursues her own interests. She is not judged so frequently, nor so keenly.

Sometimes, out and about in the world, she seems a little less marble. A little more flesh.

--

And anyway, she is not marble. She never was. From the first time, their first tryst, he's known this. Discovered it with shock and delight; discovered that her appetite borders on the voracious, and it skews toward the edges. There is a sensuality in her bones; not warmth but sheer heat, magnetic as a flame. She was made for loving, and made to be loved.

The way she kisses him now. The way her hands touch his jaw, her lips close to his. There is no mistaking it.

--

Water sloshes over the edges of the tub. There is a resonance there: the rhythm of their bodies, the wavelets on the surface. He is quiet this time, a language of gasps and sighs. He does not grip her so tightly, so violently. His hands hold her by the hips. She rides him, and he moves against her in counterpoint. Her breasts are wet, gleam in the dim light. He leans up and kisses her neck, sucks her nipples. Eventually he turns, presses her against that sloping tub, grips the curving smooth rim and fucks her like that.

This time, he is inside her when she comes. Close enough to see it. Close enough to feel it. His hand is on her body and his thumb is on her clit; he stimulates her rather mercilessly, fucks her right through it. He likes to see pretty things break. He loves to see her shatter, fly out into a million pieces.

He loves to gather those pieces up afterward. He loves to hold her in his arms while she trembles, shakes, whimpers with every move he makes. He turns her over then; puts her on her knees, her forearms over the side of the tub. His chest presses against her back. He fucks her again like that, fucks her from behind like she asked him to in the first place, his hand still between her legs because that seems to be the order of the day. He likes to feel her like that, anyway; likes to touch her while he fucks her. If one follows that rabbithole down, perhaps the truth circles back to that which brought them together in the first place. Perhaps he likes the sense of control; the heady impression of mastery over her body, her sensations, the sheer overload of pleasure he can give her like this.

When he comes, he kisses her over her shoulder. He likes that too. The intimacy of it, breathing into one another's moans.

--

Afterward, a slow settling. Their bodies sliding against one another in the water; rearranging until once again they rest together. This time her back is to him, and he is asprawl. With one foot he slowly maneuvers the taps open again, hot, then cold. The overflow valve begins to drain. Their bath slowly refreshes itself.

They have fled the world here. They have escaped to their own little paradise. A fairy-tale village nestled in a bend of one of the most storied rivers in the world. He is content to stay here with her a while, saying nothing, their heartbeats slowing together.

This time, she doesn't laugh when she comes. She doesn't hide her gasping delight behind her hand as her lover cradles her pussy in his hand beneath a tablecloth. This time she comes like she's being cracked open: shattering on the outside, dissolving on the inside. She is breaking; he is breaking her. Caught between his body and porcelain, she arches, she cries out, she begs him to stop in that way that means he mustn't, he should never.

It is quite a pretty thing indeed, fucking like this.

Being fucked like this.

Because that's the truth of it, and always has been: Hilary has always known that the way she was seen was nothing like the way she feels herself to be. She's always known that there was something off about her, something out of step with everyone else, and that this was a terrible thing, and needed to be concealed. Her hunger had to stay hidden. Her desires had to be tempered.

Her hunger, for example, to be fucked the way Ivan fucks her: like a whore. Like she's nothing to him. Like he wants to break her. And her desire to come like this, meltingly, moltenly, begging and weeping in the darkness, only to have her lover

turn her over,

and fuck her all over again.

Hilary grips the sides of the tub, making noises that are so primitive they're almost animal. She is all but sobbing then, calling out his name, calling him vladelets. Master. Owner. God. She's trying not to scream when she comes again, but it doesn't last; she does scream, a shriek that falls apart into a long, aching moan.

This is what she needed. It is even more than what she needed. Because even in this (especially in this), no matter how expertly they both maintain the pretense that he is using her,

Ivan is ever so generous with his devushka.

--

She can feel it, afterward: the calm that spreads through her limbs, deeper than just the physiological aftermath of orgasm. She knows she is safe, because she feels his arms around her. She feels filthy and sore and tired, and all of it is pleasant. All of it is soothing. It seems... right, to her. Comfortable, in a way that honest admissions of love or affection aren't.

Not for her. Not yet.

Hilary sighs, catching her breath, relying on Ivan to keep her from slipping into the water and drowning. She feels herself rearranged, angled, her head brought to rest on his shoulder, and that is when she encircles his torso with her arm. The tub is large, but not extravagantly so; they are nestled tightly together, and her breath stirs over his chest as she comes back to her body, to herself,

and to him.

--

Eventually they do wash. Hilary is able to stir herself, sitting up when he urges her to, leaning forward. There are patches of red on her shoulderblades and her forearms: spots where she was pressed against the tub, pounded against it. Unlikely they will develop into bruises, though. She doesn't seem to mind. She tucks her legs up and folds her arms over her knees and rests her head on her wrists as Ivan washes her back.

They could stay in the bath forever, but it is only a few hours until dawn. They have been going for most of the day, traveling and touring and the like. Hilary is all but falling asleep when he helps her out of the tub, when he dries her off, when he combs her hair. She is leaning against him, wrapped in a soft robe, falling asleep against his chest when he sets her on her feet, leading her to the bed.

The sheets are cool. Nightbirds trill outside in the garden. Hilary's eyes are closed before she rests her head on the pillow beside his. She is asleep moments after he covers her with his arm.

He follows her, soon after.

Ivan

Dawn breaks softly through the windows in the morning, unnoticed by the royalty sleeping within. Shadows of ivy and roses pan slowly down the walls; light turns grey, turns pink, turns gold as the sun rises. Birds trill. A thin mist clings to the riverbanks, giving way as the day warms.

Sometime between the hours best classed as early morning and those better called late, Ivan wakes. The bed is soft and the sheets carry their scent. Her back touches his chest, and his arm is draped over her waist.

He is in no hurry to rise. He lazes abed a while, eyes closing, drowsing. A fellow guest returning to his room next door wakes him again -- the faraway thump of a door closing. He rolls over carefully, rising to find the room a touch chilly. He turns the heat on. He brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face. He finds a Keurig machine -- the modern age has arrived even in this sleepy little fairytale of a town -- and he makes himself a mug of coffee.

Their window looks out on the garden, the river. Standing at the sill, he can see their little yacht. There are guests having breakfast outside, eggs and coffee steaming in the crisp morning. Details lost to nighttime are vivid by day: the blue of the river, the fall colors in the trees; the chalk-white of the exposed cliff faces, and that ancient stone castle still commanding its bluff.

Their suite at the bed and breakfast is not terribly unlike Hilary's own cottage, in ambience if not in precise style. There is a blend of the French and Spanish in her cottage, with a vague sense of a something you might find in a darkened wood, perhaps made out of gingerbread. This place is wholly and entirely French, unapologetically so, and its memory seems to stretch back even further than that of Nice. Flowers erupt out of boxes and out of terra-cotta pots. Vines drape over walls. The sun edges everything in gilt. It's beautiful here, as though it would find it difficult not to be. It's as though the village itself is so unaware of its loveliness that it has never tried to be anything more, and is incapable of being anything less.

Perhaps that is why nature goes mad so much more rarely than mortals; they are too aware of their beauty, their brilliance, their gifts. They strive or they despair, and either one might break them.

Some of them. Creatures like the ones inside this room, certainly. Them most of all.

--

Hilary is awake when Ivan leaves the bed. Perhaps it's the daylight, or the thump next door, or a shiver of air insinuating itself between their bodies as he moves away, exposing her bare shoulderblades for a moment before the covers fall over her again. She opens her eyes slowly but does not move. She seldom startles when she wakes. She does not yawn and stretch energetically. So for some moments, he is unaware that she has woken. But she has; she listens to the radiator kick on. She listens for his footfalls, but even without trying he walks so quietly. She listens to the water running in the bathroom.

When he comes back out, she has turned over in bed, but remains lying still. He makes himself a cup of coffee, and she can smell it. He goes to the window and his back is to her now, so she shifts her eyes and watches him. Flashes of last night play through her mind: walking around Paris until her feet hurt in those shoes he picked out for her. Sitting for that rolled-up drawing. The stupid painting he bought. She remembers dinner, and Ivan fucking her with his hand under the tablecloth while they waited for more vodka. Apple. Lemon.

That interminable yacht ride. She thinks she wouldn't have agreed to it if she'd realized how long it would be. It was cold and she hates the cold.

She likes this place, though. It is familiar enough to comfort her, remind her of a home she has finally found an has flourished in. It is different enough to catch her attention in a new way, to look brighter somehow, the colors more saturated, the shadows giving everything more depth.

Hilary closes her eyes and thinks of her son stuffing his face with croissants. Chocolate on his face. She makes them sometimes. She wonders if Ivan knows that. She is not a very good baker, she knows. Not as good as she is at cooking. But Elodie makes them, and Hilary has watched her, and she thinks she is getting better at croissants. She knows Anton likes them, even though he gets messy. She wonders if he knows that she makes them for him. She wonders if he realizes that she is the one who ordered them for his breakfast this morning. He probably doesn't care. He's just a baby, she thinks, though it has been some time since he was really just a baby. He's almost a little boy.

Her eyes open. Ivan has glanced back in the room. He finds her watching him, her body motionless.

Her eyes, open. Her body, still. He sees her by chance, watches her by design. There is no startle when he finds her looking back. His eyes move over her face, down the shape of her still draped in the sheets, the bedding.

He takes a sip of coffee. He makes a little movement, a gesture with the cup -- draws her attention to what's outside. A branch of those linden trees falling close to the glass. A bird perched and singing.

Coming back to bed, he leans down to kiss her, then sits beside her. He has pulled on boxer-briefs, which are rather uncharacteristically plain black, and little else. His back to her is a work of art, tapering and smooth, columned in lean muscle. In the silence of the room they can hear occasional footsteps, voices, but not clearly enough to make out words.

Perhaps the gesture means nothing to her, or she simply doesn't care; she doesn't gaze out the window at the linden, the bird. She watches him. She accepts the kiss he gives her, and is silent for a while as he sits there. It's peaceful.

And then:

"You're very rude," she says, her voice soft and rough from disuse.

This brings a laugh forth. He turns, tilting one shoulder down a little to see her better.

"Because I didn't make you coffee?"

"Didn't even offer," she says with a put-upon sigh, closing her eyes and rubbing her face into the pillow for a moment.

They open again, looking up darkly at him.

Ivan steals a tiny smirk in those moments Hilary's eyes are closed. He wonders sometimes if she knows how delightful he finds her. Likely not. Likely if she did, she'd only think he was laughing at her, which isn't it at all.

When her eyes open again he leans over, one hand beside her pillow. He kisses her again, slower this time, smiling into it. When he straightens, it's without a word. He walks around the bed and over to the Keurig machine, where he disposes of the spent cartridge and loads another.

While coffee brews, he prepares a mug. "Cream and sugar?"

This time she doesn't accept his kiss. He leans down and makes to press his lips to hers and she scrunches up her face, turning away. She looks disgusted, but at least does not release an ugh at him. He leaves. He goes to the Keurig, which also disgusts her, but at least she doesn't send him out, demanding French press, something real, how dare he.

She must be tired. And yet, she sits up in bed a bit more, sliding the pillows behind her to lean against the headboard, one arm holding the sheets over her body. Her free hand reaches up. She runs her fingers through her hair, disheveled from its updo last night, the bath, the fucking.

"Just cream," she says. Hilary has no particular way she takes her coffee. It seems to depend on the coffee. The locale. The meal. Her mood. "But quite a lot of it."

Quiet, now. She looks out the window finally at the branches of the linden trees, frowning vaguely at the songbird. It isn't an annoyed frown, though; it's sort of thoughtful. Eventually -- quickly, because the coffee takes no time at all -- he brings her the coffee, pale with cream, the mug warming rapidly to the touch. She takes it without thanking him, briefly inhaling the scent of it. Must be habit; the powder inside the pods is hardly the stuff of a true French cafe. But then she sips. Looks at him.

"It's lovely here," she tells him, "but I don't want to stay too long."

There's a pause, then, filled with something else she isn't saying.

That his kiss is rejected doesn't seem to faze him terribly. He goes about his business, brewing her a rather mediocre cup of coffee that she nonetheless accepts.

Soon he's back beside her. She sips the coffee. His is merely warm now, no longer hot; he drinks. She tells him something, and then a small pause opens.

He prompts, "What is it?"

Hilary does not play coy. She doesn't wince or screw up her nose or refuse to look at him. A gentler person does those things; one who thinks, always, of how others might feel. The hesitances is something else; comes from a place of being vulnerable, of admitting something about herself, about the two of them, that is easier to pretend not to notice.

Regardless: she looks him in the eye as she says it.

"I know you like to be alone with me. Away from... everything. Everyone. Just the two of us. But... I want us to be in Paris. With him."

She tells him. She just tells him. She doesn't make him guess; she doesn't whisper it so she can pretend it was never spoken.

She tells him. And his mouth tilts faintly, something like a smile.

"I know," he says. "I thought perhaps we'd have breakfast in the village. Then we'll take a car back to Paris. Maybe take Anton for a walk by the river."

And that is fine. His plan, that is: breakfast in the village, a car back to Paris. Walking with Anton. But Hilary is watching him. Carefully.

"Is that..." she doesn't want to know if it's okay with him. She knows it is. He will do it because it is what she wants. "Is that what you want?"

Only a moment's consideration before he answers. "Yes," he says. "I think I'd like that. I thought we'd go back after breakfast, at any rate."

He gets up. That half-finished coffee -- the one for which she called him rude when he didn't make her an accompanying cup -- he upends over the bathroom sink.

"Let's find some better coffee," he suggests. Neither of them have a change of clothes. He starts putting on last night's outfit again.

Ivan thinks before he answers her. He usually does. She has noticed that; he is so glib with everyone else. He is often glib with her. But he senses when it matters to her. If he is to be honest, he reflects. He gives her what he can, in terms of honesty, rather than dismissing it as unimportant.

Hilary tips her head, and then she nods. "You're hungry," she comments, as though she isn't. She is.

The next thing she says is after he dumps out his coffee, proclaiming that they should find something better. She exhales heavily, putting her mug down on the nightstand. "Thank god," she mutters, none too thankfully. She looks at him dressing in yesterday's clothes and winces. "I wonder if there's anyone we could send for something else I could wear," she says, a bit pathetically. Whiningly.

Ivan huffs a breath of a laugh. "I don't think so," he says. "We're pretending to be plebeians, darling. But I'll go buy you something to wear, all right?"

She pouts. "You might be," she says, of pretending to be a plebeian. "You don't have to wear high heels and filthy panties."

But she won't, either; he is going to find her something. She nods to that, leaning forward, the sheet across her body slipping downward. "Good," she says, imperiously. "I'll shower." She looks at him, her eyes lazy and shadowed. A bit condescendingly: "I'll even leave my hair the way you like it. As a thank you."

Ivan is thinking something tawdry again. She can tell. He's looking at her the way he does, his eyes following the sheet down, and he's smirking the way he does. A beat; then he pulls his gaze back to her face.

"Well, I suppose I'm easily bought. It's a deal." He pulls last night's shirt on, buttoning it. "See you when I return, hm?"

Ivan

They depart. The hotel door locks with an actual key, solid and brass. The elevator down is vintage, with wood paneling and gilded light fixtures. Without their sizable party, the lobby is airy and open. The concierge smiles as they pass.

It's lovely when they step out onto the streets. After their respective showers and that rather scandalous dressing session, it is late afternoon. With autumn in the air the days are growing shorter; the sun is nearing the horizon. Europe as a rule is more northerly than the United States, and even their home in Nice, so Mediterranean and sundrenched, sits north of Chicago and New York both. Here in the north of France, the sun is noticeably angled in the sky; sifted through the atmosphere, it casts a diaphanous golden light over the city.

Paris, as with all cities on this continent, is old -- and their neighborhood is one of the oldest. There are tourist-laden ships on the water now and cars on the streets, but the basic underlying architecture of the riverfront has changed surprisingly little. The streets are cobblestone, winding and joining at haphazard angles. Statues and monuments seem to dot every streetcorner. The buildings and bridges date back to Degas, to Napoleon, to the kings of France.

They have no destination in mind. Well; an eventual one -- a restaurant with candles and tablecloth and darkened corners -- but none at the moment. They wander. They stroll along the river for a ways; Ivan, passing a merchant, inquires about renting a rowboat. Starving artists of varying skill, each fancying himself the next Monet, labor over their easels. One asks to paint Hilary. There's a little fruit market where Ivan buys a small box of strawberries, eating them as they walk. Soon enough they turn away from the river; wind through the streets, passing a dozen pastry shops and equally as many corner cafes. A hip little art gallery where the more famous brethren of those riverside starving artists sell their creations. On a whim Ivan buys a painting, bold and abstract.

Sunset by then. The western sky all hues of pink and orange; the eastern a deep and royal blue. They've been walking a while, and so Ivan hails a cab. Somewhere over the course of the afternoon he must have put Dmitri to work, for he has a destination in mind. They take the back streets, turn after turn until a last one puts them suddenly in front of their destination.

They are back at the riverfront. The building is stone. The entrance is subtle: a set of double doors in dark wood, the name of the restaurant etched into the frame, nearly invisible in the dark. A doorman opens the way. The austere, dark aesthetic continues within: the walls paneled in ebony wood, lit here and there by warm columns of light. They are immediately greeted by name and offered a private dining suite.

Ivan declines. Surrounded but alone, she said. He makes his request very specifically. There are several dining rooms within, connected by corridors. They are shown to a small table for two in a corner of a room that has no windows. Paintings and sketches occupy the dark walls instead, spot-lit by those dim, warm lights. The tablecloths are white. There is a candle in a pretty spherical holder, which their waiter sets alight before leaving them with menus and time.

The flame casts interesting shadows. Ivan is watching Hilary again, wearing the faintest of smiles.

It's a gentle afternoon. Hilary holds his arm as they walk. Ivan asks about rowboats; Hilary peruses the books laid out on a card that folds up when the vendor takes it home. When one of the artists asks to paint Hilary, she -- on a whim -- decides to sit for him, for a sketch. They walk away with the piece rolled up, the charcoal set with a binding spray, and a version of Hilary's likeness in three-quarter profile, made out of dark shadows against the thick eggshell paper.

Hilary makes him share his strawberries. She makes him stop so she can go into a pastry shop. A delivery is set for the morning: croissants and pain au chocolat to their hotel, but she lists Anton's suite, not hers and Ivan's. The pastries are for her son, and -- surprisingly -- for the staff as well.

Also she gets a coffee, sipping at it as they invade a gallery. Ivan buys a painting. She says she thinks it's ugly, but of course he likes it.

She puts on her little shrug as they leave the gallery. She's walking more slowly; the wedges are easier on the cobblestones and on her stride, but still. He flags a cab, and she leans against him in the back seat, her arm through his arm, her hand on his thigh. Her eyes are on the window, and the darkening city. She knows what is coming: all the lights of evening springing to life, illuminating Paris in a warm golden glow.

She finds she doesn't hate this. Not at all.

--

When they arrive, she waits to be escorted out of the cab by Ivan's waiting hand, because of course she does. She observes the entrance to the restaurant without question, slipping out of her shrug as they enter.

They are offered --

Ivan declines. She glances at him, a faint smile there, and slips her hand down his arm and into his hand as they follow their host to the dining room, to their table. The host draws Hilary's chair out and seats her before lighting the candle, excusing himself. Ivan looks at her.

She looks back at him, her eyes limpid and dark. She thinks: he wants to know if he has done well.

And she thinks... how hard it is for her to say when something is good, when she likes it, when she is pleased.

So she says:

"Move your chair... here," she says, with a gesture to the spot she means, the angle she wants. She shifts her own chair a bit, too. "Closer."

It surprised Ivan earlier when his mate bought pastries not for herself but for her son; and not even only for her son, but for his staff. It surprised him, too, when she agreed to sit for a portrait. The painting will be delivered directly to Nice, but the charcoal sketch he kept with him. All afternoon while they wandered through Paris he has it under his arm, and even now it's near at hand -- leaning against the wall, carefully set out of the way.

Outside, the last of sunset's glow is gone from the sky. The city is alight, the banks reflecting off the Seine. Every so often the Eiffel flashes like diamonds, dazzling even those who pretend not to be dazzled. Inside, they see none of this. They see each other, ensconced in their secret little corner. Her eyes are remarkable in the shifting light.

And she's right. She reads him accurately: he wants to know if he's done well, if she's pleased. But there's more to it, which she cannot quite see yet. He, in his unshakable arrogance, knows he's done well. He still wants to know if she's pleased. If she's enjoying herself. If she's happy.

He takes her invitation for an answer. That faint smile changes a little; it warms. He obliges, moving his chair closer to hers. The tablecloth brushes against his knees. He takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"I must admit," for the first time ever, perhaps, "this is better than whatever ultramodern dining experience I might have chosen, left unattended."

They are closer now, co-conspirators in their darkened corner. Their seats sit at an angle now to the room, as though they are the audience and the rest of the world is their entertainment. But Hilary isn't looking at the room, at the other diners scattered here and there. She is looking at Ivan, whose desire to please her is wrapped comfortingly in his absolute certainty that he has provided her with an excellent treat: Paris. The hotel. The dress. This restaurant. The stroll. Every last moment.

Still: is she pleased with it.

Her invitation isn't the answer he thinks it is. This is:

When he sits, settling again into the chair, taking her hand, Hilary leans over, resting her palm on his cheek. Before he has a chance to speak, she kisses him. Her head is tipped to one side, her eyes closing, and the kiss is no tender peck. She kisses him fully, hotly, her lips lush against his own, ending in the slightest bite of his lower lip.

Her eyes open again as she withdraws. Her hand remains on his cheek for a lingering moment before that, too, falls away.

Then, if he still says what he says, she responds:

"What sort of... 'ultramodern experience' do you mean?"

That kiss surprises him too. The heat; the frankness; the boldness. All that, and the fact that she initiates it at all. He's so damn confident but this still manages to crack him. His eyes close at once. He kisses her back, just a split-instant behind her, exhaling sharply when she bites him.

His eyes open a moment after hers. He watches her withdraw. He watches her hand fall away. Whatever he might have said, it's flown out of his head. He settles back in his seat, her hand still loosely in his.

Quite a few moments go by. Eventually, he comments after all -- ultramodern dining experiences, this, better. She responds, and he laughs.

"Who knows? Perhaps somewhere there's a spinning restaurant that serves flash-frozen flavor flakes." He smiles at her; repeats, "This is better."

Hilary looks baffled. Spinning? Flash-frozen? Flakes? She looks almost distressed, like he's suddenly started spouting word salad. Disconcerted, she says: "That sounds awful," and shakes her head a bit as though to rid herself of the very idea.

She glances at the menu, then at Ivan. "Why don't we just do the set menu? Have them choose the pairings. I don't want to make decisions."

And she hasn't: even her wardrobe this evening she left to him. She's followed her whims otherwise, since they left Nice: white wine on the train, reading to Anton, putting up her hair, ordering pastries, sitting for a sketch. But otherwise, Hilary -- so loathe to lose control except in rather narrow circumstances -- does not seem to want to direct the course of the evening much at all.

"The avant-garde is usually awful," Ivan replies, offhand and undaunted. "One imagines for every Picasso there were a million failures."

The menu -- that renowned menu for which epicureans travel around the world -- gets barely a glance before he nods. "Agreed." He takes her menu, stacks it with his; places the wine list atop and sits back. "No decisions tonight."

Hilary smiles at him. They'll have the prix fixe, then, and whatever their server recommends to drink. She doesn't take her eyes off of him.

"Why do you like it?" she asks, circling back. "The avant-garde. The abstract garbage you bought tonight. The...'ultramodern'. Are you looking for the Picassos?"

"I wish I could say yes," he admits, "but for the most part, I'm afraid I simply like new things. New cars, new houses, new places, new people. New experiences. Even when they disappoint, the newness is satisfying."

That little stack of menus: the worldwide signal that a table is ready. Soon enough their waiter arrives and their conversation pauses briefly while Ivan orders: the prix fixe, the sommelier's preferred pairings, and privacy. No need to shower attention on their special guests. For tonight, and perhaps for the duration of this trip, Ivan is learning the pleasure of being quiet, being anonymous, being left to oneself.

Their server departs again. Ivan turns his attention back to his lover.

"And then there's you." His mouth quirks. "The still point of my turning world."

New things. Cars, houses, places, people. All of it. She tips her head as he lists them. She's never realized that about him. She wouldn't, of course. It makes her reflect: that he is with her. That she is not new or novel, and has not been for some time. That she lives in a very old house, and she reads very old books, and practices very old arts: cooking, ballet. She even gave their son old names, ancient-sounding or belonging to dead relatives.

"And then there's me," she says to him, after he says satisfying, right as they are interrupted.

She keeps her eyes on him, thoughtful, as he speaks to their server. She remembers, fleetingly and a bit out of nowhere, the night she saw him at a club. The doors opened and there was a shuffle and then an all-too-loud announcement that a round had been bought for the entire club, courtesy of IVAAAAAN PREEEEEEEESSSSSS!

It was the night they made plans for a tryst. It was the first time they kissed.

Neither of them ever thought it would lead to this.

--

The server leaves. Ivan turns to look at her. And then there's you, he says, as though in agreement. He calls her a still point and her eyes narrow slightly. Her brows tug together. She tips her head to one side.

Of course he catches that tug of her brows. He's looking right at her, and besides: she's the center of his world. And besides, again: the crinkle of her brow, exquisite. Poems have been written about less.

That is neither here nor there. He shifts, turning to face her more squarely.

"What is it?"

"I don't know what you mean," she tells him. Her head moves a little, side to side. "But I don't like the way it sounds."

Ivan laughs, but there's no edge to it. This was once a rarity. These days, with her, it's becoming more commonplace. He is gentle with her. He likes her, after all.

"It's only a quote," he says, "and a poorly remembered one from my schoolboy days at that." His hand is still holding hers, and his thumb rubs across her knuckles again. " 'At the still point of the turning world, there the dance is, where past and future are gathered.' It means the axis on which the world turns. The center of the universe."

He smiles faintly, crookedly. "It's not a bad thing to be, I think."

He recites to her the origin of the quote, and her brow clears. She gives him a nods that means: she understands. She adds, perhaps to help him see what bothered her:

"I just don't want you to think of me as... something still, and old, and unmoving, while your world -- your life -- go spinning around, new and exciting."

There's a beat of a pause. "I'm not still," she tells him, but he knows that. She is changing all the time, now more than ever. But it isn't that. It's more:

"I did not like to think of being... something you move away from. Like one star from another."

His brow furrows too, brief and aching. He takes her hand in both of his, cradling it like something fragile and breakable, pressing it to his lips for a moment.

"You know you're not. Right? I could never move away from you."

Every other time they have had this conversation, or some version of it... she has withdrawn. She has told him not to lie to her. She's told him he will leave her. She's told him she will make him hate her. She has dismissed his promises with a wave of the hand, a scoff, a slap, a meltdown, a rage. She has dismissed them with tenderness, with fondness, with a sad resignation that ultimately, he is a faithless thing, and the truth of who and what he is will out. In every iteration, she has loved him anyway. Helplessly.

Tonight she has barely been out of contact with him. She has scarcely taken her eyes off of him. She's eaten strawberries from his hand and smirked at him as she sat for a charcoal sketch and rolled her eyes at his lack of artistic taste. He has kissed her body and she has kissed her mouth. And it has all felt genuine. It's all felt... good, to her. She likes him. She likes her life with him.

She likes that she has a life, with him.

Hilary's hand is not something fragile and breakable. She turns it gently in his palms after he kisses her, and squeezes his hand.

"I know," she murmurs softly, without caveat. "I am to you as you are to me."

Her head tilts, ever so gently, to the side. "I'm just so used to being afraid that I'll be left behind. But you won't leave me. Every time it's been close... you've never really left me."

She squeezes his hand again. Holds tightly.

That is all.

That is all.

There is little to say back. But he watches her, his eyes soft on her face. He adores her quite utterly, quite clearly. Anyone could see it. Perhaps even Hilary can see it. His hand squeezes hers in turn. They hold tightly.

"You are to me as I am to you," he echoes softly. And leans across, his hand shadowing the candlelight when it touches her face. His face shadowing hers when he kisses her.

--

Their meal is served. Course by course, the pace leisurely, allowing time to savor, to sip, to converse. It is, in all, an exquisite and delicate meal; tantalizing mouthfuls of fish and fowl with very little in the way of meat. The sommelier is excellent, each course perfectly paired. Only once does Ivan disagree, and that is with the caviar course. The sommelier suggests a dry white. Ivan, appalled, very nearly demands vodka. That is what is served in the end: ice cold in a chilled glass, with a zested lemon peel coiled at the bottom.

And so they meander through oyster and lobster, foie gras and pigeon. Toward the end, a cheese course that plays off the wine, and then several dessert courses all in a row. Over the course of the night Ivan has edged his chair ever closer until they are near enough to touch, near enough to lean gently into one another if they desire.

Ivan's final drink of the night is a chilled icewine, which he sips alongside a selection of cakes and biscuits. He has, over the courses, had enough to make himself lazy, tipsy, relaxed. He is leaning back. He is once again holding his lover's hand, his fingers playing idly with hers.

"We should come to Paris more often," he says. "You like it here. And I like being here with you."

She eats as lightly as she ever does, but this restaurant is not intending to overstuff its guests. The portions are arranged just so, and even then she only partakes of a few bites of each, savoring rather than devouring. She smirks at Ivan as he demands vodka for caviar, but does not disagree. She drinks what he drinks. She even toasts with him, quietly, in her halting Russian.

By the time they are eating desserts, Ivan is so close he could lean and rest his head on her bare shoulder if he wished. She is pleasantly drunk, though not so much to make her slouch or slur. Hilary never slouches. She has her hand on his armrest, fingers loosely tangled with his as she uses her off hand to bring a tiny bite of cake to her lips. Ivan is playing with her hand. She is smirking, even as her lips close around her fork.

She doesn't answer, not verbally. She has her mouth full, after all.

She moves his hand, however, from armrest to the space between their chairs, between their thighs, very nearly touching.

Ivan is perhaps a little farther along on the spectrum between sober and drunk. Enough that when she moves his hand, he looks down unsubtly. He considers this new position a moment; she can almost see the gears turning in his head, slower than usual.

Eventually he raises his eyes back to her face. She is lovely in profile. She is always lovely, but especially lovely right now, the candlelight touching on her high cheekbones, her Silver Fang nose. He watches her as he turns his wrist, the backs of his fingers grazing her thigh.

Hilary pretends that she does not notice his hand. She removes hers from where it is gently tangled still in his fingers, drawing it back up to rest demurely on her lap.

She takes a sip of wine. Another bite of cake.

Set free, his hand lingers where it is for a moment.

Then Ivan shifts slowly, steadily in his seat. He moves a little closer. He reaches onto the tabletop and nudges the candle a little farther away, leaving them a little deeper in shadow.

He takes another sip of icewine, too. And pops a macaron into his mouth.

And, with one finger, lifts the hem of her dress just enough to slide his hand under. His palm is warm against her skin. His touch is firm, sure, as he reaches between her thigh. He leans back as he finds her, the heel of his hand flush against her lower abdomen, his wrist overlapping her leg.

The dining room is a comfortable temperature, though cool for someone like Hilary, wearing what she is. But even if the room were sweltering, the warmth of Ivan's hand would be shocking against her skin. He sees her eyes close; she could be enjoying that bite of cake, the delicate mousse between the thin layers.

But she is also parting her legs a bit.

She is also subtly readjusting the long white tablecloth over her lap just a bit more.

She could be finishing her dessert. She could be enjoying those last few bites of decadence.

He could be relaxing after a satisfying meal. He could be resting a bit to clear his head before asking for the check.

His eyes pass idly over the dim room. The little spots of light on other tables, each with its own anonymous group of diners. The paintings on the walls, mostly modern pieces that hint at the antiquated. He looks at her only occasionally, at least for those first few moments

while he's parting her lips. While he's rubbing his fingers over her cunt. His touch is delicate, cat-soft, idle. He teases her for a while, toying with her like he'd toyed with her hand. After a while, he seems to commit to it. He leans a little closer. He presses two fingers to her clit, rubbing in those wickedly certain little circles that leave no doubt whatsoever: he knows her, and he knows what she likes. He knows what will get her off.

"We have to keep conversing, you know," he murmurs. "Else the waiter will think we're done and show up with the check."

The lace he put her in tonight is thin, so delicate that it takes no effort for someone of his nimble fingers to slip around it, stroke her the way he does.

She sighs. Her eyes drift open, then closed again. He speaks to her and she rolls her eyes a bit, glancing at him. Her eyes are open, but barely; hooded and dark, she asks him: "What would you have me talk about?"

"I don't care," Ivan replies: lounging, lazy, flicking a glittering glance her way. "I just want to hear you gasp while you do it."

His hand withdraws for a moment, but only to approach from a different angle. Slipping down the front of her panties now, pressing that fragile scrap of silk aside; finding what he's looking for as unerringly as ever. His fingertips are wet. It's her own wetness that slickens his touch.

"But I can't think of anything," Hilary protests, opening her legs that much more for his hand, briefly biting her lip as he rubs his wet fingers over her clit. "We'll have to... order more drinks."

Beneath the tablecloth, under her skirt, she presses herself into his hand.

He's watching her now. It's that brief bite of her lip draws his eyes, and on her mouth his gaze still lingers. But he's still lounging where he is, satisfied, replete, hungry all over again for something else entirely.

And touching her. Fucking her with his hand, slowly and assuredly, slip-sliding his fingers along her cunt only to return unerringly to her clit again.

"And what sort of drink would you like?" he presses, gentle, imperative.

A shudder goes through her, as soft as silk rippling over her skin. She is holding herself as still as she can otherwise, resisting the urge to grind against his fingers, encourage the play of his hand, fuck him back the way she does on those rare occasions he's convinced her to ride him.

"Vodka," she says, her breath right on the edge of panting.

His eyes flash. He smirks.

"Well well, mademoiselle," and he leans a little closer, leans across the space between them to deposit a soft, chaste kiss on her shoulder, "that's not very civilized."

Then he sits back. With his free hand -- while his hidden hand continues its work -- he gestures toward a passing server.

She doesn't even attempt to answer. She shifts a bit in her seat, reveling in the caress of his wet fingers against wet lips, forcing the tip of his finger to slide over her vulva, biting her lip again. She doesn't look very much like the cool, polished queen she was when they walked in. She looks a bit more like the part of herself that bought this red dress, its flouncy skirt,

and less like the part of her that never wore it until tonight.

He doesn't punish her at once for fucking his hand like that. Tonight doesn't seem to be about that. He indulges her; responds to her, even, rubbing the flats of his fingers over her, pressing the palm of his hand to her.

And then going a little faster. Rubbing her quick and firm while, across the room, a waiter catches notice and walks over.

Who knows what the hapless server thinks, coming over to this table in the shadows. Perhaps he doesn't notice at all. Perhaps he thinks the lady has simply had a drink too many. Perhaps he does notice, but is too professional to mention a word. Regardless, Ivan lifts his chin as the waiter approaches, flashing an effortless smile.

His hand stills.

"Hello." Arrogant, obnoxious creature: he doesn't even attempt French. "The lady and I would like another drink. A double of vodka each. With lemon again, if you please." He glances over. "Or would you like green apple, darling?"

Without warning, he flicks her clit between his fingers. Presses it firmly beneath the heel of his hand; slides his fingers down, and around, and into her cunt.

Of course their server speaks English. Of course Ivan can blithely order whatever he likes, in whatever language, rather than translating through his companion. And he would need to, after all: Hilary is just far gone enough to be beyond speech. What focus she still has is relegated to keeping herself from writhing, from whimpering, from making it all too obvious what's going on at their dark little table.

But even then: the server comes over, and she presses her lips together and tries to keep very still, quiveringly still, even as Ivan's hand goes on moving. In truth it's almost a relief when he stops, because she can keep her eyes open, she can smile briefly and tightly at the waiter until he le--

Or until Ivan starts teasing her again, fast and relentless, enters her. She's looking up at the waiter, a somewhat helpless look in her eyes, sighing:

"Pomme, s'il te plait."

An inscrutable grin breaks across Ivan's face. Ear to fucking ear. It should make him look like a drunken loutish American, but what springs to their waiter's mind is sharp teeth, primal terror.

He says, by way of unnecessary explanation: "She really loves apple."

The waiter retreats. Ivan settles back, licking his lips, sliding his fingers out of his lover's cunt to grasp her thigh, squeeze. It has to be on purpose, leaving her wetness on her skin like that. Perhaps he likes the smell of it, animal that he is.

"I want you to lean over and kiss me when you come." He glances at her: carnivorous, adoring. "Understand?"

When the waiter is gone, Hilary closes her eyes again. She settles in her chair again. And Ivan stops fucking her. Squeezes her thigh like some amateur. Her eyes are open again now, searing, and he tells her he wants to kiss her when she comes.

Without a word, and without taking her eyes off of him, Hilary reaches down, takes hold of his wrist, and presses his hand against her cunt again.

"Then make me come," she whispers.

He likes it when she pushes back like that. He likes the burn in her eyes. He likes the bite on her tongue. His eyes drift to her mouth, her throat. A slow blink that's very nearly a closing of the eyes, and then he looks at her again.

Watches her while he touches her. Slow and soft at first; quickening, finding that certain, driving rhythm.

They have fucked in public before. A version of public. A curated selection of the public. A fully masked, elite, narrow slice of the public. And they were far more brazen then, Hilary naked and on all fours, Ivan coming inside of her before sharing her with a number of his guests. This is different; they are not on display. They are, in fact, doing everything they can to keep their secret. Hilary is, at least.

And he has pleasured her before. It is usually because he's forcing her to take it: his hand on her, his fingers inside of her, his tongue lapping at her. It's usually something torturous, very nearly a way he punishes her for this or that imagined, invented transgression. Still, it's a rare thing, to see Hilary's pleasure isolated like this, and for her to be tolerating it.

More than tolerating it; she's losing herself to it. She leans against the table even as Ivan is leaning back, struggles to retain her composure even as she -- quite obviously -- longs to lose it. One of her hands is still on his wrist, on the back of his hand, and quite shockingly, she occasionally exerts pressure. Here. There. Faster. Once, she even slows him down, pulls him back. But she's never done that before: shown him, shamelessly and almost happily, what she wants from moment to moment.

Some part of her expects him to swat her down, to tell her no, to well and truly punish her for expressing what she wants. Some part of her that has always been there, that was given the wrong messages too early and too often. But perhaps because of what happened on the train, and perhaps because of their wonderful stroll, or their conversation before and during dinner, that part of her is quieter now. Trusts more. Is less afraid.

So Hilary gets what she wants, and makes the smallest sound when she's very close indeed, rubbing as surreptitiously as she can against his hand, doing everything she can not to cry out, weep, moan, melt. Her panties are damp. Ivan's hand is slick. And she's going to come very soon. He can tell because she is covering her face with her hand, a woman overwhelmed.

None of this -- nothing they have done tonight, today, this entire trip thus far -- is about exhibitionism. It is about the opposite. It is about disappearing in plain view. It is about navigating their own privilege; finding a way to become invisible, even when they are the heirs of the earth, the favored children of a mad god.

So of course he does not put her on flagrant display. Of course, even when he teased her so terribly while that waiter waited on them, he does not truly allow her to be discovered, seen, exposed. Of course,

when she covers her face like that,

when she shudders like that and breathes like that,

he leans into her. He touches her face with his free hand, roughly, gently, heavily. The very act of it is shield and shelter -- hiding her face behind his larger hand, her body behind the bend of his arm and the turn of his shoulder. He brings her mouth to his in a sort of blind rush. He kisses her the way he looked at her, which is to say: adoringly; ravenously.

That's how he makes her come. Adoringly. Ravenously. Kissing her mouth, drinking her ecstasy as though it were his own.

That's the thing of it, though: when he put her on display, when he opened her legs up for others, it was for her. It was what she wanted. It was what she asked for. It was something she wanted to enjoy, and she enjoyed it, and... they've never needed to return to it. Nor have they needed to pick over it again and again and again and again. He did not hate her for it; she did not regret it. In their twisted way, it only bound them more closely together.

And so much of this, tonight, has also been for her. What she wants now, which is -- strangely enough -- something softer. Something you might even call fun. Something you could call playful. But also: private. Secret. Theirs and no one else's, because that is something she always wants.

She and Ivan. Sometimes their son, too. She knows they are set apart, different,

special.

She likes that.

And she likes the way he covers her with his hand when he gets her off, when she crests and peaks and hides another soft sound in his mouth, gasping lightly into the kiss. She clutches at the tablecloth over her lap, clutches at his sleeve, and when she can't bear it anymore, she bends her head and rests against the crook of his shoulder and his neck, as if she were weeping.

A few people in the dining room think she is weeping. They are offended by the too-drunk woman.

But no: she is laughing now, against his jacket, breathlessly, as if he's just told her the funniest joke. She lifts her head and tilts it back and laughs, and laughs,

and this,

the French find it in their hearts to forgive.

He's never heard her laugh like this.

Then again, they've never wined and dined quite like this, surrounded but alone, elite but anonymous. They've never strolled the streets like this, traveled by train like this, had a day like this. They've never even fucked like this, and certainly Hilary has never, ever been comfortable just receiving like this. Ivan has never been quite so giving as this.

And he loves her for that laugh. He finds himself laughing with her, unable to articulate what exactly the humor is, except that it's not humor at all but joy. He kisses her neck as she flings her head back; he laughs against her collarbone, presses a series of small kisses to her skin, her neck, her jawline, her laughing, wondrous mouth.

They draw apart to see their server approaching with vodka. Even the waiters are first-class here, and this one is astute enough to take the long route, pretending at some other errand or task until he sees the amorous couple disentangle from each other. Then he swoops smoothly in, placing their chilled vodkas before them with a bow.

"Merci," says Ivan, proving that when he wants to he does now know a few words of French. Still smiling, a laugh still just under the surface, "Et l'addition, s'il vous plaît."

As the waiter departs, Ivan draws his hand back. He wipes his fingers under the table, only half-attempting secrecy. Eventually, finished, he folds his napkin loosely and tosses it on the tabletop.

Picking up his vodka with its beautiful coil of lemonpeel, he holds it out to Hilary. "Teach me to toast like a proper Frenchman," he invites.

Hilary doesn't really laugh. Not without an edge, without cruelty, without some element of falsity. There's something vulnerable in the way she laughs like this, and Hilary is so rarely vulnerable, especially around others. But she laughs. There's something of a collapse to it, the same collapse of orgasm, of almost weeping: all that tension folds in on itself, losing its structure in one delighted gasp after another.

She never laughs like this. Joyously.

And he kisses her while she comes down, tasting a faint sheen of sweat on her throat and tasting her laugh and her wine and her cake on her lips. She touches his face, smiling at him, her fingers delicate on his cheek. His hand is still between her legs, his other arm around her, her hands on his chest. They are, after all, lovers, entwined and quite clearly well into their cups.

Their server avoids them a bit, an other diners mostly ignore them, but they do have to disentangle. Hilary's eyes are black and bright, her skin aglow. She smiles up at the server, taking his attention while Ivan is surreptitiously wiping her slick off of his fingers underneath the table. Picks up her vodka with its paper-thin slice of green apple, reveling in the chill. Ivan asks for the check, and asks her to teach him something proper, and she smirks at him.

Then she turns a bit, facing him, settling in again.

"There are rules," she begins. "And if they are not followed, then you will be cursed with seven years of bad sex."

A dire warning, indeed.

"First," she continues, "you must look at the person you are toasting with in the eyes." Which she is doing, of course. "Then you must make sure everyone toasts before you drink. And you must never put your glass down between the toast and the first sip, or cross your glass, or forget anyone in the group.

"Then, if you are toasting me, you say à ta santé. To my health. Or just santé, if you're being lazy."

He pays quite close attention, though it must be admitted there's a hint of a smirk as he listens. She warns him: rules, seven years, bad sex. That last makes him laugh aloud. His eyes do not leave hers. His glass remains aloft as he listens.

"Santé," Ivan says, naturally: he has never pretended to be diligent. Yet he withholds the toast itself for a moment, his hand wrapped around his shotglass.

"And if I wish to toast to joy instead?"

"That isn't how it's done," Hilary says simply, and chidingly, before adding: "à la tienne."

She taps her glass against the very rim of his, whether he's withholding or not, and drinks. She only sips the vodka, because she's not a heathen, even if she did just get fucked under the tablecloth. "You asked how to toast like a proper Frenchman. Not how to toast like an improper tourist."

Ivan chuckles under his breath. He does not withhold. He clinks his glass against hers, lightly, then throws it back. He is a heathen. He's a beast under those fine clothes; she knows that.

"It's only," he says, exhaling evenly through that soft icy vodka burn, "that I've never seen you laugh like that." He smiles, "It was quite something."

She side-eyes him, still savoring her first sip. "Don't read too much into it," she cautions. Or warns, perhaps.

"All I read into it," he replies, setting that still-frosty glass down, "was that you were happy. And that makes me very happy."

It's clear that she's still uncomfortable with him reading even that much into it: wanting to comment on it, even if that is as far as the discussion goes. She's always been so; loathe to acknowledge a moment of vulnerability, even happy vulnerability, once it has passed. Perhaps even she doesn't know why.

But in any case, she doesn't answer. She looks away, scanning their room of the restaurant, sipping her vodka as she observes the art on the walls, the flickering shadows cast by the candles. Presently, their server returns, leaving them with a slender folio containing their check.

Which Hilary picks up and casually opens, reaching for her clutch.

He lets it go. He knows enough to do that, at least: doesn't remark on it further.

When she picks up the check, he covers her hand with his. "Darling," he says, "please. Allow me."

Hilary all but swats his hand with the folio itself. She ignores him for the moment, withdrawing a gleaming silver credit card -- some ultra-elite invitation-only card, to be sure -- and resting it alongside the check before closing the folio and setting it at the edge of the table.

"I have money," she tells Ivan then, tartly, as she leans back. "And I never get to do anything with it but go shopping."

She is looking at him as she says this, and daring him to argue with her, but at the same time she's letting her hand fall between their chairs, just like she did earlier.

[EMPAFEE: WAT DAT HAND FOR? 7 1 10 6 1]

[Awww. Even though she doesn't like him noticing that she laughed happily and is currently being all defensive about spending her money on dinner, she just wants to hold hands. :] That's all.]

Ivan makes a wordless gesture -- a laconic turn of his palm upward, an unspoken all yours.

That hand slips between their chairs a moment later. He takes her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

She wins, but she didn't really expect him to fight her too much on that. She might have screamed. She does look a bit pleased with herself, a bit... proud of herself, in a way, as she settles in her chair, picking up her vodka and sipping at it again.

Down in the shadows were recently he was invited to pleasure her, their hands touch. Their fingers tangle. She holds his, warm and close.

"Ivan," she says after a moment. She isn't looking at him. She's looking at the shadows again, at the candleflames. "I love you very much.

"I'm not good at loving you. But I love you. So much."

He doesn't know that these are the exact words she spoke to Anton earlier today, on the train, as the boy woke from his nap. He wasn't there. But they are equally true, nonetheless.

His name is spoken, and he attends. He looks at her -- is looking right at her when she tells him she loves him, very much. It is enough to startle him. She doesn't often say such things, and even more rarely away from the privacy of their bedchamber. He is momentarily disarmed, eyes wide; there is almost innocence there.

And then, something rather like heartache. Certainly, tenderness. He touches her face with his other hand, the way he had when she was coming and he was trying to hold her, keep her together, hide her. He draws her closer and they share a kiss, there in the small space between their chairs.

"I know you love me," he whispers, and this sounds not like arrogance but reassurance. "I know you do, Hilary."

It's an echo of earlier, in a way: his assurance that he cannot go away from her, he won't. Her quiet assent, her testimony of belief.

The look on his face when she tells him she loves him; that is why she keeps her eyes away. That is why she watches the candles instead of him. That is what makes it too real, too vulnerable, to be saying this out loud, when he hasn't broken her open upon the rocks. So she sips her vodka and she tells him in English what she told their cub in French, and she does not see the surprise in his eyes.

But he touches her face, and so she turns to look at him then. She is guarded, as she so often is. She is careful. She is walking uncertain on the tightrope between openness and defensiveness, and it makes her nerves jangle. He just wants to kiss her, and this she can take. She does, after taking a breath. She kisses him back, and perhaps it's the wine and the vodka and the fine meal and the delicious orgasm, but she manages to sink into it, softening as their lips touch.

They draw apart, but only just. He whispers what he does to her. And she smiles at him, a small thing, as tender and aching as an animal shaking in its burrow in winter. She gives him another kiss, small and soft, then slips away from him. Their server is returning to subtly rest the folio within easy reach of the red-dressed woman.

"Go wash up," she tells him, as she pulls it over to scribble in a tip and so forth. "Then take me somewhere."

It's precisely that uneasy balance between openness and defensiveness, vulnerability and guardedness, that makes him feel so tenderly toward her. Makes him want to carve her a place in his heart, sheltered forever from the world. Yet here is an odd and miraculous little thing: he does not think she needs that shelter anymore. Not always. Not the way she used to.

They share that secret little pair of kisses. And as she wraps up their check, he stands, returning her smile. "I'll be back," he promises.

--

And he is. A few moments after he departs, a bit longer than one might need for a quick trip to the restrooms, he returns. He does not sit again. He takes her hand, lifting her from her seat, leading her out of those dark, elegant rooms. At the coat check, she retrieves her outerwear. He holds it for her though there are certainly attendants ready and willing. His hand finds hers again as they step out onto the street. Cabs are queuing for departing guests, and it doesn't take them long to settle in one. Ivan shows the driver an address on his phone, then leans back.

They rest together in comfortable silence, veins abuzz with their latest and last drink, hands linked. The cab crosses the river, rumbling across the stones of some centuries-old, oft-renovated bridge. Hilary might know which one. Ivan has lost track. They drive a while, but not very far; eventually, the cab pulls over. Ivan pays, steps out, extends a hand to Hilary.

They are not in front of a new hotel. They are not in front of a club, or a lounge, or anything of the sort. They seem to be in front of a museum -- there are so many here -- but then Ivan, after a glance for traffic, crosses the road.

There are steps cut into the stone retaining wall of the river. There is a small dock down below, and tethered there is a small yacht. It is not the sort of thing Ivan favors, some sleek beast of fiberglass and horsepower. It is a subtler creature, a twenty-footer carved from rare woods, with a mast and sail. A hired helmsman waiting for them, staying warm in a knit cap and thick sweater.

"There's a little town called Les Andelys not far down the river," Ivan says. "We could sail there tonight, spend some time there. When you want to come back, it's only an hour and a half by car."

They are at the water's edge. And Hilary, in her warm shrug and her pretty dress, stands with him and looks down at the small yacht he's procured. Procured, presumably, after washing up while worked out the tip.

She takes a breath, looking down, and huffs a little laugh as she turns to look at Ivan.

"Let's stay the night there. Come back in the morning," she tells him, smiling.

She's pleased. She likes the idea. He can see that, and the knowledge glows in the center of his chest like an ember. He reaches out for her hand, takes it. He's held her hand more often than not tonight.

"Let's," he agrees, and smiles back.