Ivan Press

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.