Ivan Press

Ivan

Miles out from the Gare de Lyon the train begins to slow. At full pace the TGV runs north of three hundred kilometers an hour. It takes time to shed that sort of speed. Coming into central Paris, they pass buildings old and new; echoes of the millennia-long history of the city and all its ages, golden and iron. As the train pulls into the station, they can see the teeming crowds: travelers coming and going from every corner of Europe.

On the train, they were isolated in their luxury. The platforms are egalitarian though. Once the doors open, they are amongst the masses, though never quite a part of them. Their retinue alone sets them apart: nearly a dozen people flanking them, minding their schedule and their luggage, their bookings, their transportation. Striding through the crowd, Ivan never even looks at them. It's their job to keep up.

He pays mind only to his lover and his son. The latter isn't even always the case, but it is today. He carries the boy in one arm, holds Hilary's hand with the other. They pass reunions, goodbyes, families struggling with strollers, elderly ladies in a tour group. This is an old railway station, though not the oldest. Turn-of-the-century chic is still reflected in its architecture, its fixtures, the large clocks that command the platform. The escalators are modern, though, and ferry them down toward the exit plaza.

There are drivers waiting for them. A limousine for the Silver Fangs; an SUV for their attendants. They follow the flow of the Seine -- past Notre Dame, past le Louvre. A turn at the bend of the Seine, and then they pull to a stop in front of an unassuming midrise building on the riverfront. There are younger, hipper, flashier hotels in Paris; there are even hotels that are more exclusive, more luxurious, steeped in deeper history. Yet for whatever reason this is the one Ivan decided on: something small and private, tucked between a bank and a --

ah. A bookstore. A bank and a bookstore, and then this little hotel with a view over the Seine; the grounds of le Louvre to one side, la tour Eiffel in the distance to the other. There are little windowboxes spilling flowers from the sides of the building, little doors opening onto little balconies. A tiny cafe wedged in beside the lobby.

It is a very small hotel, with limited rooms. Between the two of them and their retinue, they occupy over half the hotel. They take the penthouse floor, because of course they do, and as soon as they're in their suite Ivan is throwing open windows and doors, because of course he is.

It is only afternoon outside. The sun scatters off the river. They are close enough to the ground that they can hear the city, its people. The streets below are cobblestoned. It smells like coffee.

"We should walk to dinner," he proposes. "Find some little place on a corner."

Forty-five minutes. Soon. Hilary just nods, and reaches across to the empty seats they're facing. She picks up Anton's blanket, the one he was curled up beneath as he napped. She rolls it up into a makeshift pillow, even though she of course has other options, and wordlessly reclines her seat. She doesn't tell Ivan that she's going to nap. She doesn't get up and walk farther away from the servants and their area. She just... reclines, a decision which might be partially influenced by the multiple glasses of white wine she's been sipping.

She doesn't awake when the train slows, but when the sounds of the city and the eventual stop of the train stirs her. The servants have everything together, and Anton is asking a hundred questions about where they are and is this where they are now and what are they going to do an can he have a snack. A few questions are answered before he is scooped up by his father. Anton is surprised, but he is carried so rarely now, and he is attended to by this captivating stranger so infrequently, that he doesn't wriggle or yell. He looks around, from his higher-up perch in Ivan's arms.

Hilary is quiet when she wakes, preferring not to be bothered, which Ivan well knows by now. She holds his hand and carries her purse and the three of them disembark the train together, their retinue flocking behind them. Anton babbles about everything he sees, his eyes wide. He's old enough to react strongly to his surroundings, to know the difference, to remember where he was versus this. And Paris is nothing like his day to day life, or even the vacation they took some time ago. He's never seen this many people. He's never seen so many buildings, heard so much noise, and he's awestruck, excited, hardly able to get an answer about what dat! before he's on to the next thing.

It is entirely possible that Ivan gives up and foists him onto Miron at some point during their walk to the cars. If he does, Hilary doesn't get upset. Nor does she express surprise if, this time, Ivan behaves as a father might to their son.

In due time they arrive at the hotel they are taking up so much space in. Hilary is with Anton this time, holding his hand as they walk inside. He's got his hair combed and is dressed smartly, and plenty of people coo and dote on him because he's an adorable little boy with fashionable and beautiful parents. The interior of the hotel is quiet though, and there's a small fountain that Anton runs over to, because it reminds him of the one in his courtyard at home.

Hilary stands in the lobby as they're being checked in, looking around. She saw the bookstore. She can hear the river. When Ivan takes her up to their suite, she gives him a small smile, but says nothing.

Their luggage has already been delivered to their rooms. Anton has his own room where Miron stays with him, just a step below in finery from the one his parents occupy. He is, after all, a little prince of their tribe. He should expect the very best. He should be used to it.

In the penthouse suite, however, Hilary sets her bag down. Ivan goes around opening windows, which she's come to expect. He likes the air. She realizes that is something they have in common: she likes to leave the windows and doors of her cottage open, smelling the sea air and the woods all around her, feeing the breeze even when it grows chilly.

Ivan is looking out the windows; Hilary is going to a mirror, freshening up a bit, ruffling her fingers through her hair. "Just the two of us?" she says, and from her neutral tone it's impossible to tell if she's dismayed or hopeful.

Remarkably, Ivan carries Anton all the way to the car. He even answers some of those shouted questions -- a clock, a train, a blind man -- the last of which prompts Miron to lean in: don't stare, Anton, it's not polite. To which his incorrigible father immediately replies, it's not as though he'd know; he's blind.

At the car, however, they part. Anton goes with the help. Ivan and Hilary ride, once again, in luxurious solitude. At the hotel, Dmitri check them all in while Hilary looks around. The lobby is small, but high-ceilinged and full of light. A small fountain adds the soothing sound of water. Anton wants to explore it. Ivan, curious about his curiosity, follows him.

Soon enough they part again. Anton is swept off to his own prestigious room. Though no one explicitly discussed it, it's a room that does not lie directly beneath his parents'. It's a room that isn't even remotely within earshot.

And so they are alone upstairs, their luggage already delivered, a cart of refreshments already waiting in the corner. While Hilary run fingers through her hair, Ivan snags bottled water off ice; a tiny pastry full of delectable lightness. He eats it in one bite, looking out the window. When his lover speaks, he attends, turning to look at her over his shoulder. He is framed in her mirror, and framed in the open window, lithe and lean and indelibly golden.

"Just the two of us," he confirms, and returns to her. His longfingered hands circle her hips. He kisses her temple, his eyes on their reflection. "That is acceptable, yes?"

Everyone at the train station,

every person in the lobby,

anyone with eyes to see at all,

knows that Anton is Ivan's son. They look startlingly similar: the same pale hair, the same long limbs. Their features grow more alike every day, as Anton loses baby fat and the true shape of his face shines through. Certainly he looks like Hilary as well, with those pearl-black eyes and perhaps his grin, but the ways he takes after his mother are more in manner than appearance, and it is not what strangers notice.

Strangers see Ivan following Anton to the fountain and know, with the primitive gut awareness of animals, that they are sire and offspring. Something in them, too, turns over: they should not get near that boy. Not if that is his father.

--

With the mirror, Hilary can see him coming up behind her. She watches him, her fingers stilling on her hair, then drifting downward after a moment's pause. She watches him through the glass, rather than turning her head, as he touches her body, kisses her temple, murmurs to her.

She smirks.

"People who drag their children to restaurants are criminals everywhere, but especially in Paris." This does not sound like she is reflecting some Parisian sensibility to him; this is her opinion. How dare they.

"What else would you like to do while we're here?" she asks. "When was the last time you came here?"

She assumes he has. She assumes he does very different things, when he's here alone, than when he brings his... family.

That is what they are, after all.

Ivan laughs, sudden and loud, the laugh of someone who's never had to hold his tongue in his life. His arms encircle her; he catches those descending hands, and then -- graceful as dancing -- he turns her around to face him.

"We agree on that, devushka."

He still has her hands in his. Both in one, now, the tips of his fingers snagging hers. He raises his other hand to her hair, runs his fingers through the way she had, but heavier. If she didn't know better she might think he's trying to get her hair into those natural waves. But she does know better, which is to say: she knows he's trying to do exactly that.

He pauses a second. No one could blame her for her assumptions, but it turns out he's wrong. A quirk of a smile, "The last time I was here, I was with you." By way of explanation, "If I leave the country, I go to New York, London, Barcelona. Two weeks ago I was in Odessa. But Paris -- I wait for you."

She looks annoyed. Of course she looks annoyed. He takes her hands and twirls her to face him and she's effortless in her grace, sighing in her perturbation, prim in the way she looks at him, her hair swinging along one shoulder.

And he holds both of her hands in one. It is not the same as the way he holds her down, not by a mile, but there is enough of an intimation there, a hint, a whiff, that it makes her a touch more pliant. She watches him as he strokes her hair, pets her like a beloved animal, messing up her hair as though his fingers could undo a hot iron and hairspray so easily.

"Stop that," she tells him idly, but doesn't try to pull her hand free to swat at him.

He explains himself: for Paris, he waits for her. She imagines, without even needing to ask, that he is the same about Lausanne. With her and only with her.

"So," Hilary says quietly, "what do you want to do?"

Truth is sometimes he perturbs her just to see her perturbed. Perhaps it's the new moon in him. Perhaps, like in some ridiculous romance novel, he thinks she's beautiful when she's annoyed. Perhaps it's a shred of masochism: he rather loves it when she treats him with that casual disdain she doesn't really mean.

Anyway. She tells him to stop it. He finishes that stroke of her hair, and he does stop. His hands find hers again, and his mouth quirks.

"Hm," thoughtful. "I want to wander around the city with you. I want you to show me a place you liked when you lived here."

And perhaps it's a touch of the sadism and the dominance that rose so devastatingly to the surface after he met her: to be able to affect her moods so easily, to get under her skin, to matter to her when no one else does.

It is probably all of these things, at different times.

What he says gives her pause. She frowns a little, but not in distress; she is thinking. "I didn't like anything when I lived here."

That can't be true. He knows she likes cooking. He knows she likes dancing. But he also knows...

it's only recently that Hilary has really learned, really understood, how it feels to enjoy herself. To feel good. To like things, and places, and experiences, rather than simply moving through them and waiting for the next oblivious darkness brought to her by drugs, by degradation, by whatever else.

"I want to do new things," she tells him.

That faint little smile grows a little. He leans into her, a heavy animal press of brow to brow, body to body, mouth to mouth. He kisses her briefly but hotly, his hands running up past her wrists to her forearms, then back.

Drawing away, "Okay. Let's go do new things."

She isn't expecting it. The heaviness of his body, or the kiss itself, or the lust that kiss is filled with. Hilary takes a half-step back, if only for balance, her back straightening. She barely kisses him back, though it doesn't seem to be rooted in displeasure.

He draws away. She watches him, unmoving, then asks:

"What was that for?"

What was that for? He's almost taken aback. So rarely does anyone challenge him to look at his actions and explain them.

"I suppose I like it when you tell me what you want. When you express your preferences, and when you ... seem to discover something you like."

And so rarely does Hilary herself question the things he does, especially when it comes to how he is with her: how he touches her, how he wants her. He speaks, or he acts, and she submits, or she resists. That is so often the way. She never goes out of her way to understand. She never asks.

Today, which is the day she decided that her son does not know that she loves him, and that she doesn't like that, and that she has to change it somehow,

is the day she asks Ivan why he kissed her just now.

--

"Why?" she asks. But that isn't all: "I know... you are happy. About the way I've been changing."

Ah. So she does know.

"But it made you kiss me like you wanted me."

Now his brow furrows a little, though he isn't troubled. Just thoughtful; reflective. "I always want you," he says, which is the easy answer.

A moment later, something dredged from somewhere a little deeper: "I am happy." It's an admission of sorts; an acknowledgment of a truth he wasn't sure she knew, and a truth he hasn't dared to speak. "I'm happy that you're taking agency in your own life. I'm happy you're exploring the world and what you like in it.

"I can't say why it made me want you more a moment ago. I don't really know. Except perhaps when I hear you tell me what you want, I know you choose things of your own volition. I know you choose me, deliberately and proactively. It's ... nice to know that."

There have been times in their relationship -- and there really is not, and has not been for some time, any way of avoiding acknowledging that it is a relationship -- when they have discussed their feelings. And most of those times, the ground has opened up beneath them, yawning and hungry, filled with terror, always threatening a devastating fall.

Sometimes they can manage. If he breaks her first. If she pushes him to the very brink. If they hurt each other, or if they are very quiet and whisper all their words: then they can talk like this. How they feel. What they like.

Today, though, the sun is shining, beams of light bouncing off the river. The sky is a clear blue, filled with the sort of puffy little clouds one might imagine cherubs riding around on. They rode on a train and neither one of them is naked.

Both of them are frowning, just a little, with the difficulty of speaking these things.

Yet neither shakes from discomfort, either.

And Hilary, always the more volatile of the two, isn't pulling away from him in disgust. That matters, too.

--

He always wants her. She doesn't argue that; she is aware. She doesn't roll her eyes, though, or push him away for saying it. She knows there is more.

He is happy. And not just right now, this moment, today, because they're in Paris and they took a train and she's beautiful and he adores her. He is happy... in general. He is happy about how she is changing. What she's doing. Who she is becoming.

And he likes knowing that she chooses him.

This is not the first time Ivan has said something like this: that he likes to know that she wants him, that it isn't just convenience or habit or accident or base needs or whatever else. But it may be the first time that Hilary doesn't stiffarm him away from her for admitting it. It may be, at least, one of the first times she doesn't make him regret being momentarily vulnerable like this.

In truth, it's amazing Ivan tells her what he does. She hasn't really earned it.

--

Her brow stays wrinkled. She watches him for a few seconds, even after he is no longer speaking, and then she just nods. "I don't think it has been always so," she says quietly, which is a painful truth, but truth nonetheless. "But... I do choose you." She takes a breath. "I actually like you a great deal. I think... you love me. And you want me. But..."

She's struggling, now, for the words. Reaching for something she doesn't quite understand and is almost entirely certain she's going to get wrong, and he's going to make her regret ever saying it, he's going to laugh at her, he's going to think she's insane.

Or perhaps not.

"...you're my friend, too, aren't you?" She is staring at him, hawklike again, her gaze hard and unrelenting, her posture so easy in its grace that it would be difficult to tell how tense she is if he were not holding her hands.

There's a thought neither of them have ever had before. Ivan could come up with an easy dozen words for what they are to one another, but 'friends' would likely not have been amongst them. To hear it now changes his face. The furrow between his eyebrows remains, but his mouth quirks again, quizzical and -- tender. Perhaps that's tenderness.

"I suppose I am. I've never thought of it that way." He pauses a moment. "It's strange to think of it that way. It wasn't always like this, was it? It was ... harder, before."

She has no friends. One can easily look at her and understand that she has never had friends. Maybe there have been people who tried to reach her, to help her, to get close to her, but none that she allowed. Almost no one that she has ever trusted with more than servitude.

He can feel her tense up when he says it's strange, because she is so fragile, so ready to be rejected. So when he says it wasn't always like this, when he mentions that 'it' used to be harder somehow, all she can do is hesitate, in silence.

And then, after a moment, she gives a small nod.

He feels that, of course. Her tension, her fragility. Like blown glass stretched too thin, cooling too fast. He thinks he'd feel it even if he weren't holding her hands. Even if he weren't touching her. Sometimes he thinks he'd feel her moods, the quality of her silences, even if he were across a room. In the dark. Even if he'd never touched her at all.

He is touching her, though. And he shifts his hold on her again, taking her hands in his, raising the other to her face. Touching her cheek, cupping it, wrapping his hand behind her head to give her some semblance of stability.

"I wanted you from the moment I saw you," he says, softly. "I loved you not so very long after. Quite desperately. But I think it took time for me to like you."

Pause; a silent wince, more felt than seen.

"I hope that doesn't hurt you. I hope you know it makes me happy, that we like each other. That we've become ... good for each other. Because we have, haven't we?"

That grip on her hands calms her, as it did before. The nuance is slight, but there's a slight lessening of her tension, a softening. It has been that way for a long time between them: he holds her in place. He keeps the pieces, however broken, from flying apart.

What he says does not hurt her. Or if it does, it is nothing compared to her relief. She exhales. It doesn't seem necessary to tell him what it was like for her: to be bored and lifeless and wanting distraction more than any particular person, to be excited by him and needful of what he gave her in their time together, to feel that need turn horrifyingly into something she didn't understand and deeply feared,

or all the other shapes her feelings for him have taken. To wind down that road all the way to here, to now, where they both know that she does love him, even if she is very bad at loving anyone,

to where they are discovering that they sort of like each other. Now, at long last, when most of the time, they simply haven't.

Hilary doesn't excoriate herself to get those words out. She lets his words stand for both of them. She doesn't reassure him that she isn't hurt, but the mere fact of her quietude and her continued presence does communicate (in a way) that she's all right. She's still here with him.

He asks her in the end a question, which is more of a statement. And Hilary, because she can barely say she likes him, or loves her son, or enjoys Paris, or wants to make new memories with him, can only

shrug.

Sure. Why not?

She is not hurt. It is a marvel that he even thinks her capable of hurt: once upon a time, he wasn't sure. He hurt her many times, in fact, because he didn't think it was possible.

None of this is quite water under the bridge. They are Silver Fangs; their memory is long. Yet in some strange way, all the rubble they have risen through has become a strange sort of foundation. What they are now rests on what they were, and how they got here.

She just shrugs. And he laces his fingers with hers, leaning down to kiss her again. This one is softer.

"Come on," he murmurs. "Paris awaits."

Again, she lets him kiss her, but it's gentler this time. Her lips do move beneath his; she gives him a soft peck in return.

"I want to wash," she says, turning back to the mirror and removing one of her bangles. "All those hours in that train."

She tips her head; removes one earring. "You should pick something for me to wear."

It speaks to their ease in their skins, and to their familiarity, and to their frank sensuality, that she turns back to the mirror while he stands so close. She begins to remove her jewelry. He trails knuckles up her spine, thoughtlessly.

And smirks at her over her shoulder and through the mirror. "Really? The last time I picked something out for you, it wasn't exactly suited for the streets."

She feels him, through cashmere and silk. She doesn't react; doesn't let herself.

He smirks; she quirks a brow back at him, briefly. "It was appropriate for the occasion."

That hits him somewhere low and deep. She can see it, a subtle hooding of the eyes, the way his teeth scrape his lip.

"Well," he replies lightly, "I'll just have to find something else equally appropriate for this occasion."

He doesn't escalate; doesn't let himself. He steps away from her, his hand leaving her back before he himself leaves the en-suite bathroom. They have their own bags, though it's doubtful either of them did much packing. He finds one of her bags and lifts it onto a luggage rack, unzipping and unsnapping. He doesn't dwell long; it's mostly a matter of impulse and interest.

While she washes, he returns to the living room to graze at the refreshments. He pours himself some sparkling juice; eats some stylish little hors d'oeuvres. He considers smoking a cigarette from one of those tiny balconies if only because it would be so fucking Parisian but decides against it. He calls downstairs to let his people know Anton was on his own for dinner, and then -- perversely and totally without irony -- congratulates himself silently on his sense of responsibility.

Eventually, he decides to wash as well. He uses the second bathroom and he is quick about it.

--

When Hilary emerges, he's already ready; standing before a window dapper and lean in shirt and light grey slacks, a summerweight blazer in a hue two parts grey and one part navy over his arm. His hair is still a little damp. He wears classic half-rim sunglasses. France has been good for him. Most days now he dresses like someone Hilary would want to associate with.

On the bed he's laid out something for her. It is not exactly something she might have chosen for herself: a dress, with a modest neckline but bare arms; a flouncy skirt that hits just above the knee. Playful, simple, feminine. Deeply and richly red.

Also, strappy sandals, wedge heel.

Also, a sleek little coat for the evening hours, the hem nearly as long as the dress.

Ivan looks over at his lover from his window. Strolling nearer, "I don't think I've seen you in red." He hands her a clutch. It doesn't match, but it does complement. "At least not recently."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," she says, rather drolly.

He may read a challenge in the cant of her lips, the tone of her voice, the flicker in her eyes through the mirror. He may not.

Hilary continues removing her jewelry at the vanity, even though there is no velvet-covered tray for them here. The door remains open as she undresses and puts up her hair; he catches glimpses of her through the angle of the door, the reflection of the mirror. Steam rolls out from that door when she takes a brief shower.

She doesn't rush herself; while he snacks, while he makes Responsible Decisions, while he goes through her luggage, she takes her sweet time getting ready. She rearranges her hair, sweeping it back and up and twisting it, pinning it, allowing only the smallest cascade of those thick curls, the ends of which only barely brush the nape of her neck. She touches up her makeup: thickening her eyeliner, darkening her shadow, reapplying mascara, lipstick. She puts her earrings on again, and the gold bangles, but not the pendant.

Then she comes out of the bathroom: jeweled, made up, and naked.

Hilary does not pack for herself. That is part of Darya's job. She recognizes the dress, though. She remembers buying it. She can't recall if she's ever worn it, though. She can't imagine the mood she was in, buying something with that girlish skirt. The heels, she knows well. The coat is meant for another outfit altogether.

Ivan speaks. She glances at him, raising a brow. He hands her a purse, which at least works well with the outfit. She does not say a word at first. She walks past him to the bed, setting the clutch down against the skirt of the dress. She tips her head to one side, considering, then plucks up the coat and carries it to her garment bag to put it away. She chooses something shorter, more of a shrug, to allow the skirt to move even if she needs to be warm. With a brief stare in Ivan's direction, she carries the new accessory back to the bed, lays it against the dress, then decides she's satisfied. The neckline of the outfit doesn't need a necklace. Her earrings and bracelets will do.

"And what am I to wear underneath?" she asks him, lightly.

He levels an unreadable stare,

only it's not. His stare is sheer lust, thinly disguised beneath civility. "What do you think?" he replies, just as lightly. "Do you see anything there?"

"No," she says breezily, waving a hand, "but I assumed you forgot. You can be very stupid that way."

Hilary turns to face him, putting one hand on her hip. "Go on. Go pick something. Bra and panties."

She's negotiating.

Suddenly Ivan grins. He realizes it too: she's negotiating. A game is afoot.

"I must have forgotten," he says; it is the sort of lie that is not meant to be believed. He returns to her luggage, picks through with deft fingers. In the end, predictably, he finds the most scandalous items he can find. Scraps of lace and silk, really. These, he lays out atop the bedspread.

Looks at her, eyebrow raised.

It turns out they have different things in mind for what she might be negotiating. Hilary doesn't alert Ivan to this fact. In her mind, he caves quickly and completely, bringing her both items, without even trying to fight her about it.

He, of course, thinks she's going to try and get him to bring her something demure and ladylike, but he's wrong. He brings out scraps of lingerie that barely count as fabric, and his only clue that Hilary is surprised he's caving is the slight lift of her eyebrows, there and gone in the moment before he turns to her.

She gives a small shrug, and steps closer to the bed. "Are you going to help me dress, or shall I call Darya?"

Ivan's fingertips still linger on one of those scraps of lingerie. The bra, specifically: the silken lining of the cup. As she moves closer, he turns his head. He keeps her in sight, always.

There is a moment's consideration. Shall she call Darya? He pictures it: the little maid with her ever-startled look; her fingers grazing Hilary's pale skin. The intimates, the sandals, the dress. He would want to watch. He might even have that cigarette. He blinks slowly, then lets the fantasy subside.

"I'll help you," he decides, offhand. He picks up the bra and Darya, poor Darya, may thank her stars that she'll never know just how close she came to becoming a pawn in her masters' little games.

None of what Ivan thinks in that moment reflects in his face. The fantasy, the details of it, the danger; Hilary can't see what he's thinking. She can tell he's thinking something tawdry by the way he looks at her, but then:

she came out of the bathroom naked.

He picks up the bra. Hilary, looking vaguely impatient but not quite on the verge of sighing her annoyance, raises her arms over her head, much as she would for fifth position.

She raises her arms.

He drops his eyes.

He looks at her for a moment, unabashed and open. Then he slips the straps of the bra over her hands, slides the article down her arms.

"If you keep this up," he sighs, all feigned exasperation, "we might not even make it downstairs."

Deftly, he clasps the bra behind her back. And then he reaches for her panties, kneeling to hold it for her.

For all the bras he's taken off of her, Ivan doesn't quite know how to properly put one on the way she does herself. And he's close enough, as he draws the straps down her arms to her shoulders, to see Hilary press her lips together in amusement, trying not to laugh. She can't even retort to him.

No matter; she lowers her arms, and he clasps it behind her back, and while he's getting her panties, she gets her bra a bit more securely in place, adjusting her breasts and the straps.

By that point, however, he's on one knee. And she is ignoring him.

Oh, he catches it. That press of her lips, the amusement that hides in the corners of her mouth. He shoots her a smirk

while she's ignoring him

while he's down on one knee. Somehow, it sounds about right.

"I don't exactly have practice," he points out in regards to the bra. "Come on now. Panties."

"I find that difficult to believe," Hilary tells him, glancing down. She just stands there, like she doesn't know how to use her own feet.

"You watch me," she adds. "When you're with me. You always watch me."

"It's true," he says. And since she's making no move to step into the panties, he rocks back to sit on his heel. "I've never helped dress anyone but myself. Why would I?"

He holds his hand out. "Give me your foot."

She can't quite help it; he says he's never helped dress anyone but himself, and her mind flashes to a memory of watching Miron help Anton get dressed. Anton holding onto Miron's shoulder while he steps into pants, sticking his arms up for his shirt, learning how to put on shoes.

The flash is gone, and she is looking down at Ivan.

But instead of refusing to give him her foot, making him grab it, lift her up, manipulate her like a doll,

she puts her hand on his shoulder, even though she doesn't need it for balance, and slips one foot into one hole of the panties he picked out for her. She steps into the other, then, her hands still resting on his shirt.

Sometimes Ivan seems so lean, so elegant, that one might be surprised to find him solid beneath his shirt, broad of shoulder and strong of bone. She feels that now, holding onto him for balance. Senses strength as well as dexterity in his body as he holds the panties for her to step into, then draws them up her legs.

Past her knees. Up her thighs. Secured in place low on her hips, the gusset against her cunt. He's looking at her in that way again, tawdry thoughts going through his mind. He's looking at her navel, the stretch of skin beneath it, the lace now adorning her.

It comes as little surprise when he leans forward; when he grasps her ass in his hands, kisses her a fraction of an inch above where her panties end. She holds onto him and he holds onto her, too, his hands drawing up to take her by the waist as he stands.

Then he steps away, picks up that dress. Lays it over his arm to smooth it before bunching it in his hands, drawing it into a ring to slip over her head.

The lace that makes up Hilary's lingerie is soft, breathlessly so. It would be of course; she would never wear something that scratched or itched at that perfect, pale skin. She would never wear anything less than the highest quality.

So the panties whisper up her thighs, settle snugly into place over her hips, and she's looking down at him, her hand lighter on his shoulder now. She's removing it when he grabs her. Pulls her against him, clutching at her body, kissing her skin.

A slow smirk unfurls across Hilary's lips, there and gone again before he withdraws. Rises. She lifts her chin to follow him, to keep his gaze, to

look at him.

She's always liked to look at him.

She's always thought he was beautiful.

The warmth of him leaves her palms as he steps away from her. She raises her arms again as he lowers her dress over her. For a moment she's amused again: that short hem, that frivolous skirt. She's reminded briefly that he is actually quite a lot younger than she is, that he's a playboy, that he's...

fun.

She is smiling at him when the dress falls around her, and then she turns her back on him, tipping her head forward. At least her hair is done up the way it is, and won't be in the way as he zips her up. Hilary doesn't sit, then; she stands, as before, for him to lift each foot and secure it into her heels. The ones he chose.

"Somewhere dark," she murmurs, perhaps out of nowhere. "With candles on the tables."

Fun.

That's what he wants right now. Tonight. On this spur-of-the-moment trip to Paris. And because he loves her, he wants her to have fun as well. He wants her to enjoy herself, and her time in a large city not so objectionable or gauche as the ones he usually seems to gravitate toward.

That's why they're living in this hotel, hidden away and private. That's why there's a bookstore next door and a cafe downstairs. That's why he picked out this playful little dress, and that's why he's strapping those sexy little sandals to her feet. One, then the other.

He missed that slow smirk. He catches the smile. And she catches a smile too, one he casts up at her as he finishes with her shoes.

"No view?"

"No view," she murmurs in response. "A dark corner. Surrounded but alone." Her fingers dust over his face, stroke his cheekbone and jaw. "Long tablecloths."

Instinctive as an animal, he turns his head; nips at her fingertips, half bite and half kiss. Her foot is upon his thigh; his hands are cradling her heel. He treats her with more care than he does anyone else in the whole entire world, and even when he sets her foot down he does it tenderly.

Rising, he offers his arm. "And the cuisine? French?"

The tip of her head, the swing of the curls behind her. She smirks at him. "Bête," she says fondly. "Obviously."

"Obviously," he repeats, three parts amusement to one part chagrin.