The reason we ended up at the movie theater was my idea. And a somewhat drunken one at that. Sergei was out with Doug for the afternoon and early evening, playing golf and doing whatever it was that two guys did when they hung out. I was home (at Sergei’s home) working on learning how to make a soufflé. I expected I’d have it ready by the time Sergei got home.

I didn’t expect that it would a) fall flat and b) taste terrible, both happening several hours before Sergei was due home. Frustrated, I tossed it in the garbage can and poured myself a glass of wine. I sipped it at the island in the kitchen while I read and reread the cookbook, trying to figure out where I went wrong.

I never did figure it out, so I poured myself another generous glass of wine and went upstairs to take a bubble bath.

By the time Sergei got home, I’d taken the bath, done my hair and make-up, had myself a little fashion show with half the clothes in my closet, and drank the entire bottle of wine. I was busy untangling a mass of necklaces sitting on the bed when Sergei arrived.

“Maggie?” I heard Sergei call up the stairs.

“Hey baby, I’m up here!” I yelled back. “How was golfing?”

I heard Sergei coming up the stairs and in a few short moments, he was in the bedroom. “Great! I kick Doug’s ass. Wow! You look great!”

“You always kick Doug’s ass. Don’t you ever feel bad for him?” I asked, smiling.

“I pity him constantly,” Sergei replied and it took me a second to realize he was kidding. I laughed and stretched my legs out.

Sergei sat down next to me and gave me a crooked grin. “Are you okay?”

“I had wine,” I giggled. “See, I tried to make a soufflé, but I messed it up—“

“No surprise,” Sergei remarked with a chuckle, and I punched him lightly before continuing.

“So I had some wine and played the afternoon away.”

Sergei smiled at me. “Played, hm? What did you play?”

“Well, first I did my hair, and then I did my make-up, and then I had a fashion show.”

“A fashion show... want to have a fashion show for me?” he asked with a hint of a lecherous grin.

I smiled cagily. “Maybe later tonight, if you’re especially nice to me.”

Sergei moved closer to me and put an arm around my shoulders. “I’m always especially nice to you.”

I looked at him pointedly. “I know.”

It took Sergei a moment to realize what I meant, and when he did, his smile widened twofold. It made me giggle.

“Let’s go see a movie,” I said suddenly, remembering that I’d thought of that earlier in the afternoon.

“What one?”

“I don’t know. Something good.”

Sergei shook his head. “Uh uh. We disagree on the meaning of good.”

“No, you don’t know the meaning of good,” I replied.

“Right, because my movies are not intellectual.” Although sarcasm was not usually a Russian trait, I couldn’t miss it in Sergei’s tone.

“I’ve told you a million times, things like The Truman Show and Forrest Gump do not count as intellectual films.”

“And things like Pollock do not count as good!”

“Sergei, that was about a famous painter! That won awards!”

“It was boring! He painted blobs!”

I shook my head sadly. “I try and open your mind to things and all I get is whining.”

“Hey, I don’t whine. Besides, I let you open my mind to lots of things.”

“All right, then we’re going to go see that new art film.”

“Maggie, not that! It’s about French writers!”

“You’re whining.”

Sergei, defeated, set his jaw and glared for a moment before rising and muttering, “Get your coat, then, it’s cold out.”

*****

Sergei is right. It is cold outside. I wrap my scarf around my neck a few times and move my fingers back and forth inside my old ratty mittens, trying to warm my hands up as we stand in front of the theater, waiting to buy tickets.

“Here,” Sergei says, pulling me toward him, putting my hands in his pockets, and then putting his own hands around mine. It always surprises me that Sergei’s hands are very rarely cold. I wonder if it’s because he spends so much time on the ice that he became immune to cold.

I lean forward and buried my face in his coat, trying to warm my cheeks up. “I’m freezing. My nose is starting to run,” I tell him, and he leans back abruptly.

“Maggie!”

I laugh. “Sucker.”

“You sure you want to see this movie?” Sergei asks, one last attempt to get out of seeing this art film. I poke him in the hip through his coat, knowing he hates to be tickled. He stifles a giggle and then scowls through a smile. “Fine, fine.”

We buy our tickets and go inside, where Sergei buys an enormous cup of Coke and an enormous bag of popcorn. I gather up the Coke while Sergei manages the popcorn and our tickets.

“Where do you want to sit?” I ask him. After all, I should at least let him pick the seats, if not the movie, even though I know he’ll say he wants to sit in the back row, and some hugely tall person will sit in front of me and I’ll end up on Sergei’s lap trying to see. Sometimes I think that’s part of the reason he picks the back row. Devious little bastard.

“Back row,” he says immediately with a grin.

I just roll my eyes and lead him to the middle. With a thunderous sigh, Sergei removes his coat and reluctantly takes the seat to my right.

"I hear this won an award for best art film at the Cannes," I whisper, just to torture him.

Sergei grimaces. "'Best art film' is like 'best sexually transmitted disease'," he mutters back.

Despite myself, I burst out laughing. "Oh, stop," I admonish him, with a whack to his arm. "Art films are good for you."

"Good for me? Like spinach? Dentist trips are good for you too, but I see not many people lined up for dentist." He looks around the sparsely populated theater. "Just like here."

Point for Sergei, I admit to myself, but I won't admit it. "Most people just aren't cultured," I declare airily.

Sergei laughs. "I like those people.”

“Then you’ll like this film. It’s not about cultured people. It’s about uncouth French writers.”

“But made by cultured people,” he retorts.

I finally laugh. “I can’t believe you’re arguing with me about your lack of culture and appreciation for it.”

He smiles. “Just fun to mess with you.”

I smirk. “I know what you mean.”

He chuckles and drinks some pop as I take off my mittens and shove them in my coat pockets. “You know, there are five other people here,” he remarks, watching me unwrap my scarf.

“Well, when the critics talk about this being the best movie of the year, you, me, and these five folks will be on top of things,” I reply, settling myself into my chair. Sergei puts an arm around my shoulders and I smile. He’s always done this, at every movie we’ve ever gone to.

“Speaking of being on top of things—“ he begins in a low voice, and I can hear the smirk he’s wearing even though I’m not looking at him.

“I’ll keep my promise,” I assure him. “After all, you did come to see this movie with me. Although I had to trick you into it.”

He leans over, resting his forehead against my hair to whisper his response. “You trick me into most things I end up liking,” he concedes and I suppress a little shiver when I feel his breath on my skin.

I turn my head to meet his eyes, and raise my eyebrows for a moment before chuckling. Then the lights dim and the previews start, and the conversation is, for the time being, over.

The movie starts out promisingly enough. Pretty scenery, soothing music. Then people come on screen and begin talking, and I realize the film is subtitled. I feel a little unhappy. I hate reading subtitles. It gives me a headache. I’m sure Sergei likes it even less than I do; English isn’t even his first language, poor thing.

Half an hour into the film, I catch myself yawning. Sergei is staring dully at the screen, looking like he’s given up reading and is probably just making up the words on his own. I shift in my seat and reach across Sergei for a handful of popcorn. He moves to hand me the whole bag but I shake my head and sit back, munching popcorn and trying to concentrate on watching the film I wanted to go see.

I yawn again, though, unwillingly. When I open my eyes, however, I blink a few times, staring unbelievingly at the screen.

The main characters are going at it like bunnies! All without a sound! Like a dream sequence. And... oh my lord....the guy is tied up. I glance at Sergei. His mouth is hanging open, quite unattractively as there is still a bunch of half-chewed popcorn in it.

He munches and swallows and leans toward me. "Maggie. Your art is porn!!! Playboy in moving pictures!" He laughs.

"Be quiet," I hiss. But I notice I'm starting to get aroused. Must be the rope. I look at Sergei again; he's still snickering. Well, I decide, let's see how funny he thinks this is...

I place my hand on his thigh and squeeze. Sergei freezes.

"Let's play a game," I whisper silkenly.

His laughter stops quickly. In fact, he chokes a little on his popcorn. But he doesn’t have the shockingly terrified look I expected. Instead, he looks somewhat terrified, but beneath that there’s... what? Expectation? Intrigue?

But he blinks and that’s all gone. “I thought you wanted to see this movie,” he tells me smugly.

“I did. Do,” I amend quickly. “I do. But I can multi-task.” I move my hand up his thigh and then between his legs. I narrow one eye and raise the opposite eyebrow, something I inherited from my father and an expression that comes in quite handy at times like this. “I guess you can multi-task too.”

Sergei glances around quickly, but the only other people in the theater are sitting in front of us, a good ten rows down. I notice, also, that he doesn’t do anything to get me to take my hand away.

Instead, he sits rather passively, not looking at me but staring straight ahead at the screen. It surprises me. The guy onscreen is writhing around, looking utterly anguished and miserably aroused while the woman just teases him mercilessly. Oddly enough, Sergei doesn’t look disturbed or uncomfortable at the similarity between what’s on the screen and what we’ve actually done in real life.

In fact, I think, as I look closer at him, he seems a little flushed.

“Why Mr. Fedorov,” I remark in a whisper, “You seem suddenly interested in this. I didn’t know you were a connoisseur of foreign film.”

Sergei shifts in his seat a little, but I keep my hand where it is. I smirk and continue talking, leaning closer to him. “So what do you think? Are they acting, or is it real?”

Sergei watches the screen carefully and swallows with some difficulty. “If they are acting, they are very very good.”

Onscreen, we both watch the woman stand back and admire the man twisting on the bed, arching his back and lifting himself off the bed. He’s definitely aroused and I have to wonder a bit about French film as the camera angle changes to include a hard-on worthy of a real porno movie.

“I don’t think he’s acting,” I whisper to Sergei as I feel him shudder. He twitches beneath my hand a little. I grin. I can’t help it. “And I don’t think you’re acting, either, are you?”

Sergei takes a shaky breath. I can hear it, unsteady as he inhales, and even more unsteady when he exhales. I move my hand a little, rubbing him slowly. The corners of his mouth twitch into a tiny smile, and he shakes his head in a sometimes-I-just-can’t-believe-you gesture, so subtly that had I not been looking at him, I wouldn’t have seen him do it.

He slides down somewhat in his seat, and he’s tall enough so that his knees actually touch the back of the seat in front of him when he does it. I’m not doing anything at the moment except continuing to rub gently, but it’s having a pretty effective result.

I forget the movie, now on to something else regarding a café and a group of students, as I watch Sergei’s eyelids flutter and then close. Then he moves a little and puts his hand over mine, holding it there, and pressing against it.

This makes me draw in an unsteady breath of my own. I’m not sure what it is about that particular motion that always makes my heart beat a little faster. But whenever Sergei does that, holds my hand against him, moves it where and how he needs it, it drives me insane.

And of course makes me want to not let him have his way.

I let him go, though, for a minute or two, mostly to let myself enjoy it. His eyes are still closed, and his head is back, resting against the back of the seat. He’s moving his hips now, just barely—wouldn’t want to make a scene—but enough for me to be able to feel his muscles tensing and relaxing. Suddenly, I stop, and Sergei jerks to a halt.

"Maggie," he whispers harshly.

I grin in the dark as I pull my hand back. Sergei is reluctant to let go and I have to give a fairly forceful tug to retrieve my hand. He gives what sounds like a voiceless whimper and I concentrate on not shivering.

“Watch the movie,” I whisper back.

Sergei gives me a wide-eyed, pained look. “How?”

I put my fingertips on his jaw and push a little. “Turn your head,” I tell him, running my fingers down the side of his neck and then up, under his chin and over his lips. “Focus those pretty blue eyes on the screen,” I continue, leaning close to him, my lips right against his ear. “And try not to think about how wet you’re making me,” I pause, watching his eyes close, “And how much I want to watch you come.”

His lips part at that and he begins to breathe even quicker than before. I watch his chest rise and fall. He licks his lips slowly, trying to collect his thoughts.

Suddenly, he opens his eyes and sits up straight, as if meaning to go somewhere. I give him a curious look and he reaches for my hand.

“Come on,” he whispers. I only raise my eyebrows at him. The desperation is a little clearer in his voice when he replies, “Please.”

I feign surprise. “And miss the movie? I’ve wanted to see this for weeks.”

He reorganizes his thoughts. “Just to the bathroom?”

I try and suppress the laughter. “Sergei, think about what you just asked me.”

“Oh God Maggie, please,” is his response, like he didn’t even hear what I said to him.

“A movie theater bathroom?” I whisper at him. “Ohhh, no, that’s not fun at all. There are so many other things we can do that would be so much more fun than fucking in a bathroom.”

For a second, Sergei looks so anguished I think he might cry. Then I see him set his jaw with determination. “Okay,” he says slowly, “Then I’ll be back in a minute.”

My eyes open wide. “You most certainly will not!”

He pleads with his eyes. I shake my head.

“If I’m not going anywhere, neither are you.”

“But Maggie-“

I put my hand over his mouth.

"Watch the movie," I whisper, making it a command. I turn his desperate gaze toward the screen. “Now. Put your hands on the armrests.”

Defeated, he slumps back in his chair but doesn’t yet put his hands on the armrests. Instead, they remain in his lap. He glances around the theater a few times and I can see his left hand inching higher up his leg.

“You aren’t really going to do that here, are you?” I ask him in a half-teasing, half-hopeful voice.

Sergei stops and looks at me, meeting my gaze. I can see him trying to decipher my expression. “That...” he swallows, “that d-depends.”

I’m surprised. Sergei can’t even talk without his voice catching. He’s probably so uncomfortable now he’s lucky he can talk at all.

I turn in my seat a little to face him, fold my arms, and cross my legs. “Depends on what?” I ask curiously.

“On whether... whether you want...” He’s struggling to get the thought out, and to do it quietly enough. Even in a mostly-whisper, I can hear that his voice has deepened, roughened a little.

I love that voice.

“On whether I want...?” I prompt, but he looks almost incapable of speech.

“On... on...”

He definitely struggling now, but I’ll do anything to get him to talk to me, just to hear his voice, the ragged, uneven quality of the tone, the little shaky exhalations, the blatant lust.

“You have to tell me,” I remind him.

He gives one of those unsteady little sighs that make me ache and finally manages to get it out. “On whether or not you want me to.”

I hadn't actually considered this. I was well on my way to tormenting him myself. But to watch him do it....

I put my lips against his ear. "Don't come."

He swallows what I’m sure would be a beautiful groan and I’m sorry I don’t get to hear it. “Maggie,” he breathes, and I can tell he wants to say more but is having trouble getting the words out.

“What?” I purr.

“I can’t... I have to... I need to.”

Now I’m just going to torture him for the sheer fun of making him squirm even more than he already is.

“You need to what?” I encourage, leaning against him. I slide my arm around his shoulders and stroke his hair with my hand. His head drops down, chin to his chest, and I stop moving for a moment, stop stroking, stop breathing. God, he looks so hot when he does that. So... obedient.

I move my hand to his neck and push upwards through his hair with my fingers, subtly keeping his head down.

“Please,” he whispers. “I need... I need to come.”

That makes two of us,, I think to myself.

“How much?” I ask and he just whines very softly in response. I brush the hair away from his face, petting him sympathetically. “Is it that bad already?”

He clenches his jaw.

“Does it hurt?” I continue, moving to press my lips to his neck. I feel him tense and then lean into me. I run my tongue along his skin and I feel him shudder. I pause and persist in talking to him.

“I bet it does. I bet it’s absolutely killing you. I can’t begin to imagine what you’d be doing to yourself if we weren’t here.” Mischievously, I add, “Or what you’d be making me do to you.”

Sergei swallows a groan and arches his back slightly. His breath is coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

“Do something now,” he hisses. “Please, Maggie...”

I reach across him with my left hand and place my palm against his cheek, turning his head toward me. I have just enough time to see the desperation in his eyes before I close my own and then close the distance between us. The kiss takes my breath away. It occurs to me that we must look like junior high kids, making out in a movie theater, but I’m not really sure that matters to me at the moment.

I’m not gentle with him. I tangle my fingers in his hair and hold him in place, head tilted to one side. He’s passive for a minute or so, mostly, I think, because he’s somewhat stunned. But then he begins to respond, slowly at first.

Then the dam breaks.

He wraps an arm around me, hand at the back of my neck, and pulls me toward him even more. He rests his other hand against my cheek, guiding me just a bit as we kiss. Not to let him take too much of the lead, I tighten my fingers in his hair enough to feel him whimper, very softly, into my mouth.

And now it becomes a game of sorts, who will eventually end up the winner. Sergei leans into me, pressing his lips to mine so hard it almost hurts. I push back determinedly, licking, tasting, desperately. The hand on my cheek moves lower, fingertips running over my neck, my collarbone, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt.

We really should stop this, I think to myself. But I can’t help it.

And then suddenly, my decision is made for me. There’s a strange noise that echoes through the theater and then the film stops. Shocked, Sergei and I both pull away and look around. Then the lights come up and I get to see that if anyone noticed us, there would be no way in hell we’d be able to hide what we’d been doing.

Sergei’s hair was a little wild and out of place. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were slightly swollen and darker than usual. His eyes had that fierce, aroused shine to them, and the enormous bulge in his pants was definitely not ignorable. I’m sure that I didn’t look much better.

The projector guy shouted down into the theater. “Sorry, everybody, I’ve got it fixed now.”

The lights dim once more and the film starts. Everyone else resumes watching the movie. Sergei and I, however, just stare at each other. He licks his lips, suggestively, seductively.

“Now what?” I ask mischievously.

Sergei leans toward me, eyes half-closed, and murmurs, “Where were we?” as his hand comes up to my cheek.

“We,” I whisper back, putting my fingertips over his lips and moving away from him a bit, “were going to try and watch this movie.

Sergei narrows his eyes and gives me a critical look. “Doubtful,” he replies. I giggle softly. “Sergei, I’m sure our talking is distracting all five people who are here to try and see this film.”

He arches an eyebrow and smirks. “I’ll bet you ten bucks if they hear us, they like what they hear.”

My jaw drops and my eyes widen, although I’m smiling just the same. “Exhibitionist!” I hiss, pointing a finger.

“I am not!” he whispers back frantically. “That isn’t what I meant!”

I nod indulgently. “Of course not,” I reply, glancing pointedly at his lap and then meeting his gaze with a little grin.

He looks nervous again now. “Honest, I didn’t mean that,” he repeats, looking at me with an earnest stare.

I move my hand and place it back in his lap, feeling more than hearing him groan. “You mean to tell me,” I say, watching him struggle to remain still, “that the fact that there are people around here that have no idea what we’re doing, people that could potentially catch us, doesn’t do a thing for you?”

He closes his eyes and presses his lips together, refusing to answer, either because he doesn’t want to admit that I’m right, or because he doesn’t want to admit what it is I’m right about.

“Come on,” I coax, beginning to rub him gently through his pants. “Tell me the truth.”

His eyes shut a little tighter and he bites his lower lip as I rub a little harder and a little faster. But he doesn’t answer me. Now I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to or because he can’t. Either way, it’s still fun to torment him, so I lean closer and keep talking.

“Does it turn you on, just knowing you could get caught? Or is it the thought of having people watch that makes you hot? If that’s it, I’m sure I can think of at least a handful of people who’d be willing to come over tonight.”

At that, his eyes open and he stares at me, genuinely shocked. I chuckle softly.

“I guess that answers my question then, doesn’t it? It’s the potential,” I muse, forgetting to move my hand for a moment. Sergei makes a sound deep in his throat, and puts his hand over mine, giving me a pointed stare.

“First we have to set up some ground rules,” I tell him, my lips against his ear. He shivers and I can almost feel the frustration radiating off him. “Put your hands back on the armrests and don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

He complies immediately and in my mind, I’m envisioning leather straps around his wrists, holding his hands down to the chair.

“In fact,” I continue, my mouth against his ear, “Don’t do anything unless I tell you to. Except speak. I’ll leave you to keep yourself quiet. After all, you’re the one who’d get an earful from the press if you end up drawing attention to yourself.”

I feel him give a little shudder at that and I grin. Sometimes it’s just so easy to torture him.

I pull back an inch or two. “Still want to go through with this?” I ask him, only half-serious. I would bet a thousand dollars that he’d say yes.

“Yes,” he whispers back immediately, his eyes closed, facing the screen and not me.

“Look at me and tell me,” I say, eager to see his eyes, his expression.

He turns and looks at me and when he does, our foreheads are millimeters from touching. My heart stops for a moment, I swear it does, as he answers me. “Yes,” he whispers, and I can feel his breath against my lips. “Yes,” he says again, more desperately this time if that’s even possible. “Please, Maggie,” and his eyes close while he licks his lips. “Please,” and his eyes open again.

"Look at the screen," I whisper, voice lower than normal. He does immediately and my hand slowly begins to rub his neck, almost soothingly. I watch him carefully. He’s beautiful, he really is. The way his eyes are almost too bright, the way his mouth twitches at the corners, the way his hands tense and relax on the ends of the armrests.

I watch as he calms down a little, as the desperation eases somewhat. We’ve still got over an hour of the movie to go, after all. I move and begin massaging his shoulders, watching as he visibly relaxes. My hands are warm, but Sergei’s skin is positively blistering hot. It’s then that I notice the brilliant flush over his cheeks.

Really, sometimes, it’s almost too easy.

I run my palm over his cheekbone, feeling the heat beneath my hand. Sergei blinks a few times and I brush my fingers through his hair, smoothing it away from his face gently. He sighs, very softly, but very contently, and I can’t help but smile at the sweet expression on his face.

It’s almost angelic. And it’s times like these, when he’s quiet and relaxed and innocent-looking that I start to wonder if I can go through with it, with teasing him and torturing him. But almost always, he’ll do something, as if he just knows that I’m reevaluating my strategy, to make me forget all about how sweet and innocent he looks and instead to make me remember how crafty and devilish he is.

He does this now, and as always, his timing is impeccable.

Without taking his eyes off the screen, almost without moving at all, he licks his lips again in a move so deliberate and seductive that for a second, all I can do is watch him and blink.

I lean toward him again, my forehead against his temple. “You did that on purpose,” I whisper.

“Couldn’t help it,” he replies with a rather cryptic tone.

Quickly, I reach out my right hand and unbutton the waistband of his pants. He looks positively shocked and I just smirk.

“Couldn’t help it,” I say.

"Besides," I continue, sneaking the zipper down ever-so-slowly. "Wouldn't want to ruin your pants, would we?"

Sergei just groaned.

I don’t move. My hand is resting on Sergei’s upper thigh and I’m still leaning in close, my head next to his. Sergei holds fairly still for a few minutes, almost managing to look as if he’s paying attention to the film. But I can feel him start to fidget after a bit. His muscles tense under my hand and he begins to blink more than usual, a sure sign he’s restless but trying to keep it under control.

“Maggie,” he says at last, his voice so soft that I don’t hear the word as much as I read his lips.

“What?” I ask innocently, as if I don’t know what he possibly means with that one word.

I can see his eyes darken, and his lips press together for a moment. I move my hand, just barely, just enough to let him feel it. He almost forgets what I told him. I can see his hand start to move, no doubt to guide mine somewhere other than his thigh, but then he lets it relax once more.

“You-“ he begins, but cuts himself off. He’s getting edgy now. Even in that single word, I can hear the desperate quality begin to creep in.

“Say it,” I tell him.

“You have to do something,” he hisses at me, almost angrily. Normally, that tone would make me nervous. It doesn’t bother me one bit now, though.

“I have to, do I?”

Sergei whips his head around to fix a wild stare on me. He opens his mouth as if to add something more, then just lets a pointed gaze downward to his lap suffice as communication enough.

“You know,” I whisper, “That almost sounds like a threat.” I slip my hand inside his pants, but not yet inside his boxers, as I speak, rubbing lightly. Sergei sighs shakily, his eyes drifting shut. “Was it?” I ask. Sergei doesn’t reply, only slouches down further in his seat. Abruptly, I close my hand around him almost tight enough to hurt. He swallows a squeak that’s more surprise than anything and turns surprised, wounded eyes toward me.

“I have to do something, hm? What if I didn’t? Is there an ‘or else’ coming? Was that a threat?” I’m well aware that, for the most part, it wasn’t. But he’s definitely unsure of himself now. I do, however, loosen my grip.

He shakes his head no, and then his face falls and for a second, I’m almost positive he’s going to burst into tears. At last, he only whispers, “It’s killing me.”

I move to slide my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers now and he bites back a groan. I grin. “Yeah, but what a way to go.”

It’s a semi-awkward position, but I begin to stroke him slowly. I watch his face as I do and it makes my breath catch. His eyes are closed tightly, forehead creased. His mouth is open and he’s breathing roughly. I drag my thumb across the head and he bites his lower lip and shuts his eyes tighter.

“Feel good?” I whisper, moving my other hand to his jaw, turning his head toward mine.

“Oh fuck,” is the answer I get from him, and it makes me want to both keep going for hours and give in to him right here and now. I split the difference.

“Kiss me,” I tell him. A little unfair… he can barely concentrate on breathing right now, let alone doing anything more complex. His eyes open halfway and he looks as if he’s not quite sure I meant it.

He looks into my eyes for a moment, then lurches hungrily toward me, seeing I mean it. It's an awkward position, for both of us, but he manages. His lips are soft but insistent. By the time we break the kiss off our breath is coming in little gasps, he's pumping his hips rhythmically, and my hand is slick. Sweat is dripping down the sides of Sergei's face.

He watches me for a moment, then lets his eyes drift shut. I watch him, the way his hips rise and fall, the expressions that flash across his face, agony and ecstasy all at the same time. His lips move, forming words and syllables without sound. I imagine what they’d sound like if he could give voice to them and it makes me shiver.

Sergei is trying to keep himself under control, but he’s quickly losing the battle. If anyone happened to look around, there’d be no doubt what was going on. I slow my rhythm and Sergei makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“Shh,” I whisper to him, kissing his cheek, gently pressing my lips to his skin, then moving down to his jaw, then his neck. He’s panting; I can feel him doing it more than I can hear or see him. Pretty soon we’ll have to leave altogether before we get obvious. That is, if we haven’t already.

But not just yet.

I wonder how daring he’s willing to be.

I stop stroking him entirely, just holding his cock in my hand. I can feel it twitch every now and then, and each time, Sergei lets out a harsh little sigh. He tries to thrust his hips, but I only tighten my grip.

“No,” I tell him. “Hold still.”

“Can’t,” he replies through gritted teeth, still pushing his hips upward despite my efforts.

I reach with my free hand and turn his head to face me once more. “Try,” I say to him, brushing my lips against his. “Try. It’ll be worth it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, looking so pained. It only makes me want to torment him more. But he stops moving, and after a moment, I release my grip, noting well the tiny whimper that escapes him when I do.

I slide my hand back out, slowly, and pause. At last, Sergei glances at me, and I make sure he’s looking me straight in the eye when I bring my hand upward and run my tongue from the base of my palm to the tips of my fingers.

His eyes flash and he looks almost dangerous for a moment. I grin lecherously and do it again. He clenches his jaw and his hands are gripping the armrests so tightly I can see the veins in his hands.

“Just wait,” I whisper.

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