The blank ecru envelope in the top drawer of Illya's desk contained the instructions. The paper was thicker than normal stationery with a velvety texture that lingered on one's fingertips. Illya lifted it and sniffed. Nothing volatile, just the rich earthy fragrance of patchouli and oak-moss.
Memories stirred. His spine tingled with pleasant anticipation, and a heavy warmth settled in his groin.
Too distracting. He snorted to clear his head of the expensive cologne. Curiosity compelled him to rip open the envelope and read the note. He memorized the time, noted the hotel and room number, but the rest of the message eluded him. He held it up to his face and squinted. No, it wasn't his eyes playing tricks with Napoleon's illegible writing.
Jazz musician and horn required: French, English or other nationality welcome.
Odd, very odd. His English horn was a big instrument to lug around. He'd taken it on assignment before, but this was the first time Napoleon had asked him for it. It promised to be an intriguing evening.
The steel doors slid open. Illya crumpled the paper and dropped it in the wastepaper basket.
Napoleon sauntered in, he of the expensive suits and neatly groomed hair. "I've done it. I've done it!" He waved a folder imprinted with the U.N.C.L.E. globe-and-man logo in the air as though it were a prize trophy.
"Done what? Overdrawn your expense account for the third month running?"
Napoleon slapped the folder on his desk. "My half of the report on the Silver Sunlight Affair. Please take note of the time, for I have completed it two hours before Waverly's deadline."
Illya snatched it up and began reading.
"You can't blame me for being late this time."
Illya frowned. Napoleon never finished first, unless... "You've left something out."
"What? What?"
Illya held out the report for him to see. "You didn't explain the death of the parrots."
"Illya, we saved the world. Who's going to notice a few less birds?"
"The Chelezian government. Those parrots were endangered, but now they're classified as extinct. We have to write an official explanation. It's just like the time I rammed a car into a pine tree."
"Not any pine tree." Napoleon leaned against the desk and chuckled. "One of the oldest trees alive in North America cruelly cut down in its prime. Timber!"
Illya never liked it when Napoleon crowed at his expense. "I'm busy," he said, handing the folder back to him. "If you must gloat, please do it outside."
"How are you going with your side of the report?"
"It should be done in time," Illya replied. "Especially if I'm left in peace."
Napoleon began straightening the small pile of folders in the in-tray, his gaze deliberately avoiding Illya. "Are you doing anything tonight?"
So he wanted a confirmation? The easy words left his lips before he was aware of speaking them. "Yes, I have a date tonight."
Napoleon flashed him a look from hooded hazel eyes. Apart from the gleam of interest, his expression remained neutral. "Lucky you. Don't let me keep you from your work; I wouldn't want you to be late." He turned to leave with a new spring in his step. "I hope you enjoy your evening."
Illya picked up the crushed paper, smoothed it out on his desk, and read the message again. He never refused the scented ecru invitations. The excitement of the adrenalin rush was what he lived for; it was why he had become an Enforcement agent. It enticed him away from the familiar and safe, daring him to push his limits and test his boundaries.
He flicked his lighter and watched the note curl up into ash. Then he went back to writing his report, a slight smile on his face.
*****
Illya chose the black suit, the one with the four-buttoned jacket. It was austere, the type of clothing one would wear to weddings or funerals. The powder blue tie and matching silk handkerchief added a welcome splash of color, alleviating the formal severity of the jacket.
He cast a cursory look at himself in the mirror. The reflection looked uncomfortable, too stitched-up. The jacket felt tight across his back, tighter than a shoulder holster. This was the first suit he'd bought when he came to New York, and it had been tailor made to fit him like a glove. Four years on, his wiry frame had filled out with muscle and sinew, and the tightness was now stifling. But it didn't matter. He'd be taking it off soon enough.
The hotel was only a couple of blocks from his apartment. He walked all the way with a battered but dependable brown suitcase in one hand and the heavy black instrument case in the other, nimbly dodging office workers and shoppers going home for the day. A few noticed him in the darkness of the early evening, but he studiously ignored their admiring looks. He reviewed his cover as written on the invitation. How would he play it? Nervous, maybe. Shy and deferential or detached and aloof? Maybe he should display a keen desire to please with a whiff of desperation. So many possibilities, so little time.
The lamps from the hotel foyer cast a warm glow over the red carpet. A doorman smiled and welcomed him inside. His step quickened, and the tingle of anticipation returned to remind him: for the next few hours, Illya Kuryakin, U.N.C.L.E. agent, was no more. Tonight he was free to play.
In the lift he decided to wear the reading glasses. It would give him a scholarly, serious look. His hair was a little mussed from the walk so he finger-combed it in place. He checked his slightly scuffed black shoes. It didn't match the suit or the suitcase, but it was ideal for his persona tonight.
He checked his watch when he found the specified room number. Five minutes late. He knocked on the door, waited, then knocked again. Maybe he wasn't the only one running late.
"Yes, I'm coming!" a voice snapped. The door opened. "And who might you be?"
It was Napoleon, but not as Illya or anyone else at U.N.C.L.E. knew him. His jet-black hair was parted in the center and slicked off his forehead with a generous amount of hair cream. Thick horn-rimmed glasses obscured his eyes. He wore a red and white striped bow tie, a white shirt and buttoned vest, topped by a buttoned black jacket.
"I..." Words failed Illya as he catalogued Napoleon's appearance. So much clothing, so many stupid buttons. It was going to take him ages to undo them all.
But that was all part of the game. For tonight, Illya wasn't Illya, and Napoleon wasn't Napoleon. But did Napoleon have to look so ludicrous? What on earth was he up to?
The stranger with Napoleon's features looked him over, head bobbing up and down like a pigeon. He sniffed with disapproval when he noticed the bags Illya carried. "You're not a salesman, are you?" He spoke his words with a clipped pedantic accent. "If you are, then I'm sorry but I'm not interested." He began to shut the door.
Illya slammed his palm against the door. He'd been on tenterhooks ever since he'd read the invitation; there was no way he would let Napoleon end it so soon. "My name is Ivan Tritakova!" Wrong, all wrong. He sounded too demanding. He quickly lowered his voice. "I'm a musician. I have an appointment with Mr. L.B. Sternmacher at eight o'clock for a private audition."
The man raised his eyebrows. "You're late. Mr. Sternmacher's a busy man."
Sheepishly Illya withdrew his hand. "I know I'm late. I'm sorry."
"Save your apologies for when you see him in person." The man's nasal, whiny voice reminded Illya of a buzzing mosquito. "Come in, come in. My name is Applegate, Edward Applegate. I'm Mr. Sternmacher's personal secretary."
The hotel suite was large, with a royal blue sofa, matching armchair and rectangular ottoman. Two windows provided a fine view of the East River. A mini bar was in one corner, a desk with assorted papers at the other. Two doors led off to more rooms. The carpet was thick underfoot.
"Go on, take a seat. You may as well make yourself comfortable."
His manner was polite, but there was something eerie about his inane smile. Illya stared at him, curious to see if the expression would break. It didn't.
Applegate reached forward. "Let me take those for you, sir."
Illya almost took a step back before he realized what Applegate was after. He watched in bemusement as the secretary took the bags and put them down by the sofa.
"Would you like a drink to calm your nerves?"
"No, thank you." Illya moved to sit down, relieved to put some distance between them. "I don't need it."
"Really?" The secretary peered at him over his glasses, hazel eyes speculative. "You could have fooled me." He pushed his glasses back up his nose, his manner once again brisk. "Why don't I take your coat-"
"I'm fine. I'm comfortable the way I am."
"Well," the secretary huffed, shoulders twitching with impatience. "Suit yourself, sir. I have work of my own to do." He kept glancing at Illya suspiciously, almost stumbling into the armchair before he reached the desk of papers.
Illya bit his lip, fighting to keep a straight face. Napoleon usually played assertive characters: the professional golfer on the lookout for a versatile caddy, the big-game safari hunter with a fetish for gorillas, the swashbuckling swordsman who wanted a place to sheathe his equipment, and even Groucho Marx, complete with fake moustache and nose and brow-waggling, on a quest to tickle funny bones and any other body parts he could get his hands on. Based on past form, Illya had been expecting the lecherous Sternmacher himself.
He wasn't sure what to make of Applegate hunched over his desk with his paperwork. In other circumstances, he would have admired such a strong work ethic. He'd criticized Napoleon in the past about the need to finish off reports. But tonight it was a ridiculous hindrance. How were they going to get anywhere if Applegate didn't make a move?
Unless...unless Applegate was waiting for him to make a move! Was that it? But that made no sense. He was supposed to be waiting for his audition with Sternmacher. That was his assigned role; he couldn't break out of it without good reason. The roles provided the pretext that made these clandestine encounters possible. It saved them the awkwardness and embarrassment of being themselves, and for that Illya was grateful.
Minutes ticked by. Applegate shuffled some papers, ripped up others, and folded the rest to form neat piles. He reminded Illya of a pecking bird, all repetitive activity for dubious benefit. But there was a fine body beneath the fussy exterior. He had a good breadth of shoulder, a long lean back. It was difficult to make out his legs under the desk, but everything seemed to be in good proportion.
Illya took off his glasses and placed them on the coffee table. He hadn't come here to sit and watch. His patience was wearing thin.
"Where is Mr. Sternmacher? Does he know I'm here?"
The secretary stopped for a moment. "Of course he knows." A brief twitch of the shoulders and arms. "We all heard that racket you made outside." He picked up a pile of papers and folders, and placed them in one of the drawers. "As I said, Mr. Sternmacher is a busy man. He'll be with you shortly."
Illya checked his watch. He'd spent ten minutes watching this man shuffle papers. Maybe this delay was punishment for his lack of punctuality. Or a test.
Quietly, Illya walked over and looked over the secretary's hunched shoulders. Applegate was sharpening pencils.
"Mr. Applegate?"
Applegate jerked, and the pencil flew out of his hand. "You almost gave me a heart attack! Didn't I tell you to sit down? Oh, my, I even broke the lead. What a terrible waste! Mr. Sternmacher could fire me for such spendthrift habits."
"Perish the thought," Illya muttered, and rested his hands on the man's shoulders. Even beneath the shoulder pads, he could feel their bulk and power. He put his lips to Applegate's ear. "Why would Sternmacher sack such an industrious worker like you? Does he normally make you work such long hours?"
"Well, yes." The man's gaze darted from side to side in alarm. "It's all part of my job as his personal secretary. Now will you please sit on the sofa? Mr. Sternmacher will be with you-"
Illya ran a finger lightly along the nape of his neck. "How personal is 'personal'?"
"What?" The man shot up as if a hot poker had been shoved in a sensitive orifice. "What-what...are you implying?"
"I was merely asking a question."
Applegate pushed his glasses up his nose. "I've worked for Mr. Sternmacher for ten years, and in all that time, he and I have had a strictly professional relationship. I type fifty words per minute, I know shorthand, and I have experience in book keeping." His head twitched with his shoulders, agitation increasing by the second. "I resent the suggestion that he...and I..."
"Mr. Applegate...Edward." Illya focused on the absurd bow tie to keep himself from laughing. "I think you should take a break from your work."
"It's not half-past eight yet. I still have fifteen minutes." His hands twitched and fluttered, vainly searching for activity. "I have to work my hours or Mr. Sternmacher will fire me!" He tried to sit back down, but Illya pulled him up.
"I want you to tell me more about your boss." Illya firmly manhandled Edward to the sofa. "If he really is such a tyrant, then I want to know about it."
"He's not a tyrant, but he's very exacting in his standards. He can be difficult to please. I have to work long hours to make sure his timetable is running according to plan." He pursed his lips in disapproval. "Your lateness has thrown everything out. I'll have to reschedule the appointments for tomorrow morning and-"
"Edward." Illya grabbed his forearm to silence him, and held solid muscle and bone. A tendril of desire stirred within him. "Edward, do you have any free time at all?"
"Free time?" Applegate blinked owlishly at the idea. "Oh, yes. I do get weekends off unless I'm needed on Saturdays for meetings with-" A thought occurred to him. "Why do you ask?"
Illya released him and leaned back, one arm casually stretched along the back of the sofa. "I was just wondering what you do with your free time, that's all."
"I keep myself very busy. I practice my typing, and brush up on my shorthand, and check Mr. Sternmacher's schedule to make sure he isn't double-booked for anything."
"Do you date girls in your free time?"
"Oh!" Applegate lowered his eyes as if the thought was too lewd to contemplate. "Sir, I-I..." He swallowed hard. "D-definitely not!"
"What about guys?"
"Guys?" he squeaked. "I...I...n-n-never..."
"Never?" Illya leaned closer and dropped one arm around him. "Why not?"
The secretary gulped nervously, his entire body trembling like a leaf. "I've heard about you artistic types..." he said, voice quavering. "The bizarre things you do..."
Illya lifted the angular jaw slightly, his thumb caressing the cleft chin. "What things?" He pressed soft wet kisses against the slightly parted lips.
"Y-You're all depraved...disgusting..." The register of his voice became deeper, thicker, free of the annoying whine. "Wicked...mmm..."
Kissing Edward was like kissing a boy. His lips trembled, as if too bemused to respond. His hands twitched impotently against Illya's chest, his body tense for flight. The rapid, uneven breaths from his nostrils were the only sign of his excitement.
For Illya, it was enough. If Sternmacher was busy, then virginal Edward would do in the meantime. He nibbled Edward's lips, encouraging them to part. The scents of patchouli and oak-moss assailed his senses, the same fragrance as the invitation. He ran his fingers along the stubble-free jaw, marveling at its satin smoothness, and buried his face in the nervously bobbing throat muscles. Yes, the fragrance was strongest here. Illya inhaled deeply and rubbed his cheek against the warm skin until he was scented with it too.
Edward began to shift beneath him, limbs stirring to life. "I shouldn't...shouldn't be doing this." His glasses were fogged, his hair appealingly mussed.
Illya pressed more kisses against his lips to distract him. Lovely firm lips. When Edward learned how to use them, he was going to be one hell of a kisser. "You've done enough work for tonight," he murmured. He unbuttoned the jacket, the vest, then roughly pulled up the shirt to slide one hand along the broad planes of his chest. "You need time to unwind." He reached for Applegate's glasses.
"Don't!" Applegate shook his head, suddenly decisive. "I'm extremely short-sighted. I can't see without them."
"Oh." He wants the glasses on. "Okay." Illya eyed the horn-rimmed frames with distaste. "Are you sure?"
He nodded then looked about wildly. "I-I have work to do for Mr. Sternmacher."
"But that's exactly what you're doing." Illya pushed him down on the sofa and Applegate, for his protestations, didn't resist one bit. "You see, Sternmacher isn't here, and you're doing such a good job that I may not need to see him after all."
"I-I am?"
Illya loosened the bow tie, fingers working at the knot with ill-concealed impatience. "You are. You're doing a brilliant job." He abandoned the tie to press kisses over Applegate's chest and down the expanse of his abdomen. The firm muscles twitched beneath him, tensing at the slightest touch. Illya pressed his tongue against the navel, savoring the saltiness, and swirled a trail around it in ever-widening circles. Applegate gasped and moaned, and the sounds were music to Illya's ears. He wanted to prolong this teasing for as long as possible.
Slowly Illya detoured up to the heaving ribcage, along the side of a narrow waist. He made short work of the trousers and underpants, pulling them down until they bunched around his ankles, yanking off the shoes and socks so they could come off completely. With Applegate's lower body uncovered, Illya traced a wet path around one angular hipbone with tongue and lips, then the other hipbone, again and again, deliberately neglecting the straining cock between them until an anguished cry rent the air.
"Please God, please..."
It wasn't Applegate any more. His voice was too low, too deep. The distinctive sibilance made Illya's heart lurch.
"Close, but not quite," he muttered, and took the erection into his mouth.
It twitched against his lips, hot and alive and eager for him. The scent of precome teased his nostrils, the taste bitter and salty and welcome, triggering skills that once learned were never truly forgotten. His tongue swirled and lashed with eager strokes, his cheeks hollowed out to maximize the pleasure, his throat muscles worked in feverish counterpoint.
"I can't...what...what if..." The rest was a frustrated moan against the cushions.
Illya relished exerting such power, making Napoleon crumble beneath him. He ran his hands along the muscular thighs while he sucked, appreciatively assessing their strength and weight as they twitched beneath his fingers.
Napoleon stared down at him, eyes wide as saucers. "God...what if Mr. Sternmacher...he might see..."
Illya released him, his panting breaths loud in the room. "I don't care. Let him see. You...me...everything." Illya swirled his tongue over the slit, then swallowed him deep again. There was no resistance; Napoleon squirmed against the cushions, but his legs fell open in invitation. Illya knelt between them and lifted his ass, guiding the cock into his mouth. He knew Napoleon was watching, unable to turn away. It encouraged him to even greater effort, welcoming the cock in deep, sliding his lips and tongue around the shaft, his sole aim to push the writhing body in his grasp to pleasure-breaking point. A groan and a hot rush of seed was his reward, and Illya savored every drop, suckling and gulping it down until Napoleon was spent.
There was only one thing left to do. Illya ripped off his jacket, hastily undid his own trousers, uncaring of how they bunched at his ankles. The white shirt, the tie still neatly knotted around his sweating neck...he no longer cared about such trivial impediments. The lube, kept in the pocket of his jacket, prepared the way. Then he brought those beautifully muscled legs up to his shoulders and entered the barely sensate man beneath him.
Napoleon growled deep in his throat at Illya's presumption. But his body was too relaxed by climax; he couldn't even put up a token resistance to Illya's driving thrusts. Words of protest were beyond him; all Illya could hear was Napoleon's damp, heavy breathing. Now and then he released a low, almost anguished moan, and his knuckles tightened on the cushions as if the fucking was too much for him. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, the glasses fogged and askew on his face.
To Illya, he never looked more beautiful. He was hot and tight, his rippling muscles a pleasure it was almost painful to bear. Illya watched himself as he withdrew then thrust, again and again, half-hypnotized by his movements and the delicious ache that centered in his cock. A woman would have been softer, more pliant and giving. But Illya loved bending the solid strength of Napoleon's body to his will. And gradually, with each thrust, it seemed Napoleon found delight in it too. His thighs flexed and tightened, and his pelvis began to lift in rhythm to Illya's movements.
Illya adjusted the angle of his hips to deepen the thrusts. Napoleon let out a soft cry, his entire body tight as a bow. Illya knew what it meant, and kept thrusting at the same angle. He pushed Napoleon's legs wider apart to accommodate them both. Napoleon was beyond caring. With the repeated stroking of his prostate his movements became fluid and regular, his body undulating freely while Illya manipulated him as he pleased.
Perfect. This helpless vulnerability was a side of Napoleon he'd seen only in dreams. Illya wanted it to last and last so neither of them could ever forget. Their muscles worked in unison, the heat and sweat binding them together...he was losing himself in pure sensation. It enveloped him, a surge of white-hot pleasure that rushed through him like a torrent, leaving him panting and gasping and shuddering. Napoleon groaned in sympathy, and arched with what energy he had left to welcome him home.
It was next to impossible to maintain a role in the afterglow of sex. Illya was still half-dressed, but he was too lethargic to do himself up. Beneath him, Napoleon panted weakly, his clothes in disarray. The thick glasses were still lopsided at a comical angle. The Applegate disguise was well and truly ruined.
Illya tried to tug them off, but Napoleon's eyes snapped open.
"Oh, my..." He readjusted the glasses and began to sit up. "Mr. Sternmacher...I'll see what he's doing...don't know what's keeping him."
Illya reached for the glasses again. "I don't care about Sternmacher."
Napoleon batted him away. "But he's just...in the next room." He stretched, a languorous movement that was more Solo than Applegate. "I shouldn't have done this with you." His voice was soft and husky with affection.
Illya reached over to kiss him. Napoleon tensed. His lips clung to Illya's for a second, then he shoved Illya away.
"You've defiled me for life!" Applegate's whine was back. The secretary scrambled to his feet, and began pulling up his trousers, stumbling for real as he did so. "Damn!"
Illya laughed, but he wasn't happy about the rejection. There had been something about the way Napoleon had given up everything, so sweet and willing and compliant...or had that been Edward Applegate? He didn't know, and he wasn't sure Napoleon did either. "If Sternmacher is still busy, you could come back for more."
"I'm going to be in trouble...and all you can talk about is playing around!" He tucked his shirt in and fumbled with the fly.
Illya watched with longing as all that lovely flesh was covered up. It had been too quick, too rushed. He hadn't been able to explore the length of his back, the span of his shoulders, the curve of his butt. There was still more to taste and touch, more ways to give and receive pleasure.
"Come back." Illya pulled him down on the sofa, lust getting the better of him.
"No, no, no!" Applegate flailed his arms like a drowning man. "Stop!"
Illya kissed him hard, pushing his tongue inside. He wanted to share what he had tasted with sweet helpless Applegate. He wanted to play with the prissy secretary again.
Applegate became still. His lips parted slightly, as if too bemused to respond further. His body relaxed against the sofa, muscles no longer tense. Illya sighed and deepened the kiss. The glasses pressed against his nose and cheek, a barrier between them. When he withdrew to pull them off, Applegate pushed him aside.
"I can't do this! I have work to do!" Applegate rushed to his feet and stumbled past the sofa, then picked himself up again. He retreated behind the armchair for protection, a fearful look in his eyes. "Your behavior does you no credit, sir, but I'm going to put it down to boredom. Let me check on what's keeping Mr. Sternmacher so long."
"I'm not bored. I'm keeping myself entertained." Illya came to his feet, and realized his pants were still around his knees.
"You better get dressed. Mr. Sternmacher hates untidiness. If you want to make a good impression, you have to look the part."
Illya pulled up his underwear and pants. "I'd rather see what you look like naked."
"Sir!" Applegate covered his mouth in horror. "How can you say such...such..."
Illya lunged across the back of the armchair, but Applegate was too fast. He darted to the door and opened it.
"Come back!" Illya scrambled out of the armchair, and his pants fell down again. "We haven't finished yet."
"Maybe if you get the part we might meet up again." Edward lowered his glasses for a moment to look him in the eye. "What's the showbiz phrase? Break a leg, big boy."
Illya blinked as the door slammed shut. Big boy? He looked down at himself. Clad only in shirt and tie and boxer shorts, he looked more like a naughty boy who didn't know how to dress himself. Disappointed, he began righting his clothes as best he could. The coat remained on the back of the sofa; he felt too hot and sweaty to put it on. The powder blue tie chafed him; he ended up undoing it and opening up his collar, then rolling up the cuffs. Why did making a good impression require one to wear so many clothes?
Feeling only slightly improved, he poured himself a shot of vodka from the bar. It wasn't ice cold, but he was too thirsty to care. He swallowed it down like awful-tasting medicine, letting it wash the salty-bitter taste of Napoleon from his tongue. A little better. He poured himself another shot. He enjoyed the way it warmed his stomach. A willing partner would have warmed other parts of his body, but the vodka was better than nothing.
He was about to pour a third shot when a frisson of awareness raised the hairs at his nape. Someone was watching him. He wasn't alone any longer.
He didn't bother turning around. "Would you like a drink?"
"Do you have permission to offer?" a silken voice parried.
Illya pivoted around, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. He didn't like being caught off-guard, even socially; it was an offence to his professional reputation.
A new incarnation of Napoleon stood by the sofa, dressed in a double-breasted navy blue blazer, gold buttons on the sleeves, white shirt open at the collar, and a blue silk cravat decorated with tiny gold anchors around his neck. His hair was neatly combed with its usual left parting, revealing his high forehead. Gold-tinted glasses concealed the color of his eyes, but they didn't hide the mocking glint.
"I've been kept waiting so long that I feel right at home," Illya replied. "Are you Mr. L. B. Sternmacher?"
"No, but I'm the one you have to impress. I'm Jerry Goldberg, the talent scout for Mr. L. B. Sternmacher." He didn't offer his hand, preferring to keep them in the pockets of his gray trousers. "And you are?"
Illya noted the slight, and decided to respond in kind. "Ivan Tritakova. The talent."
Goldberg arched one skeptical brow. "Let me be the judge of that. Tell me," he inclined his head at the bottle, "do you always help yourself to other people's alcohol?"
Illya cleared his throat. "Mr. Applegate offered me a drink earlier-"
"Ah, yes, the secretary." Goldberg smirked at the disordered sofa cushions. "I hear you helped yourself to him as well."
Illya shrugged. He'd already made a bad impression with his behavior; the best thing to do was play it for all it was worth. "I kept myself occupied. What would you have done in my position?"
Goldberg grinned like a crocodile, showing even white teeth. "Good question." His eyes looked Illya over with a distinctly predatory zeal. "But this isn't an interview; this is an audition." He sank into the sofa and rubbed his hands together. "Let's hear what you have to offer. Take out your horn and play with it - or should I say, play a number on it - for me."
He'd been waiting to use that pun, Illya could tell. The smug and condescending manner irritated him greatly; it reminded him of Napoleon at his worst. But he did as he was told. If he replied with any more insolence he'd end up stretching the role of Ivan the unemployed musician beyond recognition.
He opened the heavy instrument case and assembled the parts together. "Is Sternmacher going to be here at all? I was told I'd be performing for him. If he isn't coming, I may as well leave."
"He'll be along soon enough. Producers are busy people." Goldberg's eyes never left him. "If I like what you've got, I'll make sure you meet Sternmacher."
Illya was no fool. The casting couch wasn't only for starlets. He lowered his eyes respectfully. "I'll do my best. Where do you want me to sit?"
"Sit over there, on the end of the ottoman."
From his suitcase he unpacked the music stand then lined up the sheets. Excitement made his heart thud faster. He loved music, but the anxiety of performing for an audience had never left him. He flexed his fingers to relax them, then placed the mouthpiece to his lips.
Goldberg leaned forward, almost straining to hear the first note.
Illya began slowly, lifting his volume as he settled into the bluesy jazz piece. The English horn, or cor anglais, was a longer variant of the oboe. At low notes, the horn sounded reedy, with a boldness that gave the music a keener, almost aggressive edge. As he moved into the middle range, the sound mellowed out, imbuing the melody with a soulful melancholy that was more expressive, more stirring than words. It was why he'd learned to play it after mastering the oboe; it was the most eloquent of all the woodwind instruments. He focused on the sound, placing all his frustrated desire and hunger in his performance. The music enveloped him, consumed him, and the pleasure in listening to himself in good form was a reward in itself.
He was dimly aware of Goldberg rising from the sofa. He sensed the man's presence moving around him, as intangible yet as intense as the music he created. The hairs at the back of Illya's neck stood up on end, perspiration prickled the small of his back. What was the talent scout waiting for? Was he trying to unnerve him so that he'd play a wrong note? If so, he would have to keep waiting. Illya tackled the remaining bars with ease, nursing high and low notes in smooth succession to a moody finale.
The last note died away. He let go of the mouthpiece and took some slow breaths to regain his breathing.
"You're very good," Goldberg drawled. He sat behind Illya on the ottoman, one hand stroking the nape of his neck as one would pet a cat. "But you'll be playing with others in a band. There will be singers and dancers on the stage, lights flashing everywhere. It'll be easy to get distracted from your music. Do you think you can play when you're distracted?"
"Yes." Illya closed his eyes in bliss, head bent to encourage more touching. It felt wonderful. He leaned back a little.
Goldberg chuckled and gently pushed him forward. "I'm not sure I believe you. Play again for me."
"Again?"
"You heard me. Play it again, Ivan."
Illya sighed, but did as he was told. He'd been hoping to show Goldberg how good he could be in a more intimate setting. But when he began to play, the fingers returned to stroke him again, shifting from nape to the sensitive skin behind his ears. The seat shifted as Goldberg moved to sit astride the ottoman, muscled thighs brushing against him.
"Keep playing," he murmured in Illya's ear.
Illya skipped a bar of music. Goldberg embraced him from behind, chin resting on his left shoulder. He had removed his tinted glasses. Sharp teeth nibbled at the lobe of his ear, followed by the inquisitive probe of a warm wet tongue.
"A good musician focuses purely on the music," Goldberg whispered against his ear. "Nothing matters but the music."
With a bit of improvisation, Illya made up for his musical slip. But concentration was impossible with such distracting stimuli. He could hardly keep his eyes focused on the music sheets. Only sheer willpower kept him still enough to play the horn.
Goldberg pressed his lips against the nape of his neck, nibbling a path down to the juncture of neck and shoulder. His hands stroked Illya's back and sides with possessive sureness. They clenched the thin material of the white shirt and pulled it free of his trousers.
Illya's fingers slipped over the keys, marring the melody with dud notes. His tempo became erratic: fast when Goldberg bit and sucked, slow when he kissed and lapped. It was an impossible situation. He couldn't play music when he was the one being played. Goldberg's fingers roamed freely beneath his shirt, rubbing his nipples and tracing the line of soft hair down the center of his abdomen. His fingers found the fly, and worked at the zipper.
Illya strained forward to escape his hold, but it was too little, too late. Before he had surrounded himself with the music; now he was surrounded with warm muscle and bone, the scent of desire and cologne and perspiration, and the panting breaths against his ear. He was hard, as hard as he'd been with Applegate earlier.
Abruptly he released the mouthpiece.
"What is it?" Fingers curled around his cock, gently stroking. "Keep playing for me."
Illya shook his head. "No..." His voice was breathless and weak, and it wasn't from playing the horn.
"No?" Goldberg drawled, amused and mocking. "Who told you to stop?"
Illya let the instrument fall to the carpet with a soft thud. He pushed against the torso behind him, rubbing himself shamelessly like an animal in heat. The hard erection pressed into his ass, rousing him to a frenzy of motion. He gripped the thighs bracketing his own for support.
Goldberg groaned and pulled Illya to him. He milked Illya at a faster pace, fingers moving along the shaft and tip with urgent strokes. There was nothing gentle or finessed about their movements; they were racing each other to see who could come first.
Illya tightened his fingers in Goldberg's muscled thighs. It was good, too good. Goldberg had managed to pull Illya's trousers and underpants down, freeing his genitals. One hand cupped and teased his testicles, while the other maintained the frenzied stroking of his cock. Illya was losing. His body thrust into the hands, not against the bulge pressed to his ass. His cock swelled, aching for release. It wasn't fair. His seducer had a barrier of cloth, while he had no impediment to enjoying the man's skilled touch.
Suddenly Goldberg abandoned him. Illya moaned and gripped his wrists, his body writhing in desperation. "Don't stop!"
"You stopped playing when I told you not to."
"I can't play." Illya squirmed against him, begging with his body. He turned his head to press kisses against a satin-smooth cheek. "Not when you touch me like that."
Goldberg trembled, and turned his head away. "Stand up," he growled. "Pull down your pants."
Illya obeyed with alacrity, shedding them on the carpet. He even removed his shirt for good measure.
Goldberg undressed too, tossing his cravat, blazer jacket, shirt, pants and underwear carelessly on the ottoman. Bereft of physical props, completely nude, it was impossible to see him as anyone else but Napoleon Solo. Illya's eyes were drawn to the old bullet wound on his left shoulder and the whiplash scars on his back. No talent scout carried such marks on his body.
Fantasy and reality blurred before him. Disconcerted, Illya cast his eyes down as Napoleon walked past him. He didn't want reality intruding on a moment like this.
If Napoleon noticed Illya's behavior, he chose not to comment on it. With easy grace, he lowered himself in the armchair, a jar of lube in one hand, his erection in the other. He oiled himself up, a blissful expression on his face.
Jealousy and desire tore through Illya. He wanted to be the one to do that.
A wicked grin curled Napoleon's mouth. He tossed the lube away, and held out his arms. "Come sit in my lap. Show me how good you are."
Illya stood before him, heart pounding, adrenalin humming through his veins. He wanted it. He knew he could take it. Slowly he turned around so that his back was to Napoleon and waited. Behind him, Napoleon made a strangled sound like a man at the end of his tether. Strong hands seized Illya's hips, bruising in strength, pulling him down.
Illya cried out, a sharp sound of surprise as Napoleon filled him with one clean stroke. Pain rippled inside him. Fresh droplets of sweat broke out on his brow.
Beneath him, Napoleon trembled. "Fuck," he whispered, his tone almost reverent. His hands were on Illya's hips, urging him to move. "Illya...please..."
Illya froze. Speaking the other's name was the only taboo, one they'd tacitly agreed on from the start. The fake names, the strange hotels, the fabricated identities...they were the props that lent the proceedings an air of unreality. They could do whatever they liked, no matter how outrageous or absurd. No real names. No real commitment. No awkward real-life repercussions. The ideal arrangement.
But everyone was entitled to a momentary lapse now and then.
Illya gripped the armrests for support, planted his feet on the ground, and began sliding himself up and down the hard cock. It ached inside but eased with every stroke, his body keen to master this challenge. His arms and legs tensed with the effort required to support himself and maintain a steady rhythm.
Napoleon guided him as best he could. He made soft whimpering noises in his throat as Illya withdrew. He trembled and clutched Illya like a lifeline when he came home.
Illya bent his head, gasping. It felt good that time. He shifted himself over the cock like a restless child uncomfortable on a teacher's knee, finally kneeling over Napoleon's lap so he could lengthen the thrusts and intensify the stimulation: almost out, then deep inside again. Yes, that depth was much better. He became entranced by his own movements and the sure strokes of the cock as it nudged his prostate.
Napoleon groaned aloud and writhed in the chair. He bit at Illya's shoulders. With his hands he stroked life into Illya's cock.
Illya responded by increasing his pace like a well-trained mount responding to a rider. He was being stroked and fucked, dual stimulations feeding off each other, sending sparks of pleasure from cock to prostate and back again in an irresistibly powerful pleasure circuit. It fueled his movements as he rose and fell on Napoleon's lap, their torsos sliding together. His escalating enjoyment, his startled gasps of pleasure...it pointed to the inescapable conclusion, too shocking to be spoken aloud: he needed this. He needed Napoleon deeper inside him, steadily fucking him. He could never get enough of his skilled hands. And he obeyed, enslaved by the whims of his own body as much as Napoleon's desire.
It was moments like these where the protection offered by the roles seemed most tenuous. He was naked and exposed; the old scars on his back would be clearly visible. But self-consciousness evaporated in the onslaught of the repeated fucking.
Napoleon panted in time, his free hand sliding over Illya's flexing thigh, then to the curve of his ass. He gripped and squeezed, branding Illya with his touch, stroking the limber frame as it rose and fell in ceaseless motion, a human metronome marking time to orgasm. His own control was no match for Illya's gymnastic grace and discipline. It proved to be his undoing. He leaned Illya forward and let loose with thrusts of his own.
Illya grabbed the low table to balance himself. The pounding of his prostate sent a torrent of ecstasy through his nervous system, shattering his nerves with pulsing jolts. It called up a matching ferocity inside him, making him surge and buck in Napoleon's hold. He stiffened and cried out, unable to hold back, while Napoleon squeezed him dry with long firm strokes of his hands. One last convulsive shudder passed through him, and it was all over.
Napoleon released his cock. His hands gripped his hips, wet fingers making indentations that would leave faint bruises the next day. Illya didn't care. His arm muscles trembled as he absorbed the near-violent thrusts of Napoleon's hips, his body accepting the molten pleasure-pain with dazed bemusement.
Finally Napoleon growled and clutched Illya as he climaxed inside him. He rested his head against Illya's back, gasping, his hands still on Illya's narrow hips. Illya rested his elbows on his knees, waiting for Napoleon to make the next move.
The silence lengthened. Napoleon pressed a kiss between Illya's shoulder blades then rubbed a cheek against his spine. Illya held his breath, wonder and confusion keeping him still. Was this part of the act? Was it spontaneous? Did it even matter? Moments like these were what kept him coming back again and again.
Without warning, Napoleon nudged him up. Illya stumbled to his feet.
"Come." He did his best to look everywhere except at Illya. "You need a shower before you meet the boss."
Illya followed him. The talent scout was more considerate than he'd given him credit for.
The warm water sluiced over them both, washing away the stickiness and sweat. Napoleon lathered soap over his body with a brisk touch. His hands scrubbed Illya's shoulders and back. He paused when he came to Illya's ass, before lathering both globes with the same quick impersonal strokes. The shower spray obscured Napoleon's face, but there was nothing sexual or affectionate in his actions.
Was this part of the role-play? Illya couldn't work it out. Why would Goldberg bother cleaning him with such care? He tried to catch Napoleon's eye but it was no use; Napoleon was too absorbed in his self-imposed task. Illya may as well have been a dusty car in need of a good scrub. Still puzzled, he took his cue from Napoleon, and remained still as he submitted to the washing.
Napoleon cleaned his torso, the washcloth trailing a thick lather over his nipples, down the central line of hairs that ran from sternum to navel before flaring into a thatch around his groin. Illya tensed and held his breath. His cock lifted slightly, not at all put off by the vigorous motion. The lemon soap fragrance and steam surrounded them both.
If Napoleon noticed, he said nothing. He moved the washcloth in steady circles over the thatch of hairs, pulling them slightly. Illya felt his cock twitch in response. He clenched his hands, determined to maintain the same stoic indifference as Napoleon. The suds gathered over his groin, slid over his genitals, sparkling rivulets of foam that dripped down his thighs. Napoleon was crouched low as he worked, the washcloth scrubbing between his thighs, carefully removing all traces of their sexual activities. His eyes were at crotch level, but he didn't stare. He seemed focused on washing Illya clean. The semen, the sweat, his very touch...all washed down the drain.
Something rebelled inside Illya. He didn't want everything cleaned and forgotten. On an impulse he reached down and yanked the washcloth free from Napoleon's hands. He used the soap to create more lather. Napoleon stood up, mild surprise on his face. He flicked wet hair off his forehead, but made no move to stop Illya.
With more suds on the washcloth, Illya soaped Napoleon's broad chest and shoulders and abdomen with long lazy strokes. He played close attention to the small pink-brown nipples, watching them harden into peaks under his ministrations. The suds slid down over his torso, and he chased them with the cloth until he reached the lax genitals. He tangled his soapy fingers in the dark hairs at the crotch, then cleaned Napoleon's testicles and cock with the washcloth.
Napoleon was still as a statue, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest. He didn't protest, but he didn't encourage either. His eyes were half-closed against the shower spray. But his cock stirred between his legs, pointing at Illya in silent accusation.
Illya smiled, pleased at the involuntary response. He threw the washcloth on the soap dish and rinsed Napoleon with his hands, running his fingers over the hard angles and long planes. He pressed himself against Napoleon so that the water pooled and sluiced between them. He bent his face to Napoleon's throat to savor the remnants of his cologne, determined to savor the scent before it was washed away by soap and water. His cock nudged Napoleon's, eager to play again.
Napoleon grabbed Illya's wrists. His dark eyes glittered with anger and desire. "Keep that up, and you'll never meet Sternmacher."
Illya lifted his head for a kiss. The disguises didn't matter any more. "What do I need him for," he whispered against his lips, "when I have you?"
Napoleon trembled against him, bereft of a ready answer.
Illya wasn't looking for words. He slid against Napoleon's torso and kissed him with deliberate thoroughness. His legs slid between Napoleon's, his heel brushing a calf.
Napoleon released Illya's wrists as if they burned him. Undeterred, Illya backed him against the wet tiles of the shower stall, pressing him there with the weight of his body.
"I'm not the one you want," Napoleon said gruffly. His hands moved up to Illya's shoulders as if to push him away, but his fingers lingered against his skin. "I'm not Sternmacher."
"I know." Illya traced the stellate bullet scar on the left shoulder with fingers then lips. He pressed his tongue against the fibrous tissue, teasing the insensitive flesh, worshiping it with gentle strokes. He'd always wanted to do this, to acknowledge and love the body he knew so well. And with each lap of his tongue, Napoleon crumbled bit by bit. His hands caressed Illya's shoulders, his fingers tracing the bones and muscles. His legs parted, unconsciously inviting Illya to close the gap. He made a low sound in his throat as Illya moved against him, wet skin to wet skin, cocks nudging together in a slow dance.
"No, don't..." Napoleon shook his head desperately. Droplets of water clung to his eyelashes.
"You're not saying it with enough conviction," Illya murmured against his throat.
Fingers slid up the nape of Illya's neck and twisted in his hair. A hard tug, and Illya found himself looking into burning dark eyes.
"What do you want from me?"
"Anything...anything you can give me."
Pain shadowed his eyes, fracturing the mask of anger. "Don't say it."
"Napoleon-"
He barely finished the name. Napoleon swooped on him, his lips brutal and hard, but never so welcome. Illya slid his hands around Napoleon, caressing his back and ass. Their wet bodies shifted against each other, warm and wet and familiar.
Illya felt giddy with triumph. He was kissing Napoleon, and Napoleon was kissing him back.
Abruptly Napoleon broke away to turn off the faucets. Illya went to kiss him again, but he grabbed Illya's wrist and pulled him from the shower stall. Two fluffy green towels hung on the rails. Illya reached for one, but Napoleon ignored them as he strode to the bedroom.
There was a double bed waiting for them. Napoleon clambered on it, uncaring of the water soaking the sheets. Illya eagerly followed, rolling on the bed in exuberant joy, creasing the sheets beneath him. Napoleon growled and fell on top of him. With their skin wet and slippery, they rubbed and wrestled in each other's arms. Illya arched and felt Napoleon gasping in his shoulder, surging against him with the same rough desperation. There was nothing gentle or refined about it, but the lack of technique suited Illya perfectly.
Illya stroked his hands down Napoleon's sides to curve around his ass. The pads of his fingers slipped between the sensitive crevice. Napoleon jerked in surprise, eyes wide. Illya wrapped one leg around Napoleon's, gripped his ass and urged him to thrust faster. As Napoleon obeyed, Illya ran his fingers along the delicate flesh, teasing Napoleon with the idea of entering him again. If he'd brought lube, he would have finger-fucked Napoleon to heighten the pleasure. But he settled for tracing the entrance to his body, a subtle promise for next time.
Above him, Napoleon's eyes were slitted, teeth clenched. Sweat from his chest dewed Illya's body, muscles flexing as he drove them to the brink. Between them, their cocks rubbed with each frenzied thrust, the pull of hair and skin a pain that heightened the pleasure. Illya was hard and ready, but his tired body withheld its climax. He let out a frustrated groan and arched against Napoleon again.
Napoleon heard him. He bent his head, forearms braced on either side of Illya, hands curled into fists. His shoulders loomed over Illya, blocking the light. He exhaled sharply with each thrust, jaw clenched, eyes glazed with single-minded purpose. His cock slid between Illya's thighs, pushing the underside of his balls with deep powerful strokes, an echo of the pleasurable fucking he'd received in the armchair. Perfect. Illya parted his lips on a moan as the sensations wrung one last, muted orgasm from his exhausted body.
It took Napoleon several more thrusts to find his way there. With his eyes screwed shut, teeth bared in a grimace, his climax seemed to bring him more pain than pleasure. He stiffened then collapsed on top of Illya.
It was too suffocating for Illya to bear. He tried to wriggle free and Napoleon obliged by tumbling on the mattress, chest still heaving with exertion. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. Illya's throat felt dry and hoarse, as if he'd been shouting.
"Napoleon?" he rasped.
Napoleon didn't answer. His eyes were shut as he lay against the damp sheets, forehead and brow wrinkled in a frown.
Illya tried to smooth the lines with his fingers. No matter how hard he tried, there was no eradicating them. He'd never noticed before how they persisted even in slumber. Illya observed the pores of his skin, the expressive dark brows, the dimpled chin and cleft lips. He kept the bedroom lights on so he could mentally document these miniscule details. Napoleon would never submit to such scrutiny while awake.
Strange. Napoleon smiled a great deal, but his face was naturally somber. The lines bracketing his mouth had deepened with time, the crow's feet visible at the corners of his eyes. They made his face appear unhappy and haggard in repose.
Illya was still puzzling over it when sleep finally claimed him.
