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Illya had his suspicions the moment Gaby said, “We should have a competition.”
He hadn’t liked the look of the woman since they’d raced side by side through the streets of East Berlin, and every interaction since then had been fraught with challenging glares and not-so-casual brushes of her hands over his body that didn’t so much as signal an interest in flirting as in tormenting him.
He knew her kind: greedy, demanding and utterly convinced she deserved whatever she set her sights on.
Interestingly, lllya thought Napoleon might be her polar opposite.
Oh, at first blush the two of them appeared to be cut from the same cloth. Both far too good-looking for the anonymity that true spycraft demanded, both filling whatever spaces they entered with the overwhelming power of their magnetism, both confident that they knew exactly what action should be taken.
But Illya had seen quickly that that was where the similarities ended.
He slid his narrow-eyed gaze from Gaby, who stood like a ringmaster before the fire, waiting for their reactions, to Napoleon, who lounged carelessly in the wingback chair that matched the one in which Illya sat ramrod straight. Another difference there: Gaby wasn’t afraid to show her hand. Napoleon was always concealing, deceiving, performing. Illya bet that the dark-haired CIA agent wasn’t half as nonchalant as he made it appear.
“What competition?” Illya demanded, blunt, to the point. It was how he deflated women like her. He refused to play their twisted, convoluted games.
“A competition to see who is the better agent.”
Gaby wasn’t smiling, she didn’t often, but Illya saw the light of excitement in her dark eyes. She wanted this, probably more than ever thanks to the argument she’d had with Illya earlier in the day. When he’d refused to give in to her orders, which had been pointless and unnecessary. He knew how to do his job. It was why he was the best.
“You’re stirring up trouble, Gaby dear,” Napoleon said, still careless, still the playboy amused with life around him. Illya wondered if Napoleon ever turned off the act, wondered if only in the heat of violence did he peel back the layers of artifice and allow the real man to come through.
“This isn’t trouble.” She cocked her head, as playful as a cobra. “I’d like to prove a point.”
Illya didn’t react, even though she was obviously goading him. It was up to Napoleon to glance askance at him before sighing and saying, “This is not a good idea.”
“What if you win?” she asked him, still pushing.
Napoleon smiled a little, not nearly at full wattage, but it still made Illya yearn to punch him in the face for being what a good agent wasn’t supposed to be: memorable.
“Of course I’ll win,” Napoleon said quietly, fingers entwined placidly across his abdomen, “but that’s beside the point. We don’t need to compete against each other. We’re a team now, remember?”
“We’re not a team.” Gaby’s dark eyes stabbed Illya. He hated his body for reacting. He wanted to jump up, grab her and throw her over his lap, make her regret every superior look she’d given him, every dismissive tilt of the chin.
Before Illya could give in to his urge and think too much about the growing hardness between his legs and what needed to be done about it, he heard Napoleon murmur thoughtfully, “No. We aren’t a team. Not yet.”
Napoleon was thinking, and in this he was a very good spy. Illya could never tell what went on behind the blue eyes. Napoleon wore mask over mask over mask. Illya was startled, then (though he didn’t flinch to betray this) when Napoleon abruptly sat up and leaned forward, elbows on his thighs.
“Very well,” he said, all smiles again as he looked up at Gaby. “Let’s play. Maybe a game will break down a few barriers.”
Illya very carefully did not sneer, though he badly wanted to. Whatever Gaby came up with would not bring them closer together. She was an impetuous, entitled little girl. He wished he could stop staring furtively at her whenever she entered his orbit.
“The game is this,” Gaby announced, still cool and collected, but obviously relishing what lay ahead. A flush had begun to warm her cheeks. “The best spy in this room is not the bravest or the strongest. The best spy is the one who excels at following orders. We are all dogs at the call of our masters. But which of us – which of you—is the most obedient dog?”
Illya stared at her, having trouble deciphering what she’d just said, wondering if she had just insulted him and Napoleon.
“What kind of competition is this?” he demanded in a soft growl. “I am no dog, and no man is my master.”
“She’s talking operationally,” Napoleon answered, smooth, unconcerned. His hands rested together between his knees as though he were praying, fingers touching. “A good agent doesn’t question his orders and doesn’t fight them. That’s what Gaby means. Nothing more.”
Illya was tentatively curious, mostly because of Napoleon’s apparent acceptance of this. Whatever the dark-haired agent could do, Illya knew he could do better, so he didn’t want to appear to be uncomfortable with this if Napoleon wasn’t. This compulsion to best Napoleon in everything had burrowed itself deep in Illya’s marrow, though he couldn’t say why he felt so intensely about the matter. Westerners shouldn’t have been a threat to him, but somehow, some way, Napoleon—and Gaby, too—bothered him greatly.
“I have never disobeyed a direct order,” Illya declared, daring one of them to refute this.
“Not yet,” Gaby said, and at last she made no effort to disguise the antagonism in her voice.
At some point, Illya realized with some surprise, he had denied her some sort of satisfaction. He struggled to pinpoint the moment, but when he thought back on every interaction they’d shared, all he could come up with were the innumerable instances of her poking and prodding him. Always with a hint of derision in her voice, as though she thought him, as a Russian, to be slightly barbaric. Uncivilized. Too unlike Napoleon.
“I have not disobeyed,” Illya insisted again. He gripped his knees, back still straight. “What is this competition? We will do it. I will prove I am the better agent.” I will prove, he thought to himself, that you are a lying, vindictive, infuriating woman.
Gaby didn’t smirk, but the desire was there, Illya could sense it. She looked to Napoleon. “Are you in?”
Napoleon, quiet throughout this, now sighed and dropped his gaze to the Persian rug. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He had, Illya grudgingly admitted, the perfect jawline. It made Illya want to punch it and see a bruise blossom along its edge. It made him want to hold it tight in his hand and force Napoleon’s face up to him and—
Illya dug his fingernails into his skin through his trousers. No, he would not think further on that path.
“Napoleon…”
Illya shot Gaby a sharp glance, not liking the soft, cajoling tone of her voice. She had never spoken to him that way. Even though he would be first to agree they were barely a team it still burned like a betrayal.
With a small shake of his head and a wry smile that was for himself, not anyone else, Napoleon raised his head. His smile for them was solicitous. “Absolutely. I wouldn’t dream of spoiling your fun by holding out, Gaby.”
Gaby remained where she stood, but uncrossed her arms and let them hang by her sides. The fire behind her in the hearth glowed through the edges of her short dress, turning the fabric sheer and granting Illya and Napoleon the silhouette of her slender legs. Illya didn’t want to appreciate her form, but it was impossible not to. If only she were a good Russian girl and not a stubborn, headstrong—
“The game is simple,” she said, her voice low, hypnotic. “I will be your handler. You will be my agents. I will give you orders. If you refuse to obey them, you will prove yourself the inferior spy. You lose.”
“What are the stakes?” Napoleon asked, though he hardly sounded as though he cared. He sat politely, an attentive partner.
“The stakes will become obvious,” was all Gaby said, and Illya snorted in disgust. Stupid woman. Stupid game. He would win and then leave the hotel to find better company.
“Begin,” he said impatiently. “I have somewhere to be.”
Napoleon was amused by his attitude, but inclined his head. “Go on, Gaby.”
Illya tensed, expecting to receive the first command, but Gaby looked to Napoleon and said, “Remove your vest and your tie. Then unbutton your shirt.”
Illya’s clenched jaw fell open. Gaby’s command lay on the floor like a gauntlet. No, like a dead body that one of them had shot and no one knew what to do with. Illya searched Napoleon’s face, expecting shock or disgust, but the other man merely held Gaby’s gaze for a long, searching moment. He was, Illya realized, much better at staring her down than he was.
He shook his head, slightly disappointed. The game would end before it would begin. Gaby had pushed too far, shown her hand in the most embarrassing fashion, and Illya began to feel a little bad for her. Until, that is, Napoleon, satisfied with whatever he’d seen in Gaby’s eyes, reached up and began unknotting his tie. The silk slid through the tunnel of his collar with a slick sound that licked Illya’s cock.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but he couldn’t look away as Napoleon draped his tie over the arm of the chair before working on the buttons of his vest. It came off quietly and it, too, was added to the arm rest. Still looking to Gaby, almost as if for approval, Napoleon slowly, methodically began unbuttoning his dress shirt.
Illya had not yet seen the other man bare skinned. He figured it would happen eventually during the course of their mission, but he’d thought it would happen after an injury or while they were hastily changing outfits for the mission.
Never would he have dreamed he’d be seeing Napoleon bare his skin in this quietly seductive manner, even though he was doing nothing overtly sensual, simply opening his shirt completely, until the strong shelf of his collarbones was clearly seen and Illya could measure the thickness of his pecs and perhaps glimpse the crescent edge of one pale, pink nipple.
“Very good,” Gaby said when Napoleon had completed his task. Illya thought he caught a twitch of Napoleon’s lips in response to the praise.
Then Gaby’s gaze shifted to Illya, and he braced himself for the indignities she planned to inflict on him. He’d figured it out: they were teaming up to humiliate him. But he would find a way to defeat them. He always triumphed.
“You,” she said, “go to Napoleon and stand beside his chair.”
Illya waited for more, but she said nothing. He knew there would be more. She intended to blindside him. Well, he was excellent at adapting. He was excellent at everything. Chin up, he stood and crossed the few feet to stand beside the other wingback. Napoleon, to his credit, did not flinch away from having Illya towering over him. Illya was not so sure he would have been as relaxed about it.
“Now run your fingers through his hair.”
Illya frowned, certain he had heard incorrectly. “What do you mean?”
“You heard me, or is your English not so good?”
A purse of the lips, again the urge to punch something or someone, but Illya took a deep breath to calm himself. It helped that he’d finally sensed a change in Napoleon: a crisping of his formerly tranquil pose.
“You want me to run my fingers through his hair,” Illya repeated, not quite spitting out the words but having trouble speaking them. Imagining himself doing them.
Gaby tilted her head, a picture of innocence. “Are you unable to complete the mission, comrade?”
Oh, but she needed a spanking. Until she squirmed and cried and maybe even then Illya wouldn’t stop. Not until she’d begged him for relief. Or simply begged him.
But if that ever came to pass, it would come later. For now—he grimaced. Now, he had to win this infernal competition or the two of them would never let him hear the end of it.
He raised his hand and saw Napoleon’s neck muscles tense, though the other agent still did not move away. Illya found a perverse pleasure in dragging out the moment, letting Napoleon anticipate the contact, which he was clearly dreading. Illya let his hand hover just at the edges of the other man’s peripheral vision, as though Illya were still debating with himself. But there was no debate. Illya would win no matter what he had to do. But a few seconds longer…to enjoy the racing of the pulse in Napoleon’s neck, at his temple. Make him sweat.
Illya lowered his hand.
Napoleon’s hair was always so perfect. It was a surprise to find the dark strands soft and silky, not thick and stiff with product as Illya had assumed. He’d meant only to brush his fingers along the strands, satisfy the requirement in the barest sense possible, but once he’d touched Napoleon’s hair Illya found himself driving his fingers deeper into the waves, luxuriating in their thickness. Unbidden, his fingertips sought the warmth of Napoleon’s scalp. Illya ran his fingers along the curve, unsure what he was seeking until he felt it: a shiver from the other man.
Without stopping to think about the ramifications, Illya bent his fingers, dragging his fingernails lightly across Napoleon’s scalp, wanting to make the other man react more vividly. He heard a hiss, which was encouraging. At the crown of Napoleon’s head where the hair was thickest, Illya gripped impulsively. The fistful felt satisfying, appeasing his need for violence. He finally had the upper hand over the CIA agent. It felt good. It made Illya hard. He gave in to base urges and pulled Napoleon’s head back. Not a vicious yank that Napoleon might fight, but a slow, deliberate pull backwards intended to be faintly sexual, and therefore humiliating to the other man.
Below, Napoleon sat stiffly, back slightly arched. His hands had migrated to the arms of the chair where they now gripped, revealing a tension he hadn’t exhibited before. He must hate this, Illya thought triumphantly. But when Illya tugged on the other man’s hair in a show of dominance, he was unprepared for the faint gasp that emitted from Napoleon’s lips. It wasn’t a gasp of pain, but of something quite different.
Panicked, Illya’s gaze jumped to Gaby, who had watched the scene unfold in silence. Her arms were wrapped around herself now, her forearms subtly pushing up her breasts. Her eyes burned, though from jealousy or something else, Illya couldn’t tell.
Confused, startled by the panic rising up his spine, Illya released Napoleon and took two steps sideways, bringing him beyond arm’s reach of the other man. Napoleon, however, showed no inclination for revenge. A light flush rode those impossibly perfect cheekbones as he calmly raised both hands and smoothed the furrows that Illya had created in his hair. He kept his eyes on the floor. Through his opened shirt, Illya watched Napoleon’s chest rise and fall. Something warm and dark began to build in Illya’s own breast.
“I win,” he said, roughly, and then was embarrassed by how he sounded.
Gaby didn’t mock him for it, she only shrugged. “You win if Napoleon fails to obey an order. He hasn’t done so yet. The game continues.”
Illya cursed her, but she only smiled. It was then that Illya knew: she would be the final winner, no matter what happened between him and Napoleon. But maybe, just maybe, he could find his own victory.
“Go on,” he ordered.
Her smile widened. “Illya likes this game. What do you think of that, Napoleon?”
“I think I shouldn’t say what I think,” he replied, cool despite the heat that had obviously built in him. Illya was fascinated by the contradiction in Napoleon: the signs of his arousal countered by his apparent reluctance to act on it. Or so it appeared. Who knew what was happening behind that handsome, acquiescent visage?
Illya wanted to know.
“Command him,” he said to Gaby.
Napoleon finally glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. Illya, from his position above, refused to look away, even though a part of him was squirming, uncomfortable with the hunger that had risen in him. This was all very, very new.
Napoleon broke the staring match first, looking to Gaby at whom he smiled, all charm again.
“Command me, Gaby.”
She liked that. Illya saw it in the brief tightening of her lips, in the swell of her bosom as she inhaled.
She said, “Slide off the chair and onto your knees.”
Illya had always prided himself on having absolute control over his body, but evidently he possessed none over his cock. It pushed urgently against the placket of his trousers as soon as the words left her lips. He thought of covering himself, but decided that would be conceding defeat. Besides, when Gaby noticed and gave the mound in his trousers a measuring look, her reaction was far from negative. Instead, her lips parted and her tongue came out once, to slick them.
Illya groaned.
Napoleon, still seated, registered the sound with a tick of the head but didn’t turn to look at Illya, as if he knew what he would see. Maddeningly, he said nothing, only slid forth silently off the edge of the chair until his knees touched the rug.
It was madness that spurred Illya to move forward and grip the back of the chair and slide it backwards from Napoleon, leaving him kneeling alone in the center of the room. Napoleon did turn to look then, but didn’t raise his gaze beyond the level of Illya’s knees. It angered him that Napoleon could act so cool and contained about a scene that was turning Illya’s world upside down.
“Command me,” Illya snarled at Gaby, his hands fisted by his sides, his cock a throbbing, pulsing weapon between his thighs.
But Gaby was running this game, and she wanted Illya to know it. She lowered her arms again, revealing the peaks of her nipples through the fabric of her dress. She stepped across the rug, passing Napoleon, who remained still and compliant, to pause in front of Illya. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. He smiled at that. Not a nice smile, but not a cruel one, either.
“Kiss me,” she said. Authority deepened her voice. “Do not touch me with anything but your lips. And your tongue.”
Not so long ago Illya had wanted to hurt her. Now he could think of doing nothing to her but what she’d commanded.
No, that was not entirely true. He wanted to touch her as she’d forbade him to. Wanted it more because she’d said he couldn’t.
He had to bend down to reach her, and he kept his eyes open for the descent, in case this was a trick. Like a young girl, she closed her eyes, a gentle, trusting smile on her lips, mocking him. He told himself he would bite those lips, would teach them a lesson for trusting the wrong man. But when his lips sealed over her cool, plush ones, thoughts of hurting her dissolved from his brain.
She wasn’t passive. He wasn’t sure he’d expected her to be. Immediately she opened beneath him, welcoming the aggressive thrust of his tongue, the heated gust of his breath, before pushing her own tongue against him. Slick, wet and hot, their tongues twined and fought, first in Gaby’s mouth, then in Illya’s.
The first point was his: she moaned when his tongue flicked her upper palate, tickling the tender skin there.
But she quickly returned the favor, sucking obscenely on his tongue, showing him what she wanted, and he groaned from deep in his chest.
He raised his hands, intending to bend her back and really give her a kiss to steal her breath away. At the last second he realized what he was about to do and thrust his hands down. So close to losing this game, but he hadn’t. He finished her off with a swirl of his tongue. Her eyes were still closed, dreamily, when he lifted his head.
She was beautiful. He didn’t care, in that moment, that she wasn’t Russian, or that she was stubborn and bossy. He yearned for her in ways he hadn’t yearned for a woman in many years. Not since he’d joined the KGB and discovered his natural aptitude for deception, disruption and destruction. She brought out, he realized with a touch of wistfulness, the man he’d been before.
“That was very nice,” Napoleon said quietly.
Illya flinched. He snapped his gaze to Napoleon, expecting the worst, but the CIA agent wasn’t making fun of him. There was wistfulness on Napoleon’s face, too, though Illya wasn’t sure its source.
Gaby opened her eyes. Touched her cheeks. Stared for a long moment at Illya’s mouth until he began to grow self-conscious. Then she turned her head to address Napoleon.
“Crawl to us, Napoleon.”
The sight of the flush that burst across Napoleon’s cheeks nearly buckled Illya’s knees. A hand touched his hip and he looked down to see that it was Gaby's, though she remained gazing fixedly at Napoleon, waiting to see if he would obey.
Illya knew he would. Napoleon, though a CIA agent accustomed to taking charge of situations, could be curiously passive at times. Illya had glimpsed it during missions, in particular those in which Napoleon needed to seduce or distract a target. As often as he pursued, Napoleon allowed himself to be pursued as the situation dictated. Illya couldn’t have done it, couldn’t have sat back and waited for the pieces to fall into place around him as Napoleon did. He didn’t have the patience.
Or, he now believed, the inclination. His blood thundered in his ears as Napoleon considered the rug, the distance between him and them. Perhaps he considered what he’d look like, crawling to them. His cheeks brightened but his gaze grew bolder. For all that he might be amenable, Napoleon Solo wasn’t shy.
Gaby’s grip on Illya’s hip tightened as Napoleon bent forward and placed his hands on the Persian rub. He moved gracefully, nothing cringing within his actions, no sign that he felt humiliated as he crawled to them.
“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
Gaby whispered it, but she had to know that both men would hear it. Napoleon, moving his gaze between them, smiled a touch sardonically, but continued forward. Illya could say nothing because his throat had tightened but yes, he thought if a man could be beautiful, then Napoleon was.
A foot from them, Napoleon stopped and sat back on his heels. The tails of his shirt had loosened from the waistband of his trousers, revealing the firm, muscled expanse of his chest and abdomen. Beautiful, yes, but not in the way that Gaby was. Illya realized he appreciated them both, and wasn’t too bothered by the part of him that railed at this very un-Russian open-mindedness.
“It’s Illya’s turn to do as you say,” Napoleon said, his voice low and deep, dipping playfully into a British accent and then out again, reminding them both that he was the consummate actor. Maybe even now, he was hinting, I’m only playacting.
It riled Illya up, and apparently Gaby, too, for what she said next caused Illya’s pulse to gallop.
“Your turn is not yet over, Napoleon.” She reached down with her free hand and raised the hem of her dress. “You need to kiss me, too.”
“Gaby…” Napoleon breathed.
No artifice, no exaggeration. His pupils bled out, nearly drowning the blue of his eyes. He licked his lips before glancing up at her, the gentleman to the end, making sure this was what she truly wanted.
Illya could have told him yes. Her nails were digging into the skin of his hip with her urgency.
“Do it,” she said, breathless.
Napoleon rose fluidly to his knees. He placed his hands gently on her thighs. She trembled as he slid those hands up, higher and higher until he’d pushed the dress up to her belly and his hands bracketed her hips.
“Do it,” Illya heard himself say.
Napoleon’s lashes fluttered, as if he were overcome by their attention. Illya was close to violence again. He had to bite the inside of his cheek as Napoleon let his eyes fall shut and leaned forward.
Gaby gasped loudly as he worked her. She was shameless, tossing her head back, long hair streaming down her shoulders, hands clawing both Illya and the back of Napoleon’s head. She writhed, dancing in place. Her breasts jiggled tauntingly within her dress.
Watching Napoleon’s dark head move back and forth up and down, was too much for Illya. He reached down and grabbed the CIA agent’s hair again, pushing Napoleon into her, and was rewarded with Napoleon’s groan and Gaby’s louder cry.
It went on for many minutes, Napoleon proving he had considerable experience pleasing a woman. Gaby fluttered and swayed like a leaf caught in the wind. The sounds she made filled the suite of the hotel. Her scent rose to Illya’s nostrils and he breathed deeply, realizing that Napoleon would smell of her too. Napoleon was pressed tight against her now by both of their hands. Maybe he would suffocate, but neither Illya nor, he thought, Gaby, cared about the danger they were putting him in. They were spies. Danger was something they had all signed up for.
As Gaby rose closer and closer to her crest, Illya moved closer and closer to both of them, unable to keep away and unable to still the thrusting of his hips. The mound of his swollen cock was mere inches from the side of Napoleon’s face. He must feel the heat of it against his ear, but he didn’t attempt to pull away. He opened his blue eyes and looked up, first at Gaby, then at Illya. Then he groaned again and the blue disappeared behind the fall of dark lashes.
Illya felt like a beast. He bent down and ravished the arched curve of Gaby’s throat, trying to eat her moans and whimpering cries through her skin. She smelled of jasmine and cardamom and female sweat and the faintest hint of Napoleon. It made Illya imagine the two agents together without him, and he growled his jealousy. Gaby turned her head, eyes glistening and full of understanding, and kissed Illya like she wanted to eat him.
When Napoleon’s tongue made her come, it was into Illya’s mouth that she released her moan of pleasure.
Illya curled an arm around her thin shoulders, supporting her as she panted and swayed in the aftermath. Illya refused to look down. Could not. If he saw Napoleon now, mouth and chin slicked with Gaby’s juices, lips swollen, Illya would do bad things to him. Things they might not recover from.
But Gaby…always Gaby knew better.
She lifted her head from where she’d let it rest against Illya’s bicep. She said, still slightly out of breath, “It’s Illya’s turn to obey.”
Did she want him to service her, too? The prospect sent a thrill shooting through him. His cock twitched and swelled in anticipation.
But she said, “Illya, put yourself in his mouth, too.”
Illya bit back the groan that tried to rise out of his throat. It was born of anger and frustration. He was right about Gaby: she was nothing but a tormentor, crueler than any of the torturers in the KGB. Napoleon would never—
Hands found his belt buckle.
He startled, nearly jerked away. Below, Napoleon worked Illya’s belt open with hands that trembled, ever so faintly. He looked exactly as Illya had feared, as though he’d been buried between Gaby’s sweet lips and brought tremendous pleasure to them both. But also radiating from Napoleon was an obvious edge of dissatisfaction, an urgency in the way he licked his lips. Illya reached down and pushed back on Napoleon’s shoulder, just enough to see down the agent’s body.
“You’re hard,” Illya rasped.
He hadn’t meant to make it sound like an accusation but resentment flitted across Napoleon’s face and his hands paused. “What would you expect? I’m only human.”
Unlike Illya, was the implication, who was cold and unfeeling. A mechanical hand of the KGB. But Napoleon was wrong about that.
“I am human, too,” Illya said, cupping Napoleon’s chin and tilting it up. He tried for one of the wry smiles that the CIA agent carried off so well. “As you can see.”
Surprise gave way to relief. Napoleon dropped his gaze to Illya’s evident arousal and groaned, “I see.”
He fumbled Illya’s pants open, then dragged down his underwear. Illya wasn’t sure how Napoleon would react to the sight of him, if this was something he’d ever done before, perhaps on a mission. It would matter that Napoleon had only ever done this for the job, not for his own pleasure. It would mean this time was different. Even if orders had come by way of Gaby.
“Put it in him,” Gaby whispered wickedly.
The nastiest, filthiest, most delicious images tumbled through Illya’s head. He blushed madly.
Below, Napoleon chuckled. “I thought the same thing,” he said in response to Illya’s expression. “I—“
Illya grabbed him by the hair again and Napoleon made a choking sound, the words failing him. The competition still existed between them, though it had morphed into battle for a different sort of dominance. Illya was still determined to win. He aimed himself at that spoiled, luscious mouth and at the first touch to Napoleon’s lips thought he might burst from excitement.
“Don’t make him like it,” Gaby whispered, bending down to whisper in Napoleon’s ear. She traced its whorl with her tongue, making him shiver and clutch blindly at Illya’s hips. “Don’t let him come, Napoleon, no matter what he does to you.”
Illya mentally kissed her for her deviousness. He took hold of Napoleon’s head with both hands and pulled him down the length of him. Napoleon opened wide, swallowed him deep, choking only a little bit when Illya made him feel his balls on his chin. A withdrawal to allow Napoleon a breath, then in again, slow, sure, inevitable. Building a rhythm that made Illya’s balls ache and his buttocks clench.
“Don’t make him like it,” Gaby repeated, a devil on Napoleon’s shoulder, taunting him as he groaned and struggled to take all of Illya. She reached between Napoleon’s legs and palmed him, making him buck helplessly. “And your final order,” she cooed. “You cannot come, Napoleon.”
Illya laughed at that point. He shifted his grip so he could brush his thumbs across Napoleon’s hot cheeks and coax him to open his eyes. Napoleon did, desperation and a touch of anger shining from the orbs. He knew what they were doing.
“I concede,” Illya said, his voice thick with pleasure. “You are better than I am.” He smirked like an American. “At some things.”
He thrust and slid, plunged and glided and then suddenly he came, regretting that he hadn’t been able to warn the other man. But Napoleon, after initially tensing, relaxed and swallowed him down. The sight of his bobbing Adam’s apple was one Illya knew he would never forget.
“Napoleon…” Gaby sang. “Don’t do it.”
But her hand was relentless between his legs and he’d been teased for too long. He gasped around Illya’s length and fell against the KGB agent as shudders wracked his body. Illya found himself carding his fingers through dark, damp hair as Napoleon panted against him. Unnerved by his own show of affection, he pulled his hand away.
Gaby sat back, a Cheshire grin on her flushed face. She tilted her head back to regard Illya.
“You won, by the way. Happy now?”
He grunted, trying to regain his footing, trying to be him again. But it couldn’t be denied: East-West relations had improved considerably. The thawing had begun. Maybe, just maybe, they could be a team.