Dirty Laundry

by Nix

Napoleon lay face down on his bed and listened to the door to his apartment shut quietly in the distance. Soon, he knew, the sweat on his skin would start to cool, bringing with it an uncomfortable chill. Soon the wet spot spreading beneath belly and groin would become sticky and unpleasant. Soon the wetness of sweat and semen and lube that slicked his ass and trickled down over his thighs would become unpleasant and he'd have to lever himself up off the bed and go to the shower and wash it all off.

But for the moment he lay and enjoyed the mild ache of stretched muscles, the pleasant lassitude that comes after orgasm. It wasn't quite enough, of course. It never was. The man had played at strength and Napoleon let him, and they both knew that it was just a game. He could have thrown off the man who'd just left. Could probably have reached back and killed him without bothering to throw him off, if he'd wanted to.

Perhaps, Napoleon thought, shifting slightly to reawaken the ache inside, perhaps that's why he came. Maybe he got off on going to bed with someone dangerous. It had been true before. The last time, even, weeks ago. Disappointing, but he hasn't worked out a way to avoid it. Yet.

Napoleon was just shifting, preparing to get up, when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with that unmistakable watched feeling. Daniel wouldn't have come back. That's not the way it worked. Which meant that whoever it was was seeing something that they shouldn't.

All this flew threw Napoleon's thoughts in an instant. He pushed off his left hand hard and fast, ready to roll off the bed, out of the intruder's line of sight—or line of fire—and into position to launch an attack of his own. A knee came down hard on the back Napoleon's thigh, spoiling the movement before he got halfway through it. Hands planted on his shoulders forced him back down on the bed with a thump.

Napoleon knew that grip. He knew the weight that pressed his body, still wet with the remnants of sex, solidly into the bedcovers. Illya.

"Napoleon." There was an unfamiliar weight on Illya's voice. He made no move to release his partner.

"Illya," Napoleon responded, and silently cursed the calmness of his own voice. There went any possibility of playing this like it was anything other than what it appeared to be. Well, if he was going to be calm about it... "What brings you here this evening?"

"I thought I'd take you out for a drink," Illya said evenly. "But I see that someone else has already taken you. Quite thoroughly."

Not that thoroughly, Napoleon couldn't help thinking. "If you let me up," he replied aloud, "we can still go for that drink."

"I don't think I want a drink anymore, Napoleon." The pressure against his shoulders increased as Illya leaned down, so close that he could feel the heat of the man's body against his back. "You know," he whispered, so close that his lips brushed Napoleon's ear, "I was never sure if you were flirting with me because you wanted me, or because you knew of my own...inclinations...and were teasing me. Or trying to manipulate me." The lapels of Illya's suit jacket brushed over sensitized skin as he leaned even closer, nearly all his weight on Napoleon's shoulders now. "Did that young man I met coming out of your apartment give you what you wanted, Napoleon?" Illya asked silkily.

No. "Don't play games with me, Illya," Napoleon warned. He heard the roughness in his own voice and wondered if Illya would recognize it.

"We're neither of us playing now," Illya murmured.

With a sharp thrill of arousal, Napoleon knew that for the truth. Illya sat up and released his shoulders, but Napoleon made no attempt to throw him off. They were almost evenly matched in a fair fight, but Illya had the edge here. He'd had it from the moment he walked into the room, and Napoleon felt no particular need to test his partner's strength. He knew it well enough already.

Instead he listened to the unmistakable rustle of clothes being discarded and struggled to control his rapidly shallowing breathing. There was a moment when Illya's knee lifted from the back of his thigh and he could have rolled away, then. Could have rolled away easily, because Illya was almost certainly struggling out of his pants at that moment and Napoleon would have the advantage of mobility.

But he didn't want it. He wanted the heat of his skin on his, the strength of his partner at his back, the prickle of sweat on straining bodies.

Napoleon was almost panting by the time Illya lay back against him, their bodies pressed together from ankle to thigh. Napoleon couldn't help grinding against the bed a little, little movements restricted by the weight of Illya bearing him down against the mattress.

"So eager, so soon," Illya murmured, sounding amused. His hands moved to stroke up Napoleon's arms. For a moment he gripped Napoleon's wrists tightly. "You're still wet here," he went on, thrusting his hips against Napoleon's ass, sliding his cock through the damp cleft, pausing teasingly over the stretched, slick pucker. "What was his name?" Illya demanded quietly.

The answer was on Napoleon's lips before he even knew he was going to give it. "Daniel," he gasped quietly, straining up against the weight that held him. Not for escape, but for pressure, for depth...

"Daniel," Illya repeated contemplatively. "Did he give you what you wanted?"

"Close enough," Napoleon choked out. He squirmed under the heaviness of Illya's body holding him down, trying to find that one movement that would open him up and let his partner's cock slide inside. It wouldn't take much; he was already ready, if he could just push a little harder...

Illya effortlessly shifted away from his shameless searching movements. "No," he said, "I don't think it was close enough. If it was, would you still be so desperate for this?" He pressed for a moment against the trembling opening of Napoleon's body. Napoleon froze, afraid the least little movement would lose him the possession Illya was promising.

"No," Illya slid his hands under Napoleon's arms and hooked them over his shoulders, "not close enough. But he did get you ready for me, didn't he?"

After a moment, Napoleon realized that the question needed an answer. "Yes," he whimpered, and then, "please," because he couldn't help it. "Please—!"

And then Illya was sliding into him. One long, slick push buried the heat of him deep inside and Napoleon sobbed with the pleasure of it and pushed back to take him deeper, as deep as he could.

Illya made a soft, breathless sound and mouthed the skin at the nape of Napoleon's neck. Lips and teeth and tongue played wetly over skin already damp with sweat. Napoleon was hot and soft and tight inside, and wet, wet from the man who'd come before. At that, heat rose up in Illya, burning heat that flushed his skin and twisted his gut. There had been someone else here. Someone else had been this deep, and Napoleon had let them, had wanted it, but it hadn't been enough, had it? He needed more, needed it more intense, had asked for it. Please, he'd said.

"Knees," Illya growled, tugging at his hips. "I need you on your knees."

Napoleon struggled into position without question, leaning into the thrust of Illya's cock even as he moved, body clenching tight, refusing to let go despite the slippery tenuousness of its grasp. At last he knelt, weight on his hands, back hollowed out as he pushed back against Illya, demanding deeper, demanding more.

Wrapping his hands around Napoleon's hips, Illya complied willingly with the silent demands. He drove harder into his partner, his lover now, harder and harder until they were both rocking with the force of it and Napoleon was making these pleasured keening noises that had to be addictive because every time he heard one Illya had to thrust again, trying for another.

Napoleon's back shone with sweat. Illya buried himself in Napoleon, holding the driving rhythm for a moment, and lay against the slick skin, forcing Napoleon to hold both their weight on his arms. Illya licked at the sweat, the salt of it only sharpening his thirst, and moved his hands from Napoleon's hips to his groin.

"Illya!" Napoleon cried out as his cock was taken in one strong hand, his balls in the other. Illya stroked him ruthlessly, spreading the dampness of pre-come over sensitive skin. Napoleon felt swollen with pleasure. Surely it must be leaking out his pores likes sweat, like come. "Illya..." he sobbed again.

Movement returned: the sweet slide of Illya's cock into the depths of his ass, the hot sparkle of his prostate touched on every stroke, and the tight grip of hands on his cock, rolling his balls in clever fingers. Too much. Whatever fragment of control lingered in his grasp was torn away from Napoleon when his climax rolled through him.

He shuddered helplessly in the throes of pleasure and Illya held him tight, letting him spend himself safely. Weak with the power of it, Napoleon nevertheless held them both up as Illya found his own release, their hips held tightly together. Inside, Napoleon could feel the wetness of it. He gave a small sigh and lowered them both to the stained, disheveled, damp bed clothes.

They'd have to change the sheets. But...not just yet.