Voyeur

by Nix

Illya hadn't meant to watch.

He'd used his key to enter Napoleon's apartment and dropped his bag in the armchair tucked up against the fireplace. Originally he'd intended to ensconce himself in a hotel while UNCLE Security refitted his apartment, but Napoleon had offered alternating nights on the couch. It would be more comfortable than any room Illya could get with the amount of money he was willing to pay, and they both knew it.

So he wandered through the bedroom and into the small, single bathroom to relieve himself. The front door opened and shut as he finished washing his hands, then the bedroom door, but he paid no attention. He poked around in the medicine cabinet curiously—he was a spy, after all—but found nothing of interest.

Closing the cabinet gently, Illya turned and pulled the bathroom door open a few inches, automatically flicking the light off. And froze.

Napoleon lay stretched out atop the covers, utterly relaxed and completely naked. One hand lay beneath his head, but he was slowly stroking his quiescent cock with the other.

Napoleon had clearly forgotten he was expecting company.

He'd turned on a lamp beside the bed; the light traced every line of his body. Illya stood transfixed, one hand holding the door open those few inches, the other gripping the doorframe. He knew he should speak, alert Napoleon to his presence, despite the embarrassment that would no doubt result, but his voice was frozen in his throat.

Somehow, in all the time they'd been partnered, Illya had never stumbled on this sight before. It was surprising, really, given the precipitous arrivals often inspired by their profession. Now that he had, Illya was inexplicably startled. Had he thought that Napoleon didn't indulge this way? Maybe he had. Maybe he'd convinced himself that with all the women his partner wined and dined, he didn't need this sort of relief.

Illya realized now how foolish that conviction was. A man as sensual as Napoleon was would never deny himself a pleasure so easily come by.

On the bed Napoleon was growing visibly aroused, his cock lengthening and darkening with the hot rush of blood. He sighed, a softly pleased sound, and wrapped his hand around the slowly awakening phallus.

Watching, Illya drank in the expanse of faintly olive-toned skin, made darker in places by black, curling body hair. Napoleon's face and hands were distinctly darker than the flesh of his belly, a product of frequent missions to hot, sunny countries. Instead of being incongruous, the juxtaposition of tones brought Napoleon's body into one glorious whole, centered around the dark, eager flesh now arching toward his belly.

Illya had to say something. It was almost too late to plead accident and surprise. But in the moment when he would have betrayed his presence, Napoleon brought his other head down from over his head. His fingers unerringly found not his nipple, as Illya had expected, but the dusting of black curls trailing down his sternum. Brushing the hairs back, against the grain, Napoleon let out an unabashed noise of delight, and Illya froze still once more.

In that moment he knew with total certainty that he was not going to say anything. He was not going to open the door and apologize for intruding. He was not going to clear his throat, or knock on the doorframe. Instead, he was going to use every trick of stealth in his extensive arsenal, and Napoleon was going to show him all the ways he best like to be touched.

There was no room in Illya's thoughts for the explanation that he would have to give later. His mind was full of Napoleon, splayed wantonly on the bed before him.

Napoleon's eyes were closed as he touched himself. His lashes were thick and dark against his cheeks. Illya could see them even from where he stood. Full lips were parted for audible, heavy breaths. Even as Illya touched those lips with his gaze, Napoleon's tongue emerged, curling over his bottom lip a little as he moaned in pleasure.

Illya's knees had gone weak, his grip on the doorframe supportive now. His own arousal pressed hard against the seam of his pants, but he didn't lift a hand to touch himself. No distraction, not even that, would be worth missing the scene playing out in the bedroom.

At length, Napoleon slid the fingers that had toyed with his chest hair further down his body. He stroked lightly over his abdomen for a moment, letting loose a throaty, considering noise, before moving on to rub the rim of his navel with the edge of his thumb. That caress prompted a short gasp and a long, ecstatic groan. In the bathroom, it was all Illya could do not to echo the sound.

The hand on Napoleon's cock had been pumping slowly all this time, steadily encouraging him to greater hardness. Illya's gaze returned to the straining erection. Like most American men, Napoleon was cut. The exposed head, dark with arousal, was slick and shiny in the lamplight. As he watched, Napoleon paused to run the pad of his thumb over the blunt tip.

Illya choked back a whimper of denial when Napoleon lifted his hand from his flesh, then had to struggle to breathe at all as he partner took his thumb, damp with semen, into his mouth. Trembling, Illya stared as his partner suckled his own thumb. His lips were impossibly soft and pink where they closed about the first knuckle of the digit.

The hunger in Napoleon's expression was unmistakable. Illya wanted desperately to leave the bathroom where he stood hidden. He wanted to climb onto the bed and kneel astride Napoleon and slide his rigid, eager cock between those lips in place of that thumb.

Instead he shook with need and watched.

Napoleon let his thumb slip wetly from between his lips with a sigh. He bent one leg and pressed his foot flat against the bed, hips arching a little. From where Illya observed, at the side, his cock now stood against the background of Napoleon's tense, powerful thigh. The muscles there, Illya noticed, were twitching as though shaken by little shocks of pleasure. He hardly had to imagine the feeling—his own thighs were tight with need.

Biting his lower lip, his expression growing intent, Napoleon took his cock firmly in one hand and squeezed, not pumping it, just squeezing rhythmically. He reached down and cupped his sac with the other hand, rolling it in his fingers like a pair of harmony balls.

Illya could feel sweat trickling down his spine. He was breathing open-mouthed now in a desperate effort not to pant audibly. Napoleon, not hampered by the need for stealth, was moaning and panting with abandon, his hands working skillfully between his thighs. The length of his body was flushed with racing blood. He seemed to glow with life and beauty.

Desperately, Illya leaned against the doorframe, locking his muscles against the desire to stride forward and put his hands on that warm, pliant skin. Oblivious, Napoleon drove himself onward. Semen drizzled onto his belly from the head of his full, throbbing erection. Every now and then he'd spare himself a moment to rub it into his skin, an action that invariably prompted a choked word of ecstasy.

The relentless approach of Napoleon's climax was visible in the way his hips lifted from the bed, pressing his cock into the clasp of his hands. Illya caught himself watching for every arch of Napoleon's pelvis, eyes hungrily tracing the smooth curve of buttock revealed in the motion.

Abruptly, Napoleon's squeezing hand jerked into motion. He pulled himself hard, his other hand abandoning his balls to slide between his legs, hidden there. Illya imagined his fingers pressing between the cheeks of his ass, finding the tight hole there and rubbing the rim of it teasingly.

On the bed, Napoleon cried out hoarsely and came. He threw his head back, pressing hard into the pillow, his hips frozen in an upward arch of need. Thick come pumped over his fist, splashing down on his belly with the droplets already gathered there. Breathing heavily, Napoleon's body slowly relaxed out of its taut, bowed shape.

Illya was weak and shaking as though he'd come himself, though his cock was still hard and needy where it curled, trapped, in his pants. He paid it no attention, transfixed by the sight of Napoleon trailing his hand through the semen cooling on his belly.

Humming softly, every line of his body replete with satiation, Napoleon stretched languidly. Somewhere in the back of Illya's mind a warning was buzzing, but he couldn't seem to register anything but the sight of his partner, damp with sweat and come and embodying the word "afterglow."

After a moment, Napoleon turned his head and blinked, something sharp entering his gaze. His eyes caught on the open bathroom door, rose, and found Illya's helpless stare.

Caught.