Dessert

by Avery

Napoleon sat back with a sigh, savoring the last of the 1959 Haut Brion Graves with its rich ruby color and magnificent topnotes of roasted chestnut and sweet black cherry. The rare vintage had provided the perfect accompaniment to his thick T-bone steak, a specialty of the house at Incognito, Manhattan's trendy new restaurant on the Upper West Side. Across the table Illya, sipping his Hermitage LaChapelle '62, ordered at Napoleon's insistence, dolefully regarded the remains of the three pound lobster he had systematically demolished.

"Don't tell me you're still hungry?" Napoleon inquired with a fond smile. "Honestly, I don't know where you put it all."

Illya shrugged. "I am always hungry when I get out of Medical. The food is terrible there."

"You're always hungry. Period."

"I must keep up my strength. Who knows when I may be called upon to rescue you from the dastardly clutches of THRUSH."

Napoleon nearly choked on his wine. "Excuse me, tovarisch but, as I recall, I was the one saving your butt on our last mission. You were the one hanging from the rafters in your underwear."

"True, but only because you were late." Illya paused to suck a morsel of meat from one of the tiny walking claws. It was a highly erotic gesture.

Napoleon stared. The man has no idea how beautiful he is. And to think that he nearly died— "The traffic was terrible getting out of Istanbul, tovarisch. However, it was considerate of you to still be alive when I got there."

"I do what I can."

Illya was still pale and far too thin, but his devil-may-care attitude regarding recent events belied the reality of his physical condition. In spite of what he'd been through, what he'd suffered at the hands of the Agha, he loved the danger of their missions with a fierce glee, and lived for each new adrenaline rush into the unknown. And if there was a chance to blow something up in the process, so much the better. It was one of the things Napoleon loved most about the man.

Illya teased a sliver of roe onto his tongue. He swallowed, and licked his lips with satisfaction. His expression was one of unadulterated bliss.

My God, the man's a walking aphrodisiac! Napoleon felt his face grow warm.

He couldn't pinpoint the moment when his admiration for the Russian had become something deeper, although he'd tried on numerous occasions to do so. It hadn't been the proverbial "bolt of lightning" extolled by the world's great poets. Rather, it had been an easy evolution of feelings, a gradual ramping up of sexual tension that had left the senior agent, at first mystified, then shocked to the core, and finally, accepting of the truth he had discovered within his own heart. This is who I am. I love this man. I am not ashamed.

But I am frightened, Napoleon acknowledged ruefully. There was no way to know if Illya reciprocated those feelings. He rather suspected not. In their time together as partners, his friend had given no indication that he was anything other than straight. Just the opposite, in fact. Illya had had several torrid affairs in recent years, the last with that pretty Hungarian girl, Tavia. Napoleon knew for a fact that sex had been a part of their relationship, having found several items of an intimate nature lying about on the mornings after their interludes. So Illya liked women. The question was, did he like men, too?

They enjoyed a companionable silence, sipping their wine and listening to the soft music drifting out from the piano bar. "This is nice. Just the two of us relaxing over a meal. We should do it more often."

Illya sighed with contentment. "Capitalist decadence at its worst. But the food was good."

"You certainly seemed to enjoy it."

"I always enjoy my food when you are paying for it."

People came and went. Gradually the room emptied, until only a few tables remained occupied, mostly well-heeled diners enjoying a late supper after the theatre. The piano in the bar fell silent.

"It's getting late," Illya remarked at last. "We should see about the check."

Napoleon hid his disappointment. "Don't you want dessert? The pastry chef here is a genius—apprenticed under Pierre Troisgros. I hear he does sinful things with chocolate."

Illya shook his head. "Normally I would be thrilled by the prospect of more food, but I don't want to make you late for your little slumber party. Incidentally, who is it this time, the busty blonde from Research or the new brunette in Translations?"

"Slumber party?"

"Your late date. You know, your usual end-of-mission, work-off-some-stress-with-as-many-women-as-possible sexual marathon?"

"Actually, I—I don't have a date tonight. I'm all yours for the evening."

Illya snorted. "Oh, Napoleon, you needn't lie about it. I know how you operate."

"No, really. I didn't ask anyone." He hesitated. "To be honest, there was no one I wanted to ask."

Illya glanced up at that. "No nubile blondes worth pursuing? No voluptuous redheads?"

"None that attracted me."

Illya regarded him with interest. "You surprise me, Napoleon."

"Sometimes I surprise myself." He twirled his wine glass, watching the ruby liquid swirl up the sides.

Some day, I will run out of time to say the words. Or he will run out of time to hear them. I should just come out—so to speak—and tell him. Why can't I tell him?

"Napoleon."

"Hmm?"

"Is everything all right? You were far away just now."

"Sorry," he replied, shaking off his mood. "It's been a long week. I guess I'm just tired."

"A good thing you have no plans for later."

"You're probably right. A hot shower and a soft bed is about all I can handle right now."

Illya favored Napoleon with the barest hint of a smile. "Are you sure that's all you're in the mood for?"

For a moment, Napoleon was too stunned to reply. Did he just say that?

Illya drained his glass of chardonnay. "Good wine."

An innocent remark. That's all it was. He sighed. "Let's see about that dessert, shall we?"

Their waiter had hovered, discreetly out of earshot, throughout the meal. Now he snapped to attention, motioning for

the busboy to clear the table. When the last crumb had been swept away, the man offered a pair of gold-embossed dessert menus for their perusal. "Might I recommend the Baked Alaska?" he suggested crisply. "Chef's specialty."

Napoleon eyed his friend, but Illya seemed unimpressed by the suggestion. "Perhaps. Why don't you bring us both coffee while we decide."

"Very good, sir."

"So," Napoleon inquired when the waiter had departed, "the Baked Alaska is out of the question, I take it?"

Illya shuddered. "Too sweet and fluffy. It makes my teeth ache just to think about it. If you must know, I am in the mood for something a bit more—stimulating. Warm and delectable, with a little—bite."

Illya's expression was disarmingly casual, but it seemed to Napoleon that there was a hint of challenge behind those innocent blue eyes. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe.

"Something wrong, Napoleon?"

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Just—ah—deciding what to order." Was Illya coming on to him?

Illya regarded him a moment longer before turning his attention to the menu. "Let's see. 'New York cheesecake. Peach Melba. Cherries Jubilee.'" He sighed. "No, too predictable. I am feeling rather adventurous tonight." He glanced up again, and this time Napoleon did not look away.

"Perhaps we could—ah—try something new."

"My thoughts exactly," Illya replied, and leaned a bit closer. "Tell me, Napoleon, just what would you be willing to try?"

Napoleon took a deep, shaky breath. A shiver of desire worked its way down his spine. "Anything you suggest," he answered quietly.

Illya's eyes pierced deep into his heart. "And what would you suggest?" he asked. "If the choice were yours."

You, naked in my arms, in my bed, writhing on my expensive silk sheets, arching up, crying out softly as you come—

Waking beside me in the morning, warm and alive, safe in my arms—

You, in my life, in my heart, my wild Russian lover, tonight, and for all the days and nights allotted us—

"Tell me," Illya urged softly. "Say it." His chin lifted. "I dare you."

"Oh hell." With a ragged sigh, Napoleon reached across the table, covering his partner's hand with his own. "Shut up," he said, and kissed him full upon the lips.

Illya's eyes closed. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Oh, Napoleon."

There was nothing shy or tentative about the kiss. It was raw, hot, demanding. Napoleon's tongue invaded the exquisite warmth of Illya's mouth, probing deeply, insisting, laying claim, and teasing forth a little moan of pleasure from the Russian. It was primal, a consummation that ravished the senses and sucked the oxygen from their lungs, leaving them breathless and shaken when, at last, they pulled away.

"I think it's safe to say we're not talking about dessert anymore," Napoleon remarked unsteadily.

Illya stared down at their hands, entwined like lovers upon the white linen tablecloth. "Napoleon," he said again. "Please. Do not play games with me."

"I'm not, Illya. I swear I'm not." He struggled to find the words. "I've never done anything like this before. I don't know the rules. Hell, I don't even know if there are rules." He swallowed, feeling ridiculously close to panic. "If this is a game we're playing, I don't know how to play it. I only know that I can't pretend anymore."

Illya's lips were parted and full, his face flushed with desire. He looked beautiful, and vulnerable. "Tell me what you want, Napoleon. Speak plainly."

"You. I want you."

Silence. Napoleon could see the hope inscribed there. And the fear.

"I want—a relationship with you. I want you in my bed."

Illya's eyes narrowed. "You want to have sex with me, is that what this is about? Another notch in your belt?"

No, Illya. No."

"Then what?"

He's as frightened as I am, Napoleon realized. He always strikes out when he's afraid. "I don't want to have sex with you," he replied tenderly. "I want to make love."

Illya's cool blue eyes bored into him, into his heart, into his very soul. Napoleon welcomed the inspection without reserve. I have nothing to hide from you. He held himself absolutely still, afraid even to breathe, but he could feel his heart betraying him, pounding like a jackhammer in his chest.

An eternity passed, and then Illya's expression softened, the tension in his body draining away. "I've waited a long time to hear you say that," he remarked quietly.

At the sound of the words, Napoleon's world spun on its axis. His heart leapt; he felt positively giddy with joy. It was like being released from heavy chains, liberated from a dark cell, and led out into the light of a new day. It was like freedom. "Thank God," he whispered. "Oh, thank God."

"Napoleon, I am an atheist. I cannot thank God."

"That's okay, tovarisch," he replied, laughing with the joy of it. "I'm thankful enough for the both of us."

Illya's fingers traced a pattern on Napoleon's palm. "You must be sure about this. It will change everything."

"I am sure. I belong with you, Illya. I belong in your arms."

"People will be shocked. Your reputation—"

"Screw that."

Illya's smile held all the gorgeous brilliance of a summer's day. "It will be my pleasure. " He stroked the sensitive underside of Napoleon's wrist, drawing forth an unexpected gasp of pleasure. "So, after all this time, you are finally ready to play?"

"Ready, incredibly willing , and—" Napoleon grew warm at the thought, "—definitely able."

"On my terms?'

His heart swelled. "On any terms you care to set."

The waiter returned with their coffee at that precise moment. If he was surprised to see them holding hands, he gave no indication of it. "Have the gentlemen decided on dessert?" he inquired.

"We can skip it if you want," Napoleon murmured. His body pulsed with arousal, vibrated with the delicious anticipation of what was soon to come.

Illya shook his head. "We've waited a long time for this. I think a celebration is in order. Besides," he added with a rare grin, "it is only prudent that we fortify ourselves. We have a long night ahead."

Napoleon's breath caught.

Illya continued to stroke Napoleon's hand as he consulted the menu. "Ah, this sounds perfect: 'Passionfruit Bombe with Dark Chocolate Ganache Icing.'" His blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "You know how I love bombs."

"Mmm, yes, I've heard the rumors."

"'A generous slice of rich genoise sponge cake, lightly brushed with passionfruit syrup, and layered with sweet, ripe passionfruit and creamy, dark chocolate ganache. A splash of vodka provides unexpected tartness—'" he smirked at that "'—and adds a hint of the exotic, blending perfectly with the sweetness of the passionfruit.'"

The words meant nothing to Napoleon. It was Illya's gorgeous voice that he heard, ravishing each syllable with its resonance, making love to every word. It was like listening to a god speak.

Illya closed the menu. "Yes," he said, "definitely the dark chocolate." He reached across the table, tenderly caressing Napoleon's cheek. "Do you want to share?"

Napoleon's eyes glittered with unshed tears. "Only with you."