The Name of the Game

“Fuck this,” I grunt to the cold air and throw the untouched cigarette I can’t light to the terrace floor. I’m no one to waste a cigarette - my father taught me that much - but I’m in a shitty mood. I don’t know if it’s the lighter or this damn cold, but I can’t even smoke in peace in this frozen hell. Who had the idea of sending me to fucking Russia in mid-winter? Probably some fat pig, signing the order from his warm office in Paris. I’m used to warmer places, to work in missions around the Mediterranean. Maybe I just annoyed someone in high places and this is some kind of punishment. It wouldn’t be the first time. The mission is important enough for me to be uneasy, and I curse when my boss seems busy enough not to answer his phone. I have been trying to contact him three times now, and I’m starting to get cranky. This time he picks up. “Is this a safe line?” he asks, first of all. Always the paranoid, Vincent. I can’t blame him, but I’m a professional. Fuck, I’m their best man. I know what I’m fucking doing. “As safe as it can get,” I reply, and he seems satisfied, even if he sounds annoyed. Maybe because I called him four times in one minute. I can’t push myself to care. As I said, I’m in a shitty mood, and I want to tell him why. Trying not to snarl but failing, I ask, “What is she doing here?” “She’s your partner.” “I don’t need a partner.” “Yes, you do. She’s covering your back. This mission is high level, very dangerous…” I roll my eyes. “So, she’s babysitting me?” I look back at the hotel room and my “partner” is crossing her arms, looking at me with a frown. She’s pretty, strong, and dark-haired. Just my type. But I don’t work well with partners - nothing personal. “She is. Government fat cats are still pissed about the last mission-” “I obtained the information!” “Yes, and killed the target afterwards, blew up the base of operations, and cost the French government half a million-” “Details,” I say, cutting him off before he can go through my entire file. We could be here all night, believe me. Maybe my methods are not what those fat pigs would want, but I get shit done. I am their man when things get ugly, but of course when someone fucks up a little bit, they’re all over my neck. Sometimes I hate the French government. Pity I work for them. “Just follow the orders. Get rid of the target; kill him, Finch. Kill him and flee. You have one night-” “I know what I have, Vincent. I do read the information you send me,” I say, stepping again into the warm room. Colette is looking at me with an unimpressed expression, and I hear Vincent give a long sigh into his phone. “Just play the loving couple for some hours at the party tonight, and tomorrow morning you kill the Russian bastard. Be careful; we might not be the only ones interested in the target. He’s amazingly hated all over the world. Don’t fuck up, Finch. Your country needs you.” Vincent hangs up in time to hear me say a very convincing “Sir” as goodbye. I’m not feeling particularly patriotic tonight, but at least my country will pay for all I decide to drink. “Are you usually this feisty with your superiors?” the woman asks, taking off some sort of hairpin she’s wearing, leaving it neatly in the drawer of the bedside table. I just snort a little at that and keep fixing my suit. Her accent is strongly Russian, but she’s speaking in French even though I can speak her language. She just wants to show she is capable, and I respect her for that. Again, it’s nothing personal, but making another agent babysit me is definitely not a turn-on. Especially since women aren’t really my type. “I have booked another room for myself as far from this one as possible,” she smiles. “I know we have to play the pretty couple, but I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you, Finch.” “Scared you might like it?” I ask, as smug as I can get, and I fix my black bowtie. “Scared I might stab you during the night and like that,” she says dryly, but I noticed her checking my back slyly when she thinks I’m not watching. I smile. We both head to the party room of the hotel, her arm locked with mine. I’m not excited to be here; it’s just another job, even if it’s dangerous, but I have to say: this is a great fucking place. Casino, ballroom, bar… Big enough that you can get lost in it. The hotel belongs to my target. A big Russian businessman. When I say businessman, I also mean crime lord, and of course he’s involved in politics. He has fingers in every pie. He had recently closed a big deal with some terrorist cell from the Middle East, and I’m here mostly to take the documents of that transaction and to kill the target. They had me sent as an important German businessman involved in the oil business, and Colette was sent as my beloved wife. The French government is running out of original ideas, but it’s not like I give a fuck about it. I’d get the job done even if I had to play the rent boy as my undercover. The party seems a success so far. Kozlov, the good man I’m about to kill in the morning, has set up everything,closing the hotel for this party just for the most important and distinguished people. Apparently, Kozlov wanted to celebrate his 43rd birthday in an eccentric way, but I suspect he wants to close that big deal tonight, and he’s just using his birthday as an excuse. I also might have been right in not being the only one with an interest in killing Kozlov, judging by the amount of guards. His men are everywhere, big, dressed in black, and dangerous-looking. You know the type: brawn and no brains. They are too many: they’re guarding every door, and this is just the party zone. I don’t want to imagine how many of them would be securing Kozlov’s own rooms. That’s why I’ll do it tomorrow morning. The deal is probably going to happen tonight, and I’m not the only one feeling this. I can see people from all over the world, and I remember Vincent’s words. You may not be the only one wanting to take him down. I might not be the only one, but damn straight I’m the one doing it. I’m not freezing my balls in Russia to let some other government or agency take the medal. Although now that I look around, maybe Vincent is wrong. All these people look like important people, the snob type. The hateful type, looking down on everyone. I know them well; I come from a family of snobs myself. I remember the days I joined my father in those meetings: aristocrats, politicians, and more scumbags, believing they were better than everyone else. How I hated it. I still do, I think as I look around. I need a drink right now. My partner pats my shoulder and drags me out of my thoughts. She tells me she’ll walk around, observe a bit. I suspect she doesn’t want to stick with me. I don’t blame her: I’m not being very chatty, and I’m certainly not being a gentleman. But again, I really hate these parties. I go straight to the bar and order a gin tonic. This helps me settle down and relax, more or less. Just for a little while. My eyes move over the guests, reading them a bit, trying to find something shady, but some fuss from the gambling area gets my attention. I stand up and go there, realizing soon the laughs and angry huffs come from the poker table. It’s packed, so it gets me a couple tries to get sight of what’s happening. “You son of a bitch!” an older man grunts, face red, and he throws his cards to the table. “You are cheating, boy. This is impossible!” A few more curses and hard words follow. The men sitting at the table are fuming, throwing their cards to the green table. I smile. Even big fish like these get angry when they lose at card games. I stick my head farther and catch sight of the “boy” they are talking to. A dark haired man, sharp suited, and wearing a small smile that for a moment sent a shiver down my spine, is leaning back on his chair, legs crossed loosely. That can be my type. “You won three times in a row! It’s fucking impossible that you aren’t cheating!” another man starts growling, and the dark haired man moves his head from side to side, slowly. It reminds me of a wild animal for no real reason. “I didn’t cheat, my lord,” the man says, and the title is so full of sarcasm that I can’t help but snort to myself. “You just suck at poker.” He smiles again and the men at the table are seeing red but of course there is no proof of any cheating. Some of them leave with a few quiet threats and others sit for a new game. The man that has plucked those bastards retrieves his money and his eyes move to me. I swear, I feel stripped down for a second and find myself moving to the table and sitting at a free spot. I want to play. Hell, I’m a wonderful poker player, and I need some distraction. Also, the man has caught my eye; he doesn’t look like the typical businessman. Or maybe I’m just too eager to find something amusing in this hateful party. The game starts, slowly at first. The typical stuff, checking, no one raising, not betting too high, studying the opponents. I figure almost everyone at the table out immediately. The old one at the corner drinks every time he’s bluffing. The American at my right has done nothing yet, but he doesn’t hesitate to match the bets. He has a good hand. The rest are good, but I can beat them. I have the dead man’s hand. How appropriate. Two black aces and black eights. So far it’s a good hand: two pairs, one of them aces. I suspect I can get a full hand soon. The game continues and some of the men have given up, although not my mysterious friend. I take a moment to look at him as a waiter asks for drinks. He orders an Irish whiskey, double, no ice. At least he knows how to drink. I order the same, finding gin not as appealing anymore. I keep staring. The man has electric, silver eyes - so shocking and so silver that it makes him sort of beautiful. And when I say “sort of” I mean very. He has long, dark eyelashes, and even with such eyes he holds one of the best poker faces I have ever seen. I pout respectfully, lost in thoughts, when the man puts a cigarette between his lips. He pats his suit in search for a lighter, and before I can think about it, I have my lighter in my hand and I’m leaning forward, lighting his cigarette. The brunet raises his eyes and holds my gaze, a small smile curling the corner of his lips. I lick mine, unconsciously, and observe his. I want to believe it’s just because I haven’t smoked since I stepped on Russian ground but the way he pulls away from the cigarette leaves my throat dry. He nods gratefully, and I’m so lost in his gestures that I almost miss my turn. I clear my throat and just throw to the table the chips I need to keep playing. I look back to my friend, and he’s still smiling, his emotionless façade dropping a little. He is holding his cigarette case out for me, and I take one with a relief I don’t show. “Thanks, Mister…?” I question, desperate to know his name. “Bratislav,” he says. “Alek Bratislav.” The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I’m not really a man of this world; I was supposed to be, but thank God I refused. My father is turning in his grave, for sure. The bastard. “Klaus Reier.” I introduce myself and keep playing, focusing on the game, but also, despite my efforts, on the man in front of me. Alek Bratislav has an British accent with a note of that strong Russian lilt underneath, and that makes sense, with such a name. I’m always very wary, but I believe this one. Nobody is that good with accents. Nobody. Not even me, even if I’m currently faking a German accent. As the game continues we whip a few more players, and I get a bit more information from the Russian fellow. He is here because of his boss, a very important Russian businessman, too old for this kind of frivolousness - as Alek himself describes it - but that wants someone to make act of presence at Kozlov’s party. So his second in charge, Alek Bratislav, is here tonight. A few more hands and it’s just silver eyes and me. Face to face, playing to win the ridiculously high amount of money from the table, although neither of us seems too worried about it. I don’t know why, but I want to beat him: the more miserably, the better. I try to read him and find a few gestures that make me start thinking he has no good cards, but he’s trying, he’s still here, hanging on like a champ. “Nice scratch,” Alek says after sipping his whiskey, eyes on my cheek. I touch my scar gingerly. “You like it?” I ask, smirking a little and looking at him, and I know I shouldn’t flirt; I’m working - and most of all I’m playing the happily married man - but I can’t help it. There’s something about the man that makes me both hate him and be attracted to him. I watch Alek smile and make a gesture of appreciation. “Suits you,” he says, like he knows me, like he knows who I am - not Klaus Reier, but Jorlais Finch, secret agent, French spy. My smile drops a little, but I sip my whiskey, and I think I cover it well. Alek is still observing me, so I play it off. “I have more where that one comes from,” I say, pleased when Alek raises one of his perfect eyebrows. “Must be quite the sight,” he says, and he raises his bet. Is he trying to put me off by flirting back? Keep me distracted from the game? Maybe. It won’t work, though. I know he’s bluffing. I have a better hand than him. I just know. I feel a hand on my neck, delicate, and I tilt my head to see pretty Colette. Solange, in this mission. Her red dress makes the few men that are still observing our game look at her. Everyone except me. “Dear,” she says and kisses my jaw. “This is for good luck,” she whispers sensually, but I’m still observing the table. Alek’s slender hand holding his glass, the way his fingertips tap the surface with rhythmic movements, the way he’s leant back on his chair, so elegant… “Pity I’m here alone tonight,” the man says, and he takes me out from my drifting mind, in time, because I’m starting to wonder what it’s like under that tight, black suit. I look at him and raise an eyebrow, a little smirk forming on my lips. I don’t care that my colleague is still with her arms around my neck. “Are you offering something?” I ask and hold his gaze for a long moment, in which he just smiles back. “I was talking about your wife…” Alek finally says, and his eyes move to Colette. “Such a goddess and you haven’t looked at her once,” he says. His voice is smooth, and my smile starts to fall. “If you’re getting bored with him, sweetheart, please feel free to wish me luck anytime you want,” he continues, eyes locked with hers, and when I look up, Colette is smiling, a light blush on her cheeks. “With pleasure, sir,” she says. I’m starting to hate this Bratislav guy. Colette throws me a look, half amused, half accusing, because I’m here playing poker instead of eyeing the people around. She grabs my fifth glass of whiskey and walks away, throwing a last look at the Russian fellow. I huff and frown at Bratislav, who’s smiling. I swallow the urge to punch his smug face. “You should focus on the game, mon ami,” I say dryly, forgetting that Klaus would never say mon ami, my old self striking. I don’t know why, but this guy brings my feral side up, forgetting that I’m on a job and that I should stay in character by all means. “I am focused, mon ami,” he replied, and I make a gesture that is supposed to be a smile in some other universe. I am ready to kill this fucker. “All in,” I snarl, pushing all my chips on the table. I observe with vile satisfaction how Bratislav narrows his eyes and tilts his head. Gotcha, you son of a bitch. I have my full house, two hands ago, and I don’t want to play anymore with this little bastard. I throw my cards to the board, three aces and a couple of eights. People around the table smirk and nod, and I’m about to collect my loot when Bratislav stands up and throws softly his four kings to the table. I freeze in place, observing the four kings that definitely beat my full. The fucker made me think he had nothing. He was double bluffing me. He’s telling one of the croupiers to send the money to his account with a bored tone, and he’s not even looking at me. Smug bastard. The people around are silent, impressed. He goes away, downing his whiskey in one gulp, and I’m still too dazed to call him, too angry to let it go, and also starting to be drunk enough to do something stupid. Finally, I move, standing up so quickly that the men around give a step back. I walk firmly where Bratislav has disappeared, and I can’t see him around. Where is he? I look around and see him, already at the end of the ball hall, sneaking into a door that, to my surprise, isn’t guarded. I narrow my eyes and dart there, trying not to drag too much attention. I sneak to the dark corridor and look around. Bratislav stops his steps when he hears someone else. “You,” I say, and the man turns, his head tilting to the side like before at the table. I don’t know why but I have to stop the sudden urge to step back and close the door behind me. What is wrong with this guy? I raise my chin and walk the few steps that separate us. “You made me believe you had nothing there, didn’t you?” I say quietly. I’m not that angry because I’ve lost, but because I’ve been unable to read him and because he fooled me like a naive amateur. I’m better than that. He looks at me, measuring me, and to my surprise, he doesn’t look intimidated in the slightest, despite the fact that I look stronger than him, and I’m most definitely more trained, though he doesn’t know that. Still, I’m starting to think I’m not good at reading this guy at all. “A double bluff? That’s just dirty-” “Why don’t you just fuck off?” he asks, stopping me. My blood suddenly boils at his audacity, and I grab his arm, hard. He looks at me, his eyes dark as hell pits. So shockingly deep. “I’ll break that hand,” he says, slowly. A fact. I show him my teeth in a feral growl. “Just try.” He tenses immediately, and I’m ready for whatever is coming, but a man’s voice startles us both, saying something about how we can’t be in that part of the hotel. My hand goes to the inside of my suit jacket, itching for my gun. Just unconscious behavior, considering I don’t have my weapon with my right now. Like two wires that connect in my brain. My body acts before I can think. Too many years doing this damn job. To my surprise, Alek does the same, hand already inside his suit jacket, and it’s a gesture I have done myself too many time to ignore. We look at each other, eyes wide because we have done exactly the same. The Russian is still telling us we shouldn’t be there, voice rising in annoyance, but we are too focused on each other. “Sorry…” I’m the first one to react. “We were heading to my room; we’re a bit drunk.” I throw a wet smile to the guard, and my hand slides slightly over Alek’s side. The man is still tense, ready to attack. The Russian points to the stairs with his head and doesn’t move until Alek and I start walking upstairs to the rooms. I don’t notice my hand is still on Alek’s lower back, guiding him to the room. Once we are at my door I stop in the corridor, and Alek looks at me. He wears the same wary expression that I do. I look slyly at him, at his body. That suit fits too well to hide a gun underneath. Maybe I’m overthinking things. Maybe he wasn’t making the same gesture as me. Who else would reach for a gun in that situation? I’m half drunk, so I might be misjudging him. I’m drunk enough to be ignoring my hunches just because he’s looking at me with those infuriating silver eyes. Everything about him is infuriating. I hear the steps of at least two men, and soon I see a couple more guards round the corner, looking at us suspiciously. Kozlov has every single point of this hotel secured. I feel a hand on my chest, and I snap out of my thoughts again. I lean in and nuzzle Alek’s jaw softly, breathing in slowly. He smells surprisingly good, a combination of mint, whiskey, and something sweet. I blindly open my room with my card, and Alek follows smoothly. The guards pass by us without a second glance. “Not angry with me anymore?” Alek says, stepping away from me even if he doesn’t look taken aback by our touches. He seems to understand it was necessary to get rid of the guards. Why? Why would he? He’s just a businessman. I step in, following the man, as if this is his room and not mine. “You are a smug, hateful bastard,” I say, getting it out of my system, and I hear Alek laughing as I switch on a corner lamp. “You’re a bad loser,” he says and looks at me from head to toe, very slowly. I feel vulnerable, and that sends heat to my stomach. Hateful. “I guess,” I say, taking off my bowtie. I hate bowties. I hate suits. I hate high-profile parties. I sit down heavily on the end of the broad bed and look up at Alek. He is serving himself a glass of Scotch from the mini bar, shameless, crouching down with the ease of a stray cat. He is beautiful. Beautiful. And I hate him. “At least this Kozlov lad has good booze.” He returns to me and hands me a glass of the drink. I nod at him in response and gulp down nearly half of the content. “You’re annoyed because you got it all wrong, not because of the money,” he says, spot on, pacing around the room. He is looking around but it looks absent enough to consider he’s not looking for anything. I have all my weapons hidden anyway, all my documents. Fake, at any rate. I’m safe. “Don’t be so grim. You’re very good. I’m just better,” he continues, and I snort, drinking some more. “Do you fake everything?” I ask before I can stop myself. Definitely getting drunk. Bad thing. I either get touchy or feisty. Alek stops and looks at me, and again flashes that small smile that makes my knees wobbly. Good thing I’m sitting. “Almost everything,” he replied. His lips are wet from the scotch, and I can’t tear my eyes away from them. “You don’t like these kind of parties, do you, Mr. Reier?” he asks me, his voice softer than I had expected. “No, I don’t. And call me Klaus,” I reply. “Klaus,” he repeats with a knowing smile that I choose to ignore. He’s closer now, almost standing between my parted legs, and I wonder how on earth I haven’t realized that until now. I’m too focused on those damn lips. He’s looking down at me, his position relaxed even though we don’t know each other. A strand of dark hair is falling over his forehead elegantly, and I have to restrain myself from pulling him down. “Your wife likes them, then?” he asks, and I have to blink to remember who the fuck he’s talking about. Colette, of course. “She’s not my wife. She’s just…” I shrug, and I don’t even know why I said she’s not my wife. Dammit, Jorlais. “She even booked another room,” I add. “Ah.” Alek smiles briefly, as if understanding. Couple with problems, pretending to be together. It’s very usual in these kinds of parties, just sticking together for appearances. “Will she mind, then?” he asks, leaning closer. I’m focused on trying to understand his question with my drunken brain. “If you go to her room?” I ask quietly, giving it a guess. She’ll be delighted. Alek smiles as if he can’t believe me. His hand touches my shoulder, and my hand grabs his wrist. “If I spend the night here…” he says just as quietly. Again, I haven’t noticed, but he’s leaned down, and we’re inches from each other. The last bit of my self control slips from me, and my hand drops Alek’s wrist in favor of his nape. We both move in sync, our lips colliding at last. He leans against me, between my legs, kissing me hard. I’ve kissed lots of people, and I’ve never tasted a pair like those. They’re warm and wet with a faint taste of whiskey and Alek’s own scent. Despite myself I inhale and my eyes almost roll back. Good God in heaven. I have missed men. Alek kisses me deeper, fingers disappearing into my hair, and our drinks fall to the floor, not breaking thanks to the carpet. I couldn’t care less. We part from each other’s lips, breathing hard and shallow. Time seems to slow down, and we stare at each other, but neither of us is going to stop now. I shove my shoes and socks away while Alek settles on my lap, straddling me. I’m looking up at him, lips parted while slender hands smooth over my shoulders, pushing my jacket off. It joins the glasses on the floor and so do Alek’s shoes, socks, bow tie, jacket… no holster, no gun under his suit, as expected. I strip him in the dim light of the hotel room. I’m hard. As hard as I can get because this Russian devil is kissing me again, all teeth and tongue, not giving me a break. Rough, like I want men to be. Alek pushes me hard on the mattress, and I grunt, aroused. He’s not better though. He’s just as hard as I am. I can feel him. These suits, so tight, leave nothing to the imagination. Our shirts are loose, we’ve half stripped them, but, as if reading each other’s minds, our hands move to our belts. I unbuckle Alek’s and he does the same with mine. We’re frantic, kicking our trousers out of the way while we kiss, hard and passionate. I know I should be focused on the mission, but who would be focused when you have a man like Alek Bratislav biting at your neck and rocking his hips against yours. And Vincent wouldn’t mind, would he? He would probably roll his eyes at me. I’ll kill the target and get the information tomorrow anyways, so I might as well take something good out of this. And God, isn’t Alek extraordinarily good. I still don’t trust him - he has something weird that I can’t put my finger on, but I’m too horny and too drunk to care. I move my hands down his back to the small curve of it, to his ass, and he leans against the touch, rocking his hips against my hands. He’s muscled, slim, but his body is trained. He’s also stronger than he looked under that suit. “Fuck…” I can’t help but whisper, closing my eyes. Alek has found my scars, and he’s dragging his teeth and his tongue along them. They’re sensitive, but he’s not hurting me. He knows the exact balance between pleasure and pain. Like me. “You didn’t like, hmm?” Alek whispers, voice rough, and he pulls away to look down at me, roaming his silver eyes over my strong chest, also very scarred. I’m not self-conscious, but almost every other lover usually chooses to ignore my scars. Some are disgusted, some don’t care. But Alek seems to like them. It’s new. “Military…?” he asks softly, moving a thumb over my hip where I have a bunch of torn scars, broken skin from a landmine. I don’t want to know how he knows, how on earth he knows that. I grab his wrist and flip him around. It’s my time to observe him, and I want to change the topic. I stroke his chest and find some scars Alek owns himself. Not as many as me - I’m quite a veteran - but his scars also look painful. “Shot…” I whisper as I drag my finger over a scar on his right shoulder, surprised to find something like that on a businessman’s body. His mouth pulls into a thin line, but he doesn’t stop me. “Stab…” I whisper again, stroking my thumb under his pectoral, rubbing his nipple softly. He drops a quiet moan, and I breathe hard against his breastbone, my tongue poking out. My hand is sliding to yet another scar over his side, but before I can touch it he grabs my wrist, and I’m face down on the mattress, letting out a surprised gasp. Holy shit. He’s way stronger than he looks, and even if I should feel alarmed, I don’t care in the slightest. I just want him to fuck me hard against the mattress, to be honest. He can kill me for all I care. “Shut up,” he breathes to my nape, pinning me down. I can fight him and see if he really knows anything about wrestling, but to be fair to myself, I love how his lips feel against my spine. He kisses his way down, skilled hands slide down my underwear, and I grunt again, rocking my hips. I feel his lips smiling against my lower back, and I look back at him. I’m on my hands and knees as he removes my boxers and throws them away. I feel exposed, but before I can regret anything his breath is too close and my lips part in a long moan. His tongue is lapping at my entrance, and it feels… it feels maddening. “Fucking hell, I…” I forget how to talk in my own language when I feel his tongue deeper. The moan that escapes me makes me blush, and I thank whoever I have to that my face is against the mattress. My hands tighten forcefully on the sheets, and I drag a high moan out every time his tongue withdraws. This man is fucking insane, and he’s taking me down with him. My back is arched in a nice bow, ass up in the air, and I rock back against him, the little bit of pride I had with me out the window. It feels so good, so fucking good that I could cry. I feel his hand stroking my hip and wrapping around my aching cock. He gives me a few slow strokes, the fucker, nothing close to what I need. The sounds I’m making, Jesus Christ, I don’t want to think about because I’m completely unable to stop them. I’ve never been this loud. After a while, when Alek seems satisfied of the sweet torture he’s putting me through, he pulls away, and I’m wasted, gasping against the pillow, sweaty and needy. I have really been under lots of torture sessions, unluckily. I would definitely choose Alek’s tongue among all of them. “Ah, fuck,” he whispers, sounding just as breathless, and I turn around to look at him, still panting heavily. I can’t help myself getting amazed once more at how beautiful he is. His lips are swollen slightly, and he’s sweating as well, looking ethereal in this light. I pull him down just when he leans in. We read each other perfectly, so the kiss that follows is hard and passionate and leaves us both even more breathless. I turn Alek around in my arms, his back against the mattress, our legs tangled. He’s lost his boxers, and I bite my lower lip, looking down as I roll my hips against him. We’re both proudly big and hard, leaking already. “What do you want?” I find myself asking, leaning in for another kiss, our foreheads pressing together. Has he tamed me with less than five minutes of rimming? Hell. I don’t care in the slightest. “Do you want to fuck me?” I breathe against his mouth, our lips brushing together, half parted, and we don’t grinding against each other. “Or do you want me to…” I don’t finish my question because teeth are pulling on my lower lip and I’m getting distracted. “Fuck me,” Alek whispers and my lips part some more, letting out a quiet moan. I’m desperate for it. My hand darts to the bedside table where I’ve put the condoms and lube the hotel (questioningly) provided. I almost knock off the lamp in my rush. The Russian is kissing my neck heavily and has taken hold of my nape viciously. I get my fingers nicely lubed and slide my arm under his knee. Alek gets the idea and slides his leg over my shoulder, spreading wide for me. Heat shoots to my cock and I feel myself throb at the sight, at the thought. I start making slow circles against his entrance with a couple of fingers and the sound he makes almost makes me fuck him dry. I introduce my a fingers a bit more each time, and I know he can take them, but I’m getting revenge for that wicked tongue of his. Finally, I push in a couple of fingers to the knuckle, and he groans lowly. I twist them and start fucking him with my fingers. He groans every time I push them deep, and he rocks his hips towards my hand, meeting my eyes. Fuck. He’s getting me on fire. A few moments later I add another finger and soon enough we can’t wait anymore. I grab the condom and tear the package with my teeth, feeling his eyes on me, his hand stroking yet another scar. I roll the plastic over myself, torn between turning him around and fucking that perk ass as rough as humanly possible or keep facing him. I decide watching his face when he comes must be a religious experience, so I position myself between his legs, and when he gives me the nod of consent, I roll my hips and enter him. He makes a sound like he’s dying, like an animal that hurt itself, and I feel it as well while I get myself deep, deep inside of him. I settle my arms to both sides of his head, balls deep inside of him, stilling. We are both breathing heavily, and I feel his legs circling my waist, dragging me even deeper. Our eyes meet for a shockingly long moment, and I rock my hips forward, keeping the eye contact. He wails and throws his head back, baring his throat. I kiss and suck and bite at it while I fuck him slowly, barely keeping my breath steady. He feels so good, so fucking good. “Kiss me,” he says firmly after a while, completely breathless. I look at him. It’s an order I’m more than glad to obey, and I comply immediately, crushing his lips in a deep kiss, my hips never stopping. Never. He’s rocking his hips down against me while I thrust forward, in perfect sync. I slightly change the angle and he breaks the kiss unwillingly, a long groan escaping his lips. “You like that?” I breathe, and I do it again, harder, deeper, and he groans again, clawing at my back. I take that as a yes, and I fuck him harder, watching his face with a soft frown of pleasure and concentration. His moans are high and needy, and I fucking love them. His heels dig into my lower back, and I take it, fucking him even harder, rougher. “Oh, fucking hell! Oh God!” he groans, eyes closed in ecstasy. I don’t know if I’m too far gone, but I swear his accent is slipping. He doesn’t sound Russian anymore, not even British but something completely different. American. But I don’t give it much thought; I’m a hopeless man right now. I’m not holding my German anymore either. I just can’t. We fall together into a spiral of quiet curses and moans, moving hard against each other. I’m getting close, and so is silver eyes. We’re becoming erratic, rutting like animals. I shift again, and he moans so loud that it makes me moan, too, and I know I’m hitting the right spot. I thrust mercilessly, and he writhes, trying to reach between us to stroke himself. I grab his hand and pin it to the pillow by his head, intertwining our fingers. “Want me to touch you?” I ask when he grunts in frustration. “Yeah,” he moans quietly against my mouth and ruts harder against me, the sound of skin slapping growing louder with every passing second. “You wanna come?” I breathe, and he whines, the sound so wet and hot that it almost sends me over the edge. “You’re driving me insane,” I whisper, not realizing I said it aloud. He squeezes my hand, and I kiss him again, so close the kiss is too wet, too sloppy. I move my hand and wrap my fingers around his cock. He’s throbbing and leaking, and I swallow the sounds he makes when I start stroking him as hard as I’m fucking him. It takes us a few more thrusts, unrestrained and feral, and we come hard. We do it together, moaning nonsense against each other’s mouths, spasms travelling throughout our bodies. I empty myself and stroke him until he’s done, rocking my hips slowly now. I’m still fucking him for a little while more, both of us panting and sensitive. He looks at me through heavy lidded eyes, hands against my chest. It’s slow now, but he still moans every time I roll my hips. I don’t want to stop, but finally, I can’t take it anymore, and I fall over him. For a moment, we regain our breath, Alek’s arm around my waist, my lips against his sweaty neck. Our hair is sticking together, we’re soaked in sweat even if it’s freezing outside of the bed. I pull away enough to throw the condom to the nightstand, and I concede myself a moment to look at him. His hair is messed up, sticking to his forehead and clinging to the pillow. I move the strands of hair in his face back in a gesture way gentler than I wanted, and we move to each other, reading each other’s minds once more. We kiss slowly but getting deeper as time passes. And we kiss and kiss until we’re out of breath and even then we return to pull from each other’s lips some more. And it’s been long, too long, when we finally stop. Alek’s thumb strokes my jaw and my cheek, tracing my more visible scar, relaxed. Jesus Christ. He’s even more beautiful when he’s well-fucked. “Do you want some more whiskey?” my handsome friend asks, his voice quiet. “Sure.” I nod at him and move so that he can slip from the bed. I lie on my back, arms under my head and shamelessly observe his strong back, covered in some other small scars, his perfect ass moving. I could fuck him all night long. He pours two glasses, standing there like some Greek god, and when he returns to bed I say to myself, with that and a cigarette, I would die happy. I give a sip to the liquid. And I don’t remember anything else. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I wake up the next morning with a massive headache and the dim light of the Russian winter on my face. I stare dumbly at the window, forcing my eyes to blink, and then I remember everything, memories hitting me like a train. I try to rush out of the bed, but I return to it with a whoosh of air. I look up, lips parted in disbelief. I’m cuffed to the fucking headboard with my own pair of handcuffs. I look around frantically and my jaw drops. All my guns and knives are displayed at the end of the bed. All of them. All my documents, all the information from the mission. I reach for the glass of whiskey, barely being able to grab it, and I sniff it and grimace. “Son of a fucking bitch!” I snarl, flicking my wrist and tossing the glass to the wall. Alek Bratislav, if that’s his real name, has fucking drugged me and tied me to the bed. I remember suddenly why I hated him in the first place. If I would just follow my guts instead of my cock. Just one fucking time. Ever. I had to choose the fucking psycho of all the people to fuck in that party. Just my luck. I’m still very naked, and I can imagine Alek’s smug laugh when he left me like this. My blood boils. I have to act quickly. If someone from the hotel staff comes in, I would have a dozen guards on me, pointing at least a dozen guns at me. And I’m not very sure they wouldn’t just execute me right here. If I die for that bastard like this, I swear, I’ll haunt him for the rest of his life. I can’t get out. I try and try but these handcuffs are professional. You can’t just open them like that. I know. Hell, of course I know. They’re fucking mine. I curse in at least four different languages and kick the mattress with my heels. Once I’ve finished my tantrum, I’m breathless but also more focused. I remember Colette. Maybe she would come - No, she was tasked with watching over the surroundings. She would be already out there, doing her job, because unlike me, she’s not fucking stupid. Luckily, I’m not that stupid, and I remember that Colette put her hairpin in my nightstand when she got changed. I find it after a few moments of blindly feeling around and fight with the lock of my handcuffs. It takes me several tries but eventually I’m out. I dress as quickly as I can and get armed, locking everything down. I dart out of the room, and I’m on the upper floor within a minute. I’m careful, avoiding every guard I can. The ones I can’t avoid are unconscious and tied up in nearby supply rooms. I don’t want to alert them and start a rushed, suicide mission. Those usually finish with my clothes covered in blood, some explosion, and the government in the red. So I do try to be careful. I reach the safe room in an incredible small amount of time, even for me, almost avoiding every guard. The anger moves me. Just the memory of that Bratislav bastard is enough to shoot adrenaline through my veins. I want to meet him again, just to put a bullet in his head. We planned the mission to start a bit sooner, but it’s good enough. Kozlov would still be in his office, for sure guarded like gold. My first stop is the room where the Russian has his safes. My orders are clear. Open the safe, take the documents, find Kozlov, kill him. Easy-peasy. I’m surprised when I find no guards at the door, but I don’t complain. Pointing my gun down when I see no one, I scroll inside to the opposite wall where the biggest safe is. “You have got to be kidding me,” I say, stopped in front of the already open safe. I can’t fucking believe this. I search through the few papers left inside, frantically, pushing the money aside. No sight of the documents of the terrorist cell deal. I curse under my breath, and I’m about to turn around when I feel the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the back of my skull. The sound of a safety going off. I freeze. “Were you looking for something, pet?” My jaw tightens, and my body tenses like a wild animal smelling blood. This fucking bastard. “Alek,” I say, tilting my head to look back at him, a small smile on my lips even though I’m seeing red. “Ah, ah,” he tuts with that hateful smirk of his. “Hands up, sweetheart.” I do as I’m told, raising my hands slowly after letting my gun drop to the floor. Of course I’m not helpless; this kid doesn’t know who he’s playing with. He’s bitten more than he can chew. I slide my small dart from my sleeve slyly, and it’ll take me just one right movement and this dark-haired nightmare will drop dead on the spot. The gun tilts to the side in warning, and Alek growls quietly, “Don’t even think about it.” I’m starting to think he reads my mind. I let my spike drop to the floor, and I’m so furious I might start on fire at any moment. “How did you know?” “Are you kidding? Your rifle was sticking out of your closet last night.” “You handcuffed me to the bed!” “I couldn’t resist.” “Smug asshole-” “Horny idiot-” “Enough!” We’re bickering like an old married couple, and I grunt, turning around, the gun pressing to my forehead now, and I don’t care. At all. “Where are the Afghan papers?” I ask. He pats his suit jacket with a smile. “I’ll take them from your cold, dead body,” I say, barely keeping the anger from my voice. He laughs softly and nods. “You can try.” “Kozlov is mine,” I growl lowly. “Not a fucking chance, darling,” he says, smile dropping, and I know it’s time to fight. I move quickly, and before he can shoot me, I’ve kicked his gun away. I pin him to the wall, hard, and he grunts in pain. He kicks my side before I can punch him. He hits exactly where I have those scars that still hurt, and he breaks free while I’m there seeing stars. He’s quick and terrifyingly clever. But I’m stronger and have the military training behind my back. This will be interesting. We’re about to launch ourselves against each other again when we hear sounds and yells in Russian. They must have found the guards I left unconscious already. Before we can react, at least five guards run inside the room, and we freeze, forgetting our own fight. The guards are as surprised as we are, and they don’t hesitate to yell the order to kill us. Everything happens too quickly and Alek reacts first, grabbing a handful of my shirt with one hand, and flipping around a table desk near us with the other. He’s strong. The shots start to fall on us just as we drop behind the robust desk. I slide my hands in my suit and take out a couple of handguns from my holster. Alek does the same, and we look at each other, side by side. We hear the caps falling to the floor, and I know they’re just wasting bullets. The sound of shooting stops, and I hear a few Russian words as they reload. This is the moment. Our only chance. As it seems we have dropped our fight to get out of this alive. They outnumber us by so many men that I don’t even want to think about it. But I smile because I was born for this. Alek meets my eyes with a smile of his own. I nod, and we both launch ourselves around each side of the desk, shooting the guards and running to cover somewhere else. We’re quick as hell, and the guards drop dead while others come and shoot, and the same procedure starts again. We reload as well, discharging guns as we run out of chargers, each one of us in one side of the room, which is big enough to allow for us to maneuver. We force our way out of the room, killing when we have to, and I find myself reading my friend as good as he does with me. We fight like we’ve been doing this our entire life. It feels glorious. I’m behind a column in the big corridor, panting and throwing away another charger. I’m running out of bullets, and so is Alek. I look at him when he reaches the next column. He has a great range of vision. He makes a gesture with his hands that I understand perfectly. Four men coming from the east side. Five or more from the west. I make another gesture that means I’m running out of bullets. Indeed, a couple of men come from where we’ve just run out, and I shoot. Yes, definitely out of bullets. I look at Alek, and he smiles. He makes another professional gesture that means hand-to-hand combat. Fucking madman. He throws his last gun at me, and he darts out of his hiding spot, the men already there. I turn myself and shoot, covering him. I have a hell of an aim, and by the time I’ve run out of bullets, most of the men are dead. There are still five of them, and more are coming, but Alek is fighting already. And Jesus Christ, he’s good. The Russians have no way to reach him with their guns, and he’s using dead men as shields, twirling and spinning, hitting and kicking wildly. A perfect technique with a hint of cheating. He’s a wonder to watch. I reach him soon enough and start fighting hand-to-hand with him, getting rid of the guards as we advance, still alive, against the odds. “Klaus!” I suddenly hear, and I spin around in time to watch one of the men drop to his knees. “Watch out!” Alek complains and I watch how a man throws him to the floor, hitting his face with his fist so hard that Alek spits blood. I’m over him before he can blink, hitting him with a force that surprises even myself. I’m sure I’ve killed him, and I’m panting when I feel a hand on my collar, pulling me up. I am pushed to somewhere dark and narrow before another wave of guards can reach us. I look around and see some kind of supply closet. It’s full of things and it’s much too small for us. Alek is pressed against me, panting softly, walls against our backs. I stare at him and raise an eyebrow. “Are you hard?” I whisper in disbelief. He tilts his head to the side, shameless. I huff softly and shake my head. “Adrenaline junkie. I should’ve known.” Alek simply smiles a little at me. “Maybe I just like you too much,” he whispers back. I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow. “I’m sure you tell that to all the boys.” “Just the pretty ones,” he says, and he reaches for my face, stroking my bleeding lip with his thumb. I have no idea how I got a split lip. “Are you going to tell me your real name before we get killed?” I ask quietly, talking in whispers because I can still hear guards running outside, looking for us. He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Would you tell me yours?” he asks. Of course we both know by now that we’re not who we pretended to be. “Jorlais Finch,” I say without missing a beat. I don’t care the slightest even if I can hear Vincent in my mind scolding me. I watch how Alek narrows his eyes, probably recognizing it. I’ve made quite a name throughout the years. I’m the best spy the government proudly claims to have. “Jorlais Finch,” he drawls and my name sounds just right in his mouth. “Well… It’s about time we met,” he says, a little smile on his lips once he’s recovered from the slight surprise. “I’m Ansel,” he whispers, and I lean my head a tad closer. Ansel. I like it. “Xavier,” he adds finally, and my smile drops. Ansel Xavier. My mouth opens slightly. I’ve heard rumors about him. Ansel Xavier. Hit man. Spy. Thief. Assassin. Raven. The Devil… people call him lots of names. He’s dangerous and well known around this world. He’s the French government’s nightmare. I should kill him right away. “Who are you working for now?” I ask, and he smiles, of course. “For who paid the most.” “I need to know.” “To tell your superiors like the good dog you are?” “You think I’m a dog?” I ask softly because I’m probably the worst agent following orders from my superiors. Nothing close to a lapdog. “Well, you do look good on all fours,” he says, and makes me blink, if not blush. Hateful prick. I really should kill him; they would give me a fucking medal. I drop the idea soon enough though; it would be a pity, a waste, and to be fair, I don’t know if I would be able to win that battle. We both seem to have dropped the idea of fighting because he’s stroking the scar on my face, the one he seems to like, and I drag my bleeding knuckles over his cheekbone. We’re already breathing the same air in that limited space and the soft touches are asking for it. We lean in to kiss, our lips brushing slowly, but before we can deepen it and kiss how we like, we hear Russian voices, too close. They’ve spotted us, finally. I push Ansel back with difficulty and don’t think about it too much. I usually just act in these kinds of situations. I kick the door open despite the small range of motion I have, and we walk out, ready to fight again. There aren’t too many men now, but I still hear shots. I turn quickly, worried about Ansel, but that devil is already hitting yet another man. I don’t even know why I worry. I shouldn’t care. If they kill him, they’re doing me a favor. With those thoughts, I turn to the end of the corridor, knowing it’s now or never. I know Kozlov is near. I remember the plan of the hotel. His office is one of these doors, presumably the last. I turn to look at Ansel, who’s still fighting but seems to have everything under control. Sorry, buddy. I pick up my discharged gun from the floor and launch myself to the last door, opening it with a kick. Kozlov is there, sitting at his office desk. Finally. No men guarding him because they’re all fighting silver eyes. He points a gun at me, and I do the same, stepping farther in slowly. “One cannot make a deal nowadays without the Germans sticking their noses in. I miss the USSR days,” he says, his accent strong. “I’m not German,” I say, eyeing him warily, ready to shoot. “Ah, French. Europe is all the same, the same scumbags,” he says, and he smiles in a way that makes my stomach turn. “You can’t kill me, comrade. You French pussies always want things neat, don’t you? Even if you do kill me, you can’t escape this alive. I have more men that you can take down alone.” “I’m not alone,” I say as I hear noises coming near from the corridor. We both shoot at the same time, and I throw myself to the side. I’m quite sure that I’m alive, but he almost reaches my arm. My suit is torn, but I’m not badly hurt. The door kicks open again, and Ansel storms inside, bloody and frowning. “Son of a bitch!” he grunts when he sees Kozlov with a hole between his eyes, dead over his desk. Too late, I think as I jump to my feet. “That was dirty of you,” Ansel says. “My bad.” I smile dryly, even if I’m very glad he’s alive. We hear more sound of yells at the corridor, and I’m starting to wonder how many men Kozlov had there. We have no escape, and we can’t fight anymore - we’re too beaten. We both think the same and look at the big window of Kozlov’s office. We start running to it and jump, breaking the glass with our bodies and we fall to the nearby terrace. This is starting to look like one of my suicide missions. We have no escape; it’s either the Russian men or a six floor fall. “Fuck,” I whisper as I look around frantically, thinking of something. “Finch!” I look over the edge and see Colette down on the ground, waving her arms in circles. Helicopter? I look around, and after a moment, I hear the indisputable sound of helicopter blades over the noise of the wind. Soon I see Vincet, giving the pilot instructions to get closer while he prepares a ladder to throw. I’ve never been this glad to see Vincent’s face. I turn to Ansel and extend my hand. “Give me the documents!” He throws me a determined look and takes a step back. “Come on! You have no other escape! Give me the documents, and we take you out of here!” I yell, losing patience. The Russians will arrive within seconds. He just pushes himself up the wall, climbing onto the edge of the terrace and smiling down at me. “Don’t get killed, Jorlais. I would love to do it myself someday.” With a last wink to me, I watch with wide eyes, horrified, as he jumps back, head first. I run towards him, choking out a distressed “NO!”, but I’m not fast enough to grab him. I look down over the terrace railing in time to watch how the little shit has jumped down to the huge hotel swimming pool. Even with that, it’s a hell of a jump, and he must have hurt himself somehow. I feel a shiver when I see the water moving. He could have killed himself, the fucking madman. He could’ve hit the ground too easily. Also, that water must be fucking cold. I stare for a few seconds more, and even from this height I manage to watch him get out of the pool, soaked to the bone. Vincent is yelling at me and I blink, coming back. I turn in time to see the Russians reaching their dead boss’ office. I run like a devil and reach the other side of the terrace, jumping with all my strength. I grab the ladder in the nick of time, hearing shots behind my back as the helicopter scoots away. Vincent grabs a handful of my jacket and pushes me to the inside roughly. He seems pissed, but he will be even more once I tell him that I don’t have the documents. Ansel fucking Xavier. If you survive this, I’ll make sure to end you with my bare hands. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It’s been weeks. Vincent isn’t that pissed with me anymore. At least I took down the target without any explosion, I told him once we were back in Paris. His face was priceless. The poor man will ask for early retirement because of me, I’m sure. It was a bit awkward to explain why I didn’t have the documents of the Afghan deal, but as soon as they heard Ansel’s name, they moved their attention from me to whatever they thought might be done. I didn’t have to tell them about out night together and how he played me. They didn’t ask that much, thank God. I find myself thinking about him more than I should. I wonder if he survived. I kept hearing shots long after my helicopter was out of reach. Even if I should be glad of his potential death, I know I wouldn’t. It would be good for the business. Getting rid of Ansel would be the best news in years for the government. With all that, I would be happier if I could just know if he’s out there, alive and kicking. There’s no way to know, of course. The man is a ghost, just like we are. I feel annoyed with myself, but I can’t help it. I can’t get him out of my mind. It happens one morning, a few weeks later. I look up from the documents I’m reading - my next mission, somewhere in South America - because Vincent enters the office and strolls to me, throwing an envelope into my lap. “Came for you this morning with the official letters,” he says, and his mouth is a thin line, like he doesn’t understand how. It has to be official to get into this base, so I don’t understand his facial expression. “I don’t want to know a word about it, Finch,” he says, turning around to leave. I grab the envelope and turn it in my hands. No name, no address, nothing but a line, and my name, hand-written. From Russia, with love. I tear it open quickly, my heart slamming against my ribs, and I drop the content on the desk in front of me. Four poker cards. Four kings. The people in the office are looking at me like I’ve finally lost it, like I’m fucking insane, but I can’t stop laughing out loud. I can’t. I’m so relieved. He’s alive. I can’t wait to see that bastard again.