The song, Napoleon thought, was wrong. With Illya, it wasn't in his kiss. Not that his kiss wasn't something to behold--hard, powerful, insistent. And it wasn't about technique, either. No, Napoleon knew technique. He used it frequently, seducing with his words, hands and lips to get what he wanted. Asking, persuading, but never taking.

Illya didn't bother with persuading. And he didn't have to ask. He demanded without a word. But it wasn't in his kiss. It was in his hips. Oh, the kiss was involved, most assuredly, but if that kiss sucked your soul right up through your throat, it was the press of those hips, their smooth, hypnotic motion against your body that pushed your soul up to where he could reach it.

If his hips were the cause, his hands were certainly the method to allow those hips to do their job. Hard, ragged caresses, with an artful carelessness that hinted that maybe, just maybe, there might be some technique behind his actions. But if it was, then it was a technique Napoleon had never seen before Illya.

Once he had you where he wanted you, Illya's hands became a steel prison wrapped in silk. You couldn't escape, and you didn't much care. Napoleon felt his breath catch as those hands gripped tighter, splayed fingers pressing into naked skin, holding it exactly where Illya decreed. Holding it tightly against those perfect, fluid hips that moved forward and back, claiming what he arrogantly believed was his royal right. It was those hips that truly took everything and left you with nothing but what he chose to give back.

Napoleon wondered what it would feel like. And as he stared at the image on the screen, watching his partner make yet another conquest in the line of duty, he considered whether it would be worse to find out, or not.

If only he thought his answer to the question even mattered.

---

END