He closed his eyes, shuddering at the sensation of those hands on his skin, at the realization of what was happening.
Napoleon's breath was soft against his neck and one hand brushed his nape, making Illya's skin goose pimple in its wake. It was almost erotic in sensation.
And the cadence against him, the movement, too slow for his taste.
"Faster, Napoleon," he ordered, his voice raspy, pleading.
"Why are you always in such a hurry, my friend? Am I hurting you?"
"What, of course not, it's just, I need you to be done so that I can –"
"Be done?" Napoleon's hands paused, brushing hair away from Illya's ear to whisper. "You could always go to someone more…urm… professional for this."
"No, I couldn't… I trust you, Napoleon… I just want to be done."
"Didn't anyone tell you how sensual this can be? How trusting and pleasuring… for both parties?"
"Please… I can't… I'm getting a cramp in my back."
Napoleon started moving again, his motions brisk and business like now, just what Illya had asked for, exactly what he needed.
It seemed like forever, then Napoleon's fingers dug into his shoulder, bruising the muscles, but Illya didn't care; he was past caring… he just needed… his eyes flew open and his mouth worked for a moment… voiceless as Napoleon moved the sheet from between them.,
Then he gasped. "Did you have to cut it so short?"
Napoleon shook the blond hair from the sheet and sighed, "Always the critic. Next time, don't be so cheap. Pay a barber…"
(and for anyone who thought otherwise – gotcha!_