A cold sweat slid over him, dripping down his spine and soaking into the stiff white bed-sheets. He shifted against the headboard, craning his neck for any sort of noise, sheets and bare wood scraping against his naked skin. A dull ache throbbed in his wrists, grew as he tugged against the ropes binding them tight against the headboard. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours that he'd been sitting like this, waiting anxiously. He couldn't see the clock, a blindfold wrapped tight over his eyes; could only measure the passing of time by his own breathing and the pounding of his heart.
The bed dipped under the weight of another, and he cocked his head to the side. While he still was unable to see what his companion was doing, he could still try to hear- to make some sense of it. That was what bothered him most about his situation—it wasn't being tied up, completely bare with his legs spread and open; it was being entirely blind to what was going on, fully and utterly defenseless.
Defenselessness was not something that sat well with America.
"'Bout damn time…" he said, and though he'd tried to keep his voice strong, it wavered like a dying flame. "Mind taking the blindfold off now?"
There was no answer in the form of words; instead he felt something brush over his cheek. He jerked, startled, eyes widening, though the fabric over them stole his vision away. Even so he could guess what it was—a gloved hand stroking his skin, almost fondly.
"Fuck, we should put a bell on you," he mumbled, and though the other still said nothing he could feel the smile he was given. A breath caught in his lungs as he felt that hand slide downward, tracing down his throat and along his collarbone.
The bed creaked slightly, and he heard the fabric shift, felt cool lips press a kiss against his neck, where his fingers had been just a moment before. Lips then drew back, a moment before teeth sunk into his neck. It wasn't all-together unpleasant, though he jerked as if he'd been hit with a live wire, a gasp torn from his mouth. The teeth moved away after giving a final nip, a tongue darting out to lick at the spot. It would leave a mark, he was sure, but he couldn't complain.
The mouth moved downward then, following the path his hand had made. Teeth scraped over America's collar bone, and the blond jerked again, tilting his head back, shifting restlessly. His knee touched fabric, and he automatically moved to press more against that familiar texture, straining against the bindings on his ankles.
"Still think…. It'd be better if I could see you," the words spilled out, barely audible, said just to break the silence, to distract them both from the organ thumping in his chest.
Again, there was no reply, and America was beginning to think the other had gone mute. Instead of saying anything, the trail of the man's hand and following one of his mouth broke apart; the fingers moving down to his belly, and sliding over a hip, while the mouth stayed high, licking and kissing over muscles, before dragging a nipple into his mouth, drawing his tongue over the sensitive bit of skin.
America's hips twisted, body shifting once more on the sheets. He was almost reveling in the sensation, might have been completely reveling if he could see what was going on and if those touches weren't so teasing. He could feel the leather of the other's hand tracing light touches over his hips. The touch that was being given would serve better in other places, in his opinion, and he twitched his body in that direction.
"Please," and though the word tasted foul in his mouth—he didn't like asking for anything; he was America, he should have been strong enough to just take what he wanted—it was still said, and still heard. A chuckle escaped the other's lips, the only noise that he'd made thus far other than the rustling of clothes and the light creak of the hotel mattress.
Perhaps it was the way he said it, or the little whimpers that escaped his throat, accompanying the word, or maybe the way he shifted and squirmed and practically begged with his body, but the man's hand shifted closer, growing less teasing and more solid against his skin. And then there were fingers wrapping around the ache in between his legs, leather smooth and cool and wonderful. A keening moan escaped him, and his hips surged upward, towards that touch.
With his sight gone, everything felt different, stronger somehow. That one touch felt like a million and though he was uncertain what would happen next, couldn't see the thoughts or the decisions in the man's eyes before he moved, he found himself anticipating every little shift, every tiny movement against him. It was thrilling, like a roller-coaster ride but with kisses and touches and rolling hills of pleasure rather than sharp drops and loop-de-loops.
"Fuck."
The man laughed then, silence forgotten in that moment, and his voice spilled over America like fresh snow and crushed ice. "Моя Америка... You are always being so eloquent."
"Of course. 'S what you love about me," America replied. He could feel the breath on his face as the other leaned in-close enough to kiss, but not quite there yet; he could practically taste the mix of vodka and freshly fallen snow, as he moved to meet him, lips brushing against the other's, but still not quite kissing. Not yet.
"Да. How could I not?" the other murmured, pushing closer, meeting his lips in a kiss, a meeting of frozen snow and warm valleys, hard vodka and the syrupy sweet of cola.
It was going to be a pleasant evening, despite being bound and blind and defenseless.
And maybe even because of it.