His breath hitched the moment he felt France's tongue press against his throbbing flesh. Russia could no longer stand, shoulder blades digging into the wall, dark red paint from the walls stuck underneath his fingernails - or maybe it's from the fresh river of blood staining the contours of his once white collared shirt.
An unmistakable laugh from the Parisian sinks into Russia's ears like a whisper. His lips grace the muscle again - Russia flinches, and it's just so delicious to watch the way his face contorts when France pricks a vein with his teeth. The Muscovite worries away at his lip until he's certain he's drawn blood from a different source, but France beats him to it. Russia tastes blood in his mouth as France's tongue retraces every contour of his soft palate – but Russia's hands don't grab at France's shirt, but his hands. When his own fingers stroke the fragile flesh so helplessly in the Frenchman's hands, the shiver that follows causes a loss of two more inches of height until his face is pressed against the other nation's sternum.
"Do you like it or non?"
"I-I am not… answering tha—nnnngh…" But the reaction that follows another generous caress of France's tongue is a perfect response. With a sinful smile Russia could barely catch behind a curtain of blonde hair, the Parisian offers another squeeze. Russia catches a glimpse of the devil's grin before his eyes close to compensate for an opening mouth – a moan, cry, whine. "G-give it back…" begging.
Breath rushes over the suspiciously warm muscle. "Non~ it's almost as if… I 'have you in the palm of my hand~"
"You would… ah - like that…"
"I adore it cherant."
"Pazhulsta…" Russia's voice is barely heard over his hastening breath.
"Hm? What was that~?"
"P-please."
"I cannot quite understand you yet…"
"S-s'il vous… p-plaît… ?"
France squeezes the heart again and watches the taller nation sink further against the wall.
"Bon garçon."