The first time Beth Harmon heard Peggy Lee's cover of "Fever" she was on a trip into town with the orphanage.
"You ever heard this one, cracker? It's my favorite, they've been playing it around the shops for the last month. You missed the last trip in to get ice cream––they were playing it then too." Jolene swayed her hips to the beat, the movements fluid, even though she was only 13 years old. It did not fit, and she shouldn't have been doing it.
Beth laughed and joined in, but her movements were jerky and awkward compared to Jolene's. Everything about her movement was disjunct.
Mrs. Deardorff cleared her throat and sent a piercing glare at the girls. The stare said this is not how Christian girls behave.
Beth did not think she was a good Christian girl. She felt the fever.
She heard the song for years after that day, each time thinking that if she were more flirtatious, more tactful in her forwardness, she would make that her seduction song. Beth longed to be the kind of siren who could make men bend to her whim, but she could not imagine getting the opportunity.
Even when she was in a room surrounded by men, she had no idea how to properly bed any of them.
Imagine her surprise when she flipped the switch on her radio while Harry Beltik was in the restroom and "Fever" came on. It felt like a sign that she was ready to test out her prowess.
Beth instantly turned up the volume and began dancing. She had become much more confident in her body from years of being watched at tournaments.
She pranced around the room, knowing Harry would happen upon her performance. The only question was when.
And as it turned out, the answer was pretty soon. After her first full turn away from the radio and subsequent twist, Beth was startled to see Harry standing there, just watching her.
"Summer's coming," Beth offered, allowing her newly developed coquette to shine through as she folded her now discarded sweater. She'd had little experience with casual flirting, but she had developed the ability to be cool in the five years since Kentucky.
"Radio's a little loud, don't you think?"
"Come on, I'll turn the radio down after this. I just…love this song."
A coy hip pop, a fluid step touch, a seductive kneeling at the couch and their board. Beth could see the effect she was having on Harry. He was catatonic.
Perfect.
This was the real thrill of playing chess, rendering your opponent speechless and moveless. She had conquered Harry Beltik yet again.
That her seduction was not consummated until the next day, however, was a blow to Beth. The maneuver had to be perfect, and it seemed that she needed to hone it further. Harry finally took action after she had offered him a bedroom, an act of passive benevolence, but that was the kill shot for Harry. Beth could not have that kind of variation.
It needed to be more precise.
…
Never did she once doubt that "Fever" was the perfect song for this practice. She just had to refine it.
She tried it once on Benny while she stayed with him in New York, but the gesture had fallen flat.
"Remember when I said forget about sex? I meant it. Now stop jumping around and come back to the table. We need to replay Borgov-Botvannik, I don't think you really got that one earlier."
It had been two weeks into their training, and the rejection stung. Less than the first time––she wasn't really looking to sleep with him at 2:38pm on a Tuesday afternoon. There were sirens on the street, screaming fights from the upstairs neighbors, and most importantly, she just wanted to practice. She wanted to affect Benny, leave him hot and bothered.
Benny refused.
The following week when they had Levertov, Wexler, and Cleo over for the evening, Benny made a jab about what he described as "Beth's silly song."
This was worse than Harry's reaction. Not only had Benny not fallen for the trick, but he did not even feel the tactic as a threat. Beth wanted to threaten him.
…
By the time she met Cleo at the hotel bar in Paris, she was ready to test it out again, but this time she needed a low stakes environment.
"Let's see how many lies they tell," Cleo gestured to the men in the suits at the back of the lobby. Perfect.
Beth situated herself to Cleo's left in the plush couch area, glancing back and forth between the two men.
"Hi, I'm Beth, and you are?"
"Hello mademoiselle, I am Jacques, and this is my colleague Francois. You are with this lovely creature, I presume?" He looked toward Cleo, who had already started an intent conversation with Francois. Their French was too fast for her––Beth had not seriously studied French, choosing instead to focus on her Russian––but she caught that they were discussing Picasso and his connection to some contemporary French artists. With no place in that conversation, Beth fixated on Jacques.
"I am, just visiting an old friend for drinks." The plural. Beth didn't know when that became plural.
"And you are American, yes?"
"Yes," Beth eyed the man cautiously for his unnerving enthusiasm. She did not come over to be fetishized herself; she wanted to make him fall. "I am a player in the chess grand prix."
"Oh, a clever woman!" She sneered at him. "Oh no, I did not mean that in any flippant manner. I am ferociously attracted to a woman with a mind."
Silence. An uncomfortable glance back to Cleo and Francois. She returned her attention to the man in front of her.
"Have you ever heard the song 'Fever'? It's a chart topper in the US. It's actually one of my favorites, and somehow Paris has been reminding me of it since I arrived."
Too forward, Beth thought to herself. That was always her problem; she was too forward without any finesse. She was so single-minded that she lacked the grace and ease that Cleo emulated so well.
"I have not. I do not listen to any music from America. It is too difficult to get records for a reasonable price around here, and why would I seek out the popular music of Americans when I have access to all of the beautiful live music I could ask for here in Paris?"
Beth was seething. This was by far her worst attempt yet, Cleo had abandoned her, and now all she wanted was another drink. For the alcohol or simply for the prop so she wouldn't have to think about what to do with her hands, Beth didn't know.
All she knew was Jacques was decidedly not a susceptible party for her project. And did she hear that his accent, while quite heavy, didn't actually sound French? Was that a lie? Who even was he?
With a swift upshot, Beth stood, bid Jacques goodbye and darted back toward the bar.
"Deux pastis, si vous plait." She knocked both drinks back in a matter of minutes, feeling like she needed the liquor to kick in faster.
Another.
"Pardon, un Gibson. Merci." Alma would be proud of Beth. She had always said there would be more to life than chess, and right now, nothing about Beth's life was for chess. She had thrown that away as soon as she decided to come down to the bar. And with nothing to show for the evening, Beth made the decision to grab Cleo and make some choices together.
The bartender passed her the drink in a beautiful gilded goblet, and that was the last thing Beth remembered.
…
Clearly Paris had not been her finest moment. After licking her wounds and defeating Borgov in Moscow, Beth recuperated her confidence, ready to try her experiment once more. And although Paris had been a disaster in every regard, Beth found herself more flexible now than before, more ready to learn from her mistakes.
Her lessons so far:
The target must be receptive, but not too easily won over. Harry was too easy of a target, Benny too difficult.
She could not bring up the song in conversation––especially internationally. The opportunity had to be organic, and when it arose the next time, she would take it. "Fever" was played less and less on the radio the older the song got, newer recordings by the Beatles and the Supremes taking over instead. If she heard the song while she was out, she committed to making use of it. The thought did occur to her that this lesson meant she would likely be unable to test it out at international tournaments, only domestic ones. A shame, really.
The target could not be a prospective long-term partner. Beth was able to brush off the incident with Benny only because she was also in training mode. Without that, the blow would have hit much harder.
No drinking. No matter the setting, no alcohol was to be consumed under any circumstances.
Time passed, and as she expected, Beth did not get much of a chance to practice on anyone for a good while. Some national tournaments that season took place in exciting cities: Boston, Pittsburgh, Austin. She had hoped she would have struck gold in at least one of those, but the bars she frequented in those cities opted for live music, and since Peggy Lee marked her territory with her cover, not a single gigging musician in the states would touch it.
…
It was in Canada, of all places, when the moment arrived. The Toronto invitational had brought together eight players for a round robin, most of whom were North American.
There were, of course, two notable exceptions. The Italian, Flento, was playing, a fact at which Beth did not bat an eye. Despite the impressive length of their previous match in Moscow, Flento had been the weakest player there, and if any European masters would come to a less-prestigious tournament, it did not surprise her that it was him.
Beth had not taken the time to research the roster of players before she arrived, and to her astonishment, she saw the familiar etching on one of the spectator boards as they set up the tournament. V. Borgov.
What was Borgov doing at this tournament? It was surely beneath him, and considering the expense and hassle of transatlantic travel, she was unsure why he would have accepted the invitation at all. It was surely a huge win for the tournament organizers, and she briefly hoped they were proud of their success.
Unlike their other matches, Beth's game against Borgov was quite early in the tournament this time. She would not have a dramatic buildup to their rematch or time to study the boards after his other games. Instead, she would treat her first game as a kind of warmup, against a man named Duncan Suttles, and she would knock Borgov out on the second day. The rest of the tournament would be easy.
Or maybe she would lose to Borgov this time. It no longer seemed to matter.
…
She heard it. The echo of "Fever" radiated from the bar through the lobby as she returned from some afternoon shopping on the third day of the tournament.
Beth floated toward it, feeling apprehensive about capitalizing on the moment but committing to the possibility regardless. Luckily, she caught the song at the beginning, or else she would not have had the time to act, even if she had wanted to.
A quick glance around the bar showed her only couples having dinner, and one larger group of media spectators from the tournament, indulging in the happy hour specials.
She wandered further back into the room and around the corner to the backside of the bar. The back was much more vacant than the front, but Peggy Lee's voice was louder. Perhaps they had a radio in the back section and not the front.
Empty booth, empty booth, empty high top. Empty tables.
Bingo, one man alone on a leather stool at the bar. His back was turned to her so he could look out the window, but he was on the end of the row. She would simply tap him on the shoulder to say hello, and then make him reorient to accommodate her presence.
Perfect.
With a confident stride, Beth made her way over to seat herself next to him. She had all but abandoned the mission, but feeling elated by a possible conversation with someone other than the chess players, she decided to venture on.
As she closed the gap, she noticed the familiar shoes and the strong forearms. How had she not noticed it was Borgov sitting at the bar?
Probably because he was as dressed down as she had ever seen him. Sporting a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and no necktie, all atop a pair of dark wash blue jeans.
As she approached he must have felt her presence, because Borgov turned to see Beth coming before she reached the seat.
"Where is your wife?"
Shit. Not a good opener for any conversation, especially one with a man she hadn't ever really spoken to.
"I just meant that she usually accompanies you to tournaments to translate, and I guess your son is usually around too. I haven't seen them here."
A recovery. Not a great one, but more acceptable than her terrible opener.
"My wife had her own engagements this week."
Beth couldn't read the tone in his voice.
"It is actually a rare opportunity for me to practice English on my own. I should study much more than I do because I have the help. Without her, I must fend for myself."
Rare opportunity. Beth had a rare opportunity as well.
Silence.
Another moment passed.
"I love this song."
"I have never heard it."
"Well, obviously, I would not have expected a Russian to know it." Another moment. "How much of it do you understand?"
"Not much. I understand a few words, like 'hold' and 'love'." Beth blushed at the realization that those were the major words Borgov picked out from the song, "but I confess that I am quite lost."
Beth listened in to see if she could translate any of the lyrics for Borgov. She had let her own Russian slip, but maybe between the two of them they could cobble together the meaning of the song.
Romeo loved Juliet
Juliet she felt the same
When he put his arms around her
He said, 'Julie, baby, you're my flame'
'Thou giveth fever
'When we kisseth
'Fever with thy flaming youth
'Fever! I'm afire
'Fever, yea, I burn forsooth.'
Of course, now she not only had to explain normal text but also the callback to Elizabethan English.
"I can't help you for this verse, sorry. I have been neglecting my Russian as well."
Borgov shrugged his shoulders and bobbed his head from side to side. A gesture of understanding and acceptance.
"What is this word, 'fever'? I assume that is the title of the piece?"
"Fever is…"
Beth only knew the word for sick fever.
"A temperature. But 'hot' in English also means 'sexy', so this song is about seduction."
Somehow explaining the double entendre of the song was not as dismissive as she had anticipated. Borgov raised his eyebrows, nodding slightly to indicate that he understood, lips slightly parted in a very natural way. He was receptive to learning from her.
A bartender noticed Beth and came over to take her order. "Can I get you a drink? Molson's are 25 cents."
Beth glanced to her left as if to earn Borgov's approval––or disapproval––but he gazed forward and looked down at his own drink, decidedly not engaging with Beth's conversation.
"No thank you, just a soda water with a wedge of lime, please."
The bartender poured Beth's drink on the spot and left them in peace after only a moment.
More silence. Beth refocused on the "Fever" lyrics, but she had no idea what this conversation was. She had never really spoken with Borgov, so why did she think they would have something more to talk about.
"So, what's with the jeans?" Another straight-forward ask that Beth immediately regretted.
Borgov seemed to perk up at this question, the left side of his mouth sliding into a smirk. "I like jeans, I think they are smart. Because I am on good terms with my agents right now, they let me buy a pair while I'm here. They are very hard to come by back home."
Bringing his right hand down from the bar, Borgov smoothed the denim on his left thigh, admiring the purchase. Beth couldn't look away from the gesture. Something so mundane as seeing him in jeans completely threw her off. It wasn't as if the denim transformed Borgov; on the contrary, she couldn't help but notice that they seemed to be the exact same cut as his suit pants. Nevertheless, he had found a beautifully simple pair, and he seemed pleased with them. Mildly pleased.
His hand stopped moving, but it continued to lay on his thigh instead of returning to its position up on the bar.
Was it hot in this bar or was it just her?
"The song you love so much, it is over."
Yes, Peggy Lee's sultry voice was replaced by some other hit which Beth did not recognize. She hadn't really kept up with the music on the radio, only knowing the greatest hits from catching some performances on TV.
"So it is."
Another moment. There really was so much lag time speaking with Borgov.
"I would like to understand the song. Will it play again?"
"Not likely, it is a little older, so it doesn't get as much airtime as it used to."
"But here you can make requests for the radio, no?"
Beth thought about it for a minute, sloshing the lime around the bottom of her glass.
"I supposed I could. It would get in the queue then, and the song might come back in an hour or two."
"Excellent, do that then."
"What?"
"Go call, I wish to learn."
Beth wondered if Borgov had been so persistent about learning English when his wife was with him and translating. She doubted it. It was nice that he wanted to learn more, and Beth thought for a moment that if Borgov's English were better and her Russian were better, the two of them might one day be able to have a real conversation.
"But it will take time, and I don't know how long it will be." She waived her arms fanatically as she spoke, an unusual movement for Beth, but she also didn't particularly want to sit in a bar for hours if she couldn't drink. The temptation would be too strong. "I can't ask you to just wait around this bar all night while you probably have work to do, just in the hopes that we'll hear the song again."
Borgov grabbed her forearm that she was using to gesticulate and brought it down to the bar. His grip was firm but gentle. There was nothing violent in the action, and it was calming all the same.
"Then let us make the most of the time. We shall play while we wait. What better practice than to play each other again?"
"I don't want to stay in the bar," Beth started, becoming meeker as she tried to mentally frame her addiction in a way she could explain to Borgov. "It's too hard."
For the first time Borgov turned on the stool to her, looking Beth in the eye with his muddied blue gaze.
"Take me to your room."
Beth was startled, and the confusion must have registered on her face. She felt the heat from earlier creep up from the base of her neck to her ears.
"Okay." Beth slid off the chair never breaking eye contact, and she urged him to follow.
"I will meet you there in an hour."
"Room 311." Beth raised her eyebrows to confirm and walked away, still feeling his presence even as she rounded the corner out of his line of sight.
"Oh, and congratulations on your win. Always a pleasure to be conquered again by the beautiful Elizabeth Harmon," he called out in Russian.
Had he really just said beautiful? Maybe Beth was conflating 'beautiful' with 'great'––she really needed to brush up her Russian. Next time, she thought.
On her way out she saw his KGB agent staring her down as she left. She guessed that he needed to shake his agent for the evening, and as such needed the extra time.
The time turned out to be necessary as it took her almost 40 minutes to get connected to the station. She put in the request and turned to make sure her room was presentable. Everything was tidied thanks to the housekeeping, but it felt austere, not like a lived-in space.
She decided to set up a game on the table, as if to suggest that she was busy and not waiting around for Borgov. She chose to reset her game from earlier that day, a quick affair against another Canadian whose name she could not remember. She aimed to recuperate the game from his perspective. She had played black this time around.
Once a board was set, she poured herself a glass of water, still feeling the burn from Borgov's gaze on her, trying desperately to cool her skin down. She briefly contemplating adding a spritz of perfume, but as she had just seen Borgov it probably would have come off as intentionally for him.
How do you prepare for something that really needs no preparation?
Really she was just giving herself needless tasks because she couldn't sit still. She could start preparing an account of the song for when Borgov arrived. Beth had never been a very good teacher, with little patience for someone to catch up to her.
The text in the first stanza was pretty simple, and she assumed he could get it himself. What was the first word she'd have to explain?
Now that she thought about it, once you knew the word 'fever' the rest of the song should fall into place pretty easily. Maybe an idiom here and there, but the vocabulary was actually pretty basic. What was Borgov doing? There was no way his English didn't include words like 'night' and 'burn'.
A knock came at the door. Borgov.
Composing herself, Beth hurried to the door, waiting a moment in the threshold before opening the door to let him in.
"You have a lovely room."
"It's the same as yours, isn't it?"
"This one has more sunlight right now. You must be facing West."
Beth looked down to his clothes and noticed that he had replaced the new denim jeans with his normal dress pants. Stepping to the side, she shrugged to invite him in.
"What happened to your jeans?"
"If we are playing chess I should be dressed appropriately, no?" Beth would not have thought it necessary, but if Borgov intended to be professional about this, she was happy to oblige.
Borgov strode over to the table with the game. "Whose is this?"
"My match from earlier. The poor guy really dug himself into a hole, and I'm trying to figure out how he could have turned it around. If he could have turned it around."
A smile crept to his face, and he chuckled. "Ah yes, Miss Elizabeth Harmon, a truly empathetic chess player."
"Beth. My friends call me Beth."
"Beth." He tested her name out, and the sound of it in is voice struck her. The 'th' was hard, the sound foreign, like her name had a renewed identity.
"And who are you then?" Poor word choice. "I mean, what would you like to be called?"
He paused for a moment, as if he had not put any thought into what she would call him. This made Beth angry––she wanted to be important to him the way he was to her. She wanted him to think of playing her periodically throughout his days, wanted him to have a plan for what he would want her to call him, wanted him to have thought about a moment like this.
"Vasily. Or Vasya, even Vaska. Whatever pleases you." Familiar but ambivalent.
Beth played it with caution. "Vasily, then, should we start a new game?"
"Please." The word dripped with as much enthusiasm as he was capable of offering.
She reset the board while he took the liberty of pouring himself a glass of water. One king in each hand, Beth offered the two fists to him. Borgov pointed toward her left hand, accidentally swiping his index finger against her knuckles. His fingertip was rough, calloused over. From what, Beth could hardly imagine. But the tiny ridges on his finger life a blazing trail on her skin where they made contact.
Beth unfurled her hand, revealing the white king, and she flipped the board around accordingly.
The beginning of their game was slow and luxurious, neither making any quick motions. They mostly spent their time looking at the board, sipping their water, and languidly moving the pieces around the board.
Vasily dragged his bishop to g6––actually dragged it along––before pausing. "Should we turn the radio on so that we can hear?"
She had completely forgotten the reason he was here in the first place.
"Yes, yes, sorry." She got up to turn the radio on, Vasily's eyes following her as she strode over to the radio on top of the dresser. Beth flipped the switch and turned to the station, fighting for a good connection.
"In the meantime, would it be helpful if we talked? I mean, if you wanted to practice your English while we play."
"Certainly, you will find that I am conversable on a number of different topics."
They chatted about the weather in Toronto, the restaurants they had been to, meals they'd eaten, and matches they'd played. The sentences became longer, more discursive, as time went on, and Beth thought to herself that Vasily's English was, in fact, quite good. It was certainly better than her own Russian.
"You know your English is really good, are you sure you need my help?" Beth asked this coyly, hoping that he would say 'of course' or at least explicated some of the gaps in his knowledge.
"It is always important to have a conversation partner."
Once again, silence, but this time a companionable silence.
"And," Vasily continued a moment later, "I truly did not understand 'Fever' earlier. I wish to capture the meaning better with your help."
The burn was back, this time lower than before. The flush traveled down from her neck through her chest, making her sit more upright than before. The sensation was accompanied by an involuntary shiver, which she tried to play off as a physical chill.
Committing to the act, Beth went to the closet to grab a cardigan, which she draped over her shoulders after reseating herself.
The truth was that Beth was not cold. Beth was on fire.
A few more moves passed, and they must have been playing for almost three hours. The sun had set long ago. Her request still had not come on.
"If you will excuse me, I must use the restroom. May I?" The question threw Beth, not expecting him to ask for permission. She nodded, and Vasily bowed out and headed toward the slightly ajar door.
Of course, he was out of the room for scarcely a minute when the familiar bass and snaps rang out from the radio. A perfect repeat of what had happened with Harry Beltik over a year before.
The heat took over and was suddenly oppressive. Instead of the pleasant warmth and tingling she had felt previously, she felt hot from the inside out. She had to get the cardigan off of her body immediately.
Unfortunate that she had put it fully on and started to button it before Vasily had excused himself.
Beth stood up and attempted to take the sweater off from the bottom without unbuttoning it, accidentally taking up the bottom of her blouse with it. While she was fighting with her tops, Vasily returned to the main room.
"Is this an American dance with which I am unfamiliar?" He chuckled at her plight before stepping over to help her.
When you put your arms around me, I get a fever that's so hard to bear.
The ironic lyrics rang out as Vasily put his hands on Beth's biceps to steady her. From there he pulled the sweater down to unbutton the clasps, which had shifted up when Beth tried to remove the sweater. Those which usually sat around her naval were up around her chest. Vasily tried to be respectful, gently pulling the fabric away from her before fiddling with the buttons.
Once the cardigan fell to the floor and Beth was able to pull her top down again, her hair was mussed.
"Thank you, I got myself into a pretty sticky situation there." She ran a hand through her hair and kept adjusting her clothes, trying to brush off the embarrassment she felt.
"And what exactly is a 'sticky' situation?"
Beth managed to make eye contact, cautiously moving on from her episode.
"Something precarious. Awkward. Embarrassing."
"You should not feel embarrassed. It appears to me that sweater was intent on ruining your evening," Vasily smirked. Beth noticed he was still standing directly in front of her, far too close for a normal conversation. "I am not entirely sure why you chose to put it on to begin with. It is rather hot in here, no?"
It was Beth who turned away, using the opportunity to rehang the sweater and to hide her flush. The song continued.
"Are there any phrases I can help with? Anything I can translate?"
"Oh no, I believe I understand the song now."
Why did he come up here if not to work on his English?
He continued, "Fever. That was the missing word."
Beth could swear Vasily was right. The temperature of the room was rising every second.
"If you're sweater routine is not how an American would dance to this, how would one do it?" Vasily had turned around and walked back to his seat at the abandoned chess board. He now sat angled away, with his legs crossed––a new position for him––as if awaiting a show.
"Uhm, I'm not sure." Beth kept her response concise because if she said anything more it would be incomprehensible.
"You enjoy this song, yes? I believe you do know how you would dance. Show me."
The command was deliberate. There was nothing harsh about his tone, but Beth felt a sense of severity to the request, one that she couldn't ignore.
Or rather, one that she chose not to ignore.
Setting aside any anxieties about her performance, Beth accessed the confidence she had when she had first danced in front of Harry.
She danced, her hips swaying the same as they had back in Kentucky. She did not like that Vasily had told her to dance, and to get her revenge in and her power back, she decided that she would make him eat his heart out.
Emboldened by her recommitment to the routine, Beth dropped to all fours on the floor, sensually crawling toward the table as she looked up at Vasily.
He recognized the expression; it was her game face.
When she got to the chair, she popped up to kneeling, just as she had in front of her couch in Kentucky. With her hands now free, she pawed at his pants, working her way up from the hem to the knees, and then just barely onto his thighs.
Her hand was in the same spot his had been earlier when he felt his jeans. She wished he was still wearing them.
As the final 'what a lovely way to burn' finished, she settled back to sit on her left hip, still at the spot right in front of Vasily.
"That was," he took a minute to choose the correct words, "riveting, but also far too sultry for a woman your age."
Beth huffed. That was also not the reaction she wanted. Just when she had put herself back out there, she failed anyway.
"How old do you think I am?" She pouted, still looking up at Vasily from the floor.
"Too young to be sitting where you are right now." His face glossed over expressionless, just as it had in tournaments. The only change she observed was the bob in his adam's apple as he swallowed.
It was a lie. It wasn't that she was too young, it's that she had succeeded. He was bothered. Beth had bothered Vasily.
"Oh, I don't think so. It wouldn't be the first time." She was baiting him.
"I never said it was."
The two maintained eye contact, battling for dominance over the conversation.
"Miss Harmon…" his voice steadied, delivering a perfect matter of fact, "I believe that you have fever."
"And what do you mean by that?" She sat back up on her knees, performing an artful series of acrobatics to stand up without her hands but also without moving any more forward than she already was. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being any closer.
Vasily reached out to Beth, who was now standing over him, and in one foul swoop grabbed her from the back of her thighs and pulled her onto is lap.
For the first time that evening she was glad he had discarded the jeans. The fabric of his dress pants was soft enough that she could feel him through them, feel what she had done to him.
"Do you know why I had to change my trousers? My jeans were soiled."
Beth shivered once more, not losing Vasily's gaze. She was determined to stare him down, make him confess to what he'd done.
"I could not present you with dirtied trousers, now could I? Not when you were so kind as to invite me into your room with no one around." On the last word he thrust his hips into her, making her feel the growing consequence of her dancing.
Beth stayed silent, knowing that if she responded she would lose her mystique.
"But you knew what you were doing. That song was filthy, and you wanted to exploit it for everything it was worth. Why else would you come into a bar with no intention of drinking, all the way to the back to find a solitary man to play with."
Thank god she was wearing jeans herself; they have Vasily access to unbutton the top and unzip them. With one hand on the small of her back, the other dipped into her underwear, leaving her gasping the moment he hit her clit.
So much for dominating.
Beth dropped the eye contact as he continued fingering her, letting her head tilt back. Was that moan hers? It certainly wasn't his.
"You have me up to your room under the guise of helping me with my English, using my weakness as an opportunity, and yet you don't have the decency to look me in the eye as I fuck you?"
There was no difference in the prosody of his voice as he touched her as when he played chess. He was unchanged, and it was clear to Beth now. She did have fever. Vasily Borgov had given her the fever.
Mewling, she thrusted toward him, hoping to brush against his cock. But with one hand on either side of her, he had complete control of where she sat.
The lighter strokes gave way to harder pressure, the alternations becoming more frequent, and she came, humping his finger and lap like a feral animal.
With complete control, Vasily removed his index finger from inside of her and licked it, curiously tasting Beth Harmon.
When he was finished he pulled her back in, this time more gently, from his other hand on her back. With his free hand, the one that had been inside of her mere moments ago, he took her top by the third button down and pulled it toward him, just as he had with the cardigan minutes ago.
He brought her face to his and kissed her. It was not chaste, but it also was not passionate. Something about kissing him only after he had gotten her off felt less sensual. It was an obligation, not a carnal intuition.
Beth tried to deepen the kiss, but Vasily declined. The queen's gambit declined, once again.
Beth stood from the chair, returning down to her knees and moved to unhook Vasily's belt, but he stood up, refastened the buckle and walked away.
"That is not for you to do." He disappeared into the bathroom for two minutes and returned after. He had deprived Beth the opportunity to make him come, or even to fully examine any effects she had on him. When he emerged, Vasily's face looked more tender, especially in the darkness of the night. The sun had gone down, and neither of them took notice.
He walked over to Beth, offering his hand so that she could stand up from the spot where she was sitting.
She took the hand and rose as gracefully as she could, although she was incredibly irritated.
Vasily pulled her in for another kiss, this one deeper, softer, more emotional.
This is what she imagined kissing Vasily Borgov would have been like.
"What a lovely way to burn, indeed." Vasily bowed slightly and took his leave. Once he had vacated the room, Beth took to her bed, lit a cigarette, and silently agreed.
What a lovely way to burn.