Michelle awoke with Kirill's lips on her nipple. They'd arrived back in Paris mid afternoon and slept in her hotel room.

His eyes followed her's, lazy and half awake.

She liked him when he was like this. His movements were languid, sleepy, and his hands were less controlled. He trailed up to kiss her lips, and then caressed her back, nuzzling her neck. As the moments wore on he became stiffer, his movements more hurried. He tried to pull her urgently towards him, to connect their bodies, but she had other ideas.

She turned around and stretched like a cat.

"This way."

He rolled over and sat up.

"Are you sure?" he said throatily. He didn't know why he was asking permission, when she was on her hands and knees in front of him, but it felt right to ask. He didn't want to use her. This was the way he'd taken countless of women, so he couldn't see their faces. This was different. She was giving him something, and he wasn't just going to take.

She turned her neck around.

"Da," she said huskily, looking at him. Her eyes were stormy.

He got into her slowly, making sure she could feel it. She whimpered.

"It's alright?" he said anxiously.

"It feels- so wonderful, so wonderful, Kirill."

He started to move slowly, leaning forward to place a kiss on her lobe.

"Ya tebya lyublu," he whispered.

"I told you my Russian sucks," she murmured.

"Nevermind," he said softly as he thrust deeply into her.

She whimpered again.

He couldn't take it.

He thrust harder, faster as she mewled and cried out his name.

"More, Kirill," she pled.

He groaned and let himself see red.

It was glorious. Fully glorious. He didn't know how many moments he'd spent in ecstasy before he roared and came furiously.

They collapsed on the bed afterwards, spent.

"Fuck," she said when she had gotten her breath back. "That was fucking hot."

He was still coming down from his severely powerful climax.

"Da," he rasped.

She snuggled up against him and burrowed her nose into his neck.

"Don't do that," he said in a strangled voice. "I don't have the energy for another round just yet."

She grinned. "But baby, you're so hot."

He was about to jump on her then. Instead, he took her hands and kissed one. Then he willed himself to glance at the clock on the bedside table. They'd slept for two hours.

"Where should we go for dinner?" he asked, getting up and stretching. He felt bloody wonderful.

She creased a brow and stayed silent awhile.

"Let's not waste money," she said. "We can cook again."

Kirill froze at the word 'cook'.

"Money's not an issue," he said, a bit more tersely than he wished.

Michelle looked at him and sighed. "Kirill, you've been very generous to me, and I feel a little bad. I don't know what the pay is like for a policeman in Moscow, but in Australia…it's okay, but it's not great. So please. I get the vibe that you're a spender, but you really need to know when to tighten your belt."

He nodded slowly; trying not to flash around the big fat guilty sign he felt was waving above his head.

This trip hadn't even made a dent in the pay Gretkov had given him. There was about three mill in cash stowed under his bed, and unlimited funds if he wished, right at his fingertips. Here she was being so damn considerate, and all he was doing was feeding her lies.

"We don't get paid that badly, you know," he said casually.

She just gave him a look.

"Let's just cook."

His insides started playing a march of doom.

"Alright."

He tried to be as enthusiastic as she was when they visited the markets. She was in her element. Mint excited her. Asparagus made her eyes light up. Finding the perfect coriander bunch made her gabble away as if she'd found gold.

He carried the bags as she skipped her way to the room.

And here he was again. In front of the stove, with the simmering pot.

Jesus.

If only cooking were as easy as firing a gun.

God. There had to be something wrong with him if murder was one of the easiest chores he could muster in his mind.

Thankfully, she didn't visit the shower this time. He turned off the dial gingerly when she told him to, and transferred the pot to another hob. He felt a tremendous surge of accomplishment.

And then came the onions.

"I can- help," he said awkwardly.

"Forget it," she said, chopping up the onions quickly. "You stay on the couch. Don't even think of getting up."

He meekly did what she asked.

Michelle watched as Kirill made his way to the sofa and sat, flicking through the channels on the remote.

He was a hard kind of guy, but he was also kind of gooey. He was adorable. She almost-

No. She couldn't say that. She couldn't even think it.

The day after tomorrow after tomorrow after tomorrow, she would be leaving. He would stay on, or go back to Russia. This would end.

She didn't want to bring up the subject. She didn't want to spoil what they were having. It was magical, and she didn't want the dream to stop.

Her eyes softened, and teared a little.

She blamed the onions.

In the later part of the evening they hit a piano bar at one of the nearby hotels.

Michelle lazily leaned back into Kirill's arms at the bar. They listened to the pianist play on the grand.

"Is he any good?" Kirill said as he combed his fingers through her hair.

"It's not a good idea to ask me that," she said. "I can be brutal."

Kirill chuckled.

"At least you won't need to slap anybody tonight," he said as he threaded through the thick locks.

She leaned back against his chest and sighed. "Just don't go to the bathroom."

He chuckled. "What if I really really need to take a piss?"

"I will handcuff myself to you."

"That sounds- promising."

She looked over her shoulder and grinned. "Do you have a set?"

"Of handcuffs?"

"Mm-hm." She nuzzled her nose against the little V in his shirt.

He swallowed. "Of course. All policemen carry handcuffs."

She laughed. "That's probably a little too kinky for me actually. I'm not the Fifty Shades of Grey type."

"I do not understand the reference."

"Fifty Shades of Grey. The gratuitous mummy porn book slash film."

He shook his head.

She sighed. "It's probably better you don't know."

Fifteen minutes later the pianist retired. He walked towards the bar and slumped over it, waving down the bartender. He saw Michelle, and gave her an enormous grin. Kirill bristled.

"Hello, little lady," he said appreciatively.

"Good evening," she replied in a friendly enough manner.

"I trust the music was to your enjoyment?" he said in a smarmy voice.

Kirill almost scoffed.

"And you as well sir?" The pianist cocked his brow belligerently.

"The lady is an accomplished pianist herself," Kirill said stonily.

The sleazy look on his face vanished, and an air of delight overtook his features.

"Well then you must play something!" he said animatedly.

Michelle gave Kirill a small glare.

She turned back to the pianist with a smooth smile. "I fear my partner exaggerates," she said. "He always likes to make me sound good."

"She's a classically trained musician," Kirill supplied in a monotone voice. "She plays Rachmaninoff," he added casually.

The pianist's eyes bugged. "Well then, I must insist, miss. No time to be shy, go on, go on. Please do me the honour. You cannot refuse."

"If I must," she said wanly.

She stepped towards the piano at his insistent gesticulations, and sat down.

The tune started out as a single haunting melody. But what started out as simple soon developed into a complex meld of rhythm and harmony, until the whole became a stormy, passionate emulsion of sound. And then it came back to that single, sad, beautiful voice again, higher and higher, then lower, slower and softer.

There was silence. Then a smattering of applause. It broke into a maelstrom. A woman wiped a tear from her eye.

The pianist clapped madly and boomed 'Brava!' at the top of his lungs.

And there was Kirill.

He just had to look at her, and it was enough. She stepped forward to him as his eyes glowed with pride.

"Beautiful," he said as he kissed her brow.

"Thanks," she whispered. "I'm glad you liked it."

The bartender gave her a nod and handed her a wine glass, his face beaming. "On the house, mademoiselle."

She took it with a smile. "Thank you."

They sat in companionable silence until she finished her drink. He resumed stroking her hair, breathing in her scent.

"Tell me about the creep," he said softly.

"What creep?"

"The creep you were with for seven years."

Michelle fell quiet. It was funny, because even though he'd hurt her, she'd still thought of him, often. She wondered what he was doing, whether it would be possible to catch up. But she'd not thought of him for days.

"He was- you know," she started. "Tall, dark, handsome. And a creep."

"What did he do?"

"He was a taxi driver."

Kirill was surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah. He kept saying he wanted to break into construction, but I really think he didn't want it that badly. He did not try very hard. He kept changing what he wanted to do. Which was fine," she said, "Because it's hard to know what you want to do sometimes. And it's hard work getting there. But after awhile, the excuses wore thin." Her jaw set. "He constantly said he was going to do things and he never did them."

"How did you meet?"

Michelle stiffened. "We met by chance."

Kirill tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Like us?"

"Like us," she whispered.

She didn't tell him that in her oblivious youthful twenties she'd looked at the circumstance of their meeting with stars in her eyes. That she thought the universe had aligned them to meet in such a way. That she'd embraced the notion with such joy and anticipation. And then he'd proceeded to hack her dreams to pieces and leave her feeling soulless and empty and emotionally inept and without a life.

She'd thought the universe had been cruel, a cruel, cruel bitch of a mother.

She knew Kirill was different. He treated her differently; he made love to her differently. But her intuition told her he was hiding something, and it ached, knowing that she didn't really know who he was.

"Why did you finally leave him?"

She inhaled sharply.

"I'm not sure," she said in a small voice. "I couldn't take it anymore, I suppose."

He turned her around gently, putting his strong hands on her arms.

"I think you left him because you finally figured out what you were worth," he said, his eyes boring into her's.

Her eyes widened, and her mouth trembled.

He continued. "You're worth more than diamonds, princess. More than gold. He was a fool not to see that. I'm not a fool."

He kissed her. She returned it naturally, her body leaning in to smell his scent; musk, sandalwood, Kirill.

"Stay with me tonight," he whispered in her ear.

She nodded. They went back to the Citadines. She packed a few clothes and a knapsack of toiletries and her important things, and they headed up river to the Westin.

It was different, that night.

He entered her slowly, and moved so slowly, slowly, his eyes never leaving her's. She moaned and asked him to go faster, but he only kissed her and continued his relentlessly slow movements. He shuddered uncontrollably at his release, and she came with him, keening beneath his body with soft whimpers, her own body shaking.

When it was done, they simply held one another.

"I love you," he whispered in English.

She was already asleep.