32. Kirill
KIRILL
Tamara cleared the conference room.
She did it the way she did everything: efficiently, without explanation, with the competence of a woman who had been managing situations that required clearance for eleven years and who had walked out of the corridor carrying one instruction from Kirill communicated entirely through eye contact and had executed it within six minutes.
Both patriarchs were occupied with the preliminary reckoning.
The council members had dispersed to the administrative work the session had generated.
The physician had left with her documentation.
Kirill walked into the cleared conference room and sat down at the table and was aware, in the way he had been aware of things for three months, of Mikhail behind him.
Mikhail closed the door.
The room was quiet. Outside it, the Danilov compound was doing what it always did after a significant family event: managing the operational aftermath with practiced efficiency, the specific industry of a network that had been dealing with crises for longer than anyone currently in it had been alive and had developed procedures accordingly.
In here there were no procedures. In here there were no families, no councils, no patriarchs, no session record, no professional framework of any kind.
Kirill had no facade available. He had understood this in the corridor on the floor looking at the ceiling.
The decade of management had been publicly resolved by a physician's flat medical report, and what was left when the management was removed was simply him: Kirill Danilov, thirty-one years old, nine weeks pregnant, sitting at a conference table with the man he had been building a word for across three months of systematic and careful and finally honest accounting.
"You have something to say," Mikhail said. Not a question. He had sat down on the same side of the table rather than across from it, which was the private configuration even here: no table between them as a professional barrier, present in the same orientation.
"Yes," Kirill said. "So do you."
A pause. Mikhail looked at him with the expression that had no professional classification.
"I have been in love with you," Mikhail said, "since approximately the third week of this assignment.
I understand if that is not useful information at this particular moment.
I am telling you anyway because it is accurate and I have been not-saying it for three months and I am not going to continue not-saying it in a room where there is no longer any reason to. "
Kirill looked at him.
"The third week," he said.
"Yes."
"You were running a secondary investigation in the third week."
"Yes."
What followed was not the managed version of anything.
It wasn’t Kirill tearing at the buttons of Mikhail’s shirt and popping the last one off its hinge.
Mikhail made a sound low in his throat, a rumble of approval, and took hold of Kirill’s hips in the next moment.
He didn't wait for invitation. Mikhail’s hands took in the dip of Kirill’s waist, the curve of his hip, and then he was lifting Kirill up onto the edge of the conference table with no ceremony at all.
“Mikhail—” Kirill protested.
Mikhail didn’t look up at him. He was too busy pushing Kirill’s blazer off his shoulders, dragging his shirt up over his head.
He let the fabric fall to the floor this time.
Mikhail’s hands were on Kirill’s chest, thumbs rubbing over his nipples in lazy circles.
Kirill could feel his own cock throbbing in his slacks, straining against the zipper.
Mikhail’s mouth was on him in the next instant, kissing his way down Kirill’s chest.
“Spread your legs for me,” Mikhail ordered.
Kirill did as he was told, shivering when Mikhail’s fingers went to his fly.
Mikhail undressed him so quickly, so roughly, that Kirill could hardly keep up.
His pants were yanked down his thighs, and then Mikhail’s mouth was on his cock.
Kirill groaned, fingers twisting in the short hair at the back of Mikhail’s head.
Kirill tried to recall if he’d ever felt this way before, if he’d ever been so wanton and desperate in bed. He didn’t think so. This was new. He had no idea what to do with his hands. He settled for dragging his nails down Mikhail’s shoulders, marking him.
Mikhail didn’t let up. His mouth was hot and slick around Kirill’s cock, and Kirill could feel the pressure building in his stomach.
He tried to warn him, but Mikhail just took him deeper, sucking him down to the back of his throat.
Kirill came with a shout, spilling down Mikhail’s throat.
He shuddered through the aftershocks, slumping back against the table.
Mikhail swallowed around him and then pulled away, smirking up at him.
Kirill pushed him back, away from the table, and Mikhail let him.
He mouthed at Mikhail’s throat, biting at his pulse point.
Mikhail made a low sound, hips grinding against his.
Kirill undid Mikhail’s belt, pushing his pants and boxers down his thighs.
Mikhail stepped out of them, kicking them aside. He palmed himself, stroking slowly.
“On your stomach,” Mikhail ordered.
Kirill rolled over onto his stomach, panting.
He heard the cap of the lube, and then Mikhail was hooking his arms under Kirill’s knees, forcing them up towards his chest. Kirill gasped when he felt the first slick press of Mikhail’s cock against him.
Mikhail didn’t wait for him to adjust. He thrust into him in one hard movement, and Kirill cried out, clawing at the table.
“Fuck,” he whimpered.
Mikhail didn’t let up. He set a punishing pace, hips snapping against Kirill’s ass.
Kirill could feel his cock hardening again already, trapped between his stomach and the table.
He could hear how slick Mikhail was for him, the wet slide of his cock.
Mikhail’s knot was pressing against his hole, big and swollen.
Kirill pushed back against him, taking him even deeper.
Mikhail groaned. His hips faltered, and then he was coming inside him, cock pulsing.
Kirill could feel his knot stretching him out, locking them together.
It felt good, but Kirill could already feel the urge to run.
He wanted to run so that Mikhail would chase him.
He wanted Mikhail to hunt him down and take him again.
He filed that away as data to be analyzed later.
He shuddered when Mikhail pulled out of him, slick dripping down his thighs. Kirill got to his feet, and Mikhail kissed him, wiping his thumb over Kirill’s bottom lip when he’d finished. Kirill wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, but he was smiling.
“I’ll run you a bath,” Mikhail offered.
Kirill shook his head. “The shower,” he said instead. “I don’t want to sit.”
Mikhail kissed him again and nodded. Kirill pulled his shirt back on, leaving his suit jacket and slacks on the floor.
He stepped into his boxers and shoes, and followed Mikhail out of the conference room.
He felt strange leaving his things behind, but he thought he’d come back for them later.
He’d have to come back eventually. He had a business to run, after all.
Mikhail’s hand was on the small of his back, guiding him down the hallway and into his own private bathroom.
It was clean and smelled like Mikhail’s cologne.
Kirill stepped into the shower, and Mikhail followed after him, shedding his clothes as he went.
He turned on the water, waiting for it to heat up before he stepped under the spray.
Kirill reached for him, but Mikhail caught his wrist. Mikhail’s mouth was on his again, kissing him slowly and deeply. Kirill melted against him, humming under his breath when Mikhail’s fingers carded through his hair.
“I’m keeping you,” Mikhail said against his mouth.
Kirill blinked at him, but it was too late. Mikhail had already kissed him again, and he was too dizzy to think about what that meant. He thought about his apartment. He thought about his bed. He thought he didn’t really care where he slept, so long as he wasn’t alone.
The water was hot, and Kirill arched into Mikhail when he pressed a wet kiss to his throat.
Mikhail’s hands were on his hips, and then Kirill’s legs were around his waist. He gasped when Mikhail pushed into him again, stretching him out.
Kirill clutched at his shoulders and bit his lip to stifle his moan.
His cock was hard between them, trapped against Mikhail’s stomach. Mikhail rolled his hips, and Kirill saw stars. He came suddenly, gasping Mikhail’s name. Mikhail followed him over the edge, burying his face in Kirill’s neck.
Kirill panted, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. Mikhail set him back on his feet and reached for the soap. Kirill let him wash him clean, humoring him. He thought he was perfectly capable of doing it himself, but he didn’t protest.
“Let me look at you,” Mikhail said, once the water had run clean. “Turn around.”
Kirill turned, glancing at him over his shoulder. Mikhail’s hands were on his ass, spreading him open. He nodded to himself and then popped Kirill’s bottom lip hard enough to make him yelp.
“You’ll be sore,” he said. “I’m not sorry.”
Kirill rolled his eyes at him, but he was smiling. He let Mikhail wash his hair, and then they traded places so he could do the same for Mikhail. Mikhail was quiet and pliant under his hands, humming when Kirill carded his fingers through his hair.
Kirill had never been one for post-coital cuddling, but he found himself lingering. He didn’t want to get out of the shower. He didn’t want the moment to end. He was in uncharted territory, and he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
“Come on,” Mikhail said, finally. “The water’s getting cold.”