08-01-2020, 09:41 PM
Zhenya called for the car to be pulled round. Some short time later, Yulian’s light step approached under the arc of an umbrella, sprightly drops of rain bouncing off like a shower of diamonds. “You are a darling.” She smiled as he swept her underwing, for such comforts were really not in his remit. The thoughtfulness was nothing short of endearing, though.
“Airport?”
She shook her head, smile small and stubborn. “I came to see Paris,” she said. “So let us see Paris.”
Alone was not quite how she imagined spending the afternoon in such a place, but Zhenya was content to make the most of it before Pervaya’s duties called her home. The rain did not let up, but it did not diminish the city’s charm, nor its beauty.
Several small, beautifully wrapped parcels accompanied her return to the hotel suit, deposited carefully onto the coffee table. Zhenya had arranged their accommodations; she usually did, given Sören’s poor taste for comfort and her own preference for beauty. A plush living arrangement joined the doors to their respective rooms, and while she noted his was shut she did not choose to knock. Disappointment threatened to spill for the discovery that he might have in fact left her here altogether, and she was not keen to confirm it. Though soon after she noticed the glass-paneled balcony doors were thrown wide, the gauzy curtains drifting a little in Spring’s fragrant breeze.
Her lips pursed, even as her heart lightened. Still, she might have rolled her eyes for the plaintive way Sören sat out there. In the rain.
She could not see his expression, only the back of his head, and she did not choose to disturb his maudlin brooding by inquiring over the reason. Like as not he would not thank her for it; not her genuine concern, nor the blase way she would address his mope with a coy tease. Rather, upon finishing the unhurried arrangement of gifts she had purchased to take back to Moscow, Zhenya retreated to her own room to both shower and freshen up. She doubted he was unaware she had returned, and when he was ready to speak, she was ready to listen.
And in the meantime, let him sit like a fool in the rain.
By the time she emerged, hair damp, warm towel in hand, and robed throat to ankle in soft silk, Sören had finally roused. Enthroned in the soft afternoon light leaking past his broad shoulders from outside, he wiped at the damp hair across his forehead and dripped softly over the carpets. A deep frown met her amusement, and she suspected he might presently sweep passed her to sequester himself in the privacy of his own room. Perhaps he would never explain the oddity of his behaviour, and honestly she was unlikely to ask. By now Zhenya had learned well the boundaries of when to push and when to not.
“I don’t think you’re in trouble at all, you know,” she said. A small smile played, not unkind. He did not ever speak of emotions, or a personal life, but she suspected now that it was a burden of that ilk, not a threat to his person as she had initially feared. She tried not to wince as he moved to sit himself on the chaise, soaking the delicate fabric. A knot worked in his jaw, and he said nothing, though it at least looked like he was searching for words. Temperance was not much in his nature. Her head tilted as she came closer. He only watched, silent, then pulled his gaze away.
Zhenya dabbed the towel to his dripping head, perching herself on his lap as she fluffed it around his shoulders. Sören pulled her arm away, frowning. His fingers were cold.
“I can do that myself,” he snapped, finally.
“I do realise that,” she laughed.
Amusement softened her expression into a warm smile. She was about to ask if he planned on releasing her arm when he made a low noise in his throat. It sounded like annoyance, yet his thumb circled softly against her skin, charming her instead with the rare display of his affection. She leaned closer, teasing with a curl of seiðr brushed under his chin. “And what’s this?”
The light in his eyes changed as he met her gaze. Then he bridged the scant distance, lips pressed immeasurably soft like he tested the fit.
Zhenya’s breath caught, surprise and desire twin treasures in answer to a question she’d never thought he’d think to ask. She did not move. For a moment it seemed he might pull back. His hand travelled from its grip up to cradle her wrist, brushing against her fingers like he planned to set the moment carefully aside, and let go, ignorant or perhaps uncaring of the way she was slowly melting into him.
But then he exhaled against her with a shiver. His other arm snaked her closer as if a shackle suddenly sprang free of the lock, and then he was kissing her with bone-deep hunger. His embrace was cold from the rain, though his hands warmed quickly from the heat of her skin. A palm splayed against the small of her back as she shifted to draw him closer, his other following the length of her leg as it slipped around his hips. She caressed the curve of his hand, urging the fingers closed until realisation drew a groan.
“Airport?”
She shook her head, smile small and stubborn. “I came to see Paris,” she said. “So let us see Paris.”
Alone was not quite how she imagined spending the afternoon in such a place, but Zhenya was content to make the most of it before Pervaya’s duties called her home. The rain did not let up, but it did not diminish the city’s charm, nor its beauty.
Several small, beautifully wrapped parcels accompanied her return to the hotel suit, deposited carefully onto the coffee table. Zhenya had arranged their accommodations; she usually did, given Sören’s poor taste for comfort and her own preference for beauty. A plush living arrangement joined the doors to their respective rooms, and while she noted his was shut she did not choose to knock. Disappointment threatened to spill for the discovery that he might have in fact left her here altogether, and she was not keen to confirm it. Though soon after she noticed the glass-paneled balcony doors were thrown wide, the gauzy curtains drifting a little in Spring’s fragrant breeze.
Her lips pursed, even as her heart lightened. Still, she might have rolled her eyes for the plaintive way Sören sat out there. In the rain.
She could not see his expression, only the back of his head, and she did not choose to disturb his maudlin brooding by inquiring over the reason. Like as not he would not thank her for it; not her genuine concern, nor the blase way she would address his mope with a coy tease. Rather, upon finishing the unhurried arrangement of gifts she had purchased to take back to Moscow, Zhenya retreated to her own room to both shower and freshen up. She doubted he was unaware she had returned, and when he was ready to speak, she was ready to listen.
And in the meantime, let him sit like a fool in the rain.
By the time she emerged, hair damp, warm towel in hand, and robed throat to ankle in soft silk, Sören had finally roused. Enthroned in the soft afternoon light leaking past his broad shoulders from outside, he wiped at the damp hair across his forehead and dripped softly over the carpets. A deep frown met her amusement, and she suspected he might presently sweep passed her to sequester himself in the privacy of his own room. Perhaps he would never explain the oddity of his behaviour, and honestly she was unlikely to ask. By now Zhenya had learned well the boundaries of when to push and when to not.
“I don’t think you’re in trouble at all, you know,” she said. A small smile played, not unkind. He did not ever speak of emotions, or a personal life, but she suspected now that it was a burden of that ilk, not a threat to his person as she had initially feared. She tried not to wince as he moved to sit himself on the chaise, soaking the delicate fabric. A knot worked in his jaw, and he said nothing, though it at least looked like he was searching for words. Temperance was not much in his nature. Her head tilted as she came closer. He only watched, silent, then pulled his gaze away.
Zhenya dabbed the towel to his dripping head, perching herself on his lap as she fluffed it around his shoulders. Sören pulled her arm away, frowning. His fingers were cold.
“I can do that myself,” he snapped, finally.
“I do realise that,” she laughed.
Amusement softened her expression into a warm smile. She was about to ask if he planned on releasing her arm when he made a low noise in his throat. It sounded like annoyance, yet his thumb circled softly against her skin, charming her instead with the rare display of his affection. She leaned closer, teasing with a curl of seiðr brushed under his chin. “And what’s this?”
The light in his eyes changed as he met her gaze. Then he bridged the scant distance, lips pressed immeasurably soft like he tested the fit.
Zhenya’s breath caught, surprise and desire twin treasures in answer to a question she’d never thought he’d think to ask. She did not move. For a moment it seemed he might pull back. His hand travelled from its grip up to cradle her wrist, brushing against her fingers like he planned to set the moment carefully aside, and let go, ignorant or perhaps uncaring of the way she was slowly melting into him.
But then he exhaled against her with a shiver. His other arm snaked her closer as if a shackle suddenly sprang free of the lock, and then he was kissing her with bone-deep hunger. His embrace was cold from the rain, though his hands warmed quickly from the heat of her skin. A palm splayed against the small of her back as she shifted to draw him closer, his other following the length of her leg as it slipped around his hips. She caressed the curve of his hand, urging the fingers closed until realisation drew a groan.
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