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With a grunt that came from deep within his chest, Grigory rolled his hips slow and dirty, one leg thrown over the crook of his arm, mouth hot against the sweet curve of a neck.

“Yebat’,” he rasped, nosing at the pulse under her jaw. “Yebat’. Tebe nravitsya eto? Vy khotite bol’she?” Firmly seated within the V of Prim’s legs, his hips moved in filthy little circles, steered by need. “Vy delayete, ne vy? Tak ili inache, v lyubom meste–”

He dragged his lips to her cheek, to her ear. “Vy lyubite yego, vy lyubite moy chlen,” he crooned. His voice was a steady rumble despite his own shortness of breath, the sheer amount of filth from it tumbling with ease. “Vy menya tak khorosho. Vy lyubite, naskol’ko velika ya, skol’ko ona prostirayetsya vas.”

The sunroom was a new one, a real change of scenery for the couple who spent so much time in the barn and office; glass panes gleamed at them from all sides, clear and bright. Instead of dark leather and wood, there was pale brick and white cotton. Space wasn’t just put to use but encouraged, styled, padded for comfort. Out here they were exposed—risky business for a pair that was still skirting discovery.

“Eto ono. Da– da, yebat’, eto prekrasno.” Tendrils of soft blonde hair teased his face, light as a fingertip. Grigory buried his face in it. “Ty ideal’nyy. Posmotri na sebya.”

Risky, but – intoxicating, too. Not for the first time they had the entire house to themselves, but it happened so rarely the novelty never had time to wear off.

Prim clawed at his back, bobbing up and down with every thrust, expression screwed and lips parted. Fuck, she said, breathless in his ear, Grigory – yes, there – oh fuck and it was all he could do to brace her against the column and obey, score marks hot on his back. Muscles ached from exertion, but any exhaustion to be had only burned up in the heat of the moment, Prim’s litany of endless little noises of encouragement and his own broken Russian punctuated by grunts and swears. She was almost there; it was in the hitch of her breath, the urgency of her tone.

Grigory hiked up her leg even higher. He was nearly curling into himself, gaze aimed downward for better view, transfixed by the sight. Almost there, every one of his senses sang, pushing him harder, faster, like a heel digging into his side. Almost – there–


And then: a sharp crack.

     “Prim? Prim, are you home?”


They froze.

“Prim?”

With stiff, creaky slowness, Grigory and Prim looked at each other, wide-eyed with mounting horror. Calvin Woolfolk, it seemed, was home early.

Calvin was with his friends at the races.
Imogen had accompanied him, and then had shopping plans.
Marigold was gone for the weekend on a shoot.   
Amaryllis was having a brunch with her friends. 
Primrose hadn’t made plans. 

With a few hurried strokes of a quill against a light pink sheet of paper, spritzed just lightly with her perfume, the letter was done.  In underline at the end, she’d carefully written out Please?” As soon as she'd started, she realized there was the possibility he’d been called away to some official emergency.  That this letter would find him just a little too late to take advantage of this situation.  It made waiting for any response torture.  It didn't matter: she sat by the window, waiting. 

One annoyed owl's return trip later, Prim didn’t really know how long she’d have to actually get ready.  See you in ten could have been written fifteen minutes ago!  She ignored the fact that it would have made him late, and focused on the fact that she had to scramble.  It struck her, as she shimmied into a different pair of knickers, that she should have used her waiting time more efficiently! But, as soon as he arrived it hardly mattered - where did that top go?!     

Perhaps not as put together as she'd have liked, Prim didn't have the time to worry about it.  As soon as he arrived, she brought him to her favorite place in the house: the sunroom.  It was comfortable and beautiful, space that was meant for an enjoyable afternoon visit with friends.  In this case, one friend - one very good friend. On another day just like this one, Prim might have preferred going out on the trails.   But today, Grigory was in this room.  Recently she’d found rooms with him in them to be her preference. 

In a much improved mood, it wasn't long before they’d begun kissing and from there it was not long before articles of clothing were discarded... and all of a sudden, Prim found herself pressed against the warm wood pillar, listening to Grigory’s deep voice in her ear.  It didn’t matter that she had no idea what he was saying, just how he was saying it. Her imagination (vastly improved these days) could fill in the blanks.  She would have been scandalized if she didn’t like it so much.  While Grigory was the source of an endless, husky narrative, Primrose was incomprehensible. 

Far beyond the point of articulation, Prim was focused on the feel of his hot skin under her hands.  She hissed a the burning tug of her leg up higher than she thought possible.  Forced to breath when each little pain shifted to pleasure, Prim could only think of one thing to say.  Now, Primrose never cursed, but it was impossible not to when that was all she wanted, needed him to do.  Each trust of his hips created more desire and it was building up to frustrating levels.  He was doing it on purpose, she knew it. 

If he just… a long, high whine vibrated in the back of her throat as her toes curled.  It was not fair.  “Grigory!” she gasped, trying to tilt her hips toward him as he withdrew,  “please.” In this moment, Prim abandoned her prideful nature and succumbed to the desire to beg, repeatedly.  It was just almost – her whole body were impossibly tight, ready like a spring load trigger, “please!”

Expectation and experience would dictate at this point she would be burying her head into his shoulder, perhaps leaving a bite mark in her wake until she could no longer hold herself up… It was something she had been greatly looking forward to, in fact.  But expectation and reality were on somewhat different pages this time. 

It was loud as a crack of lightening: ”Prim?  Prim, are you home?”

The heat that had so overwhelming only moments before was replaced with a shock of cold dread.  Neither of them moved a muscle, except for their heads.  Prim’s eyes opened, expression pained now with the wish for a completely different sort of relief.  (Perhaps the sweet relief of death). 

While thoughts swirled in her mind, she heard Honey distantly barking, was still trying to control her breathing, and if she hadn’t broken the skin on Grigory’s back before, she was sure to do so now.  Her breath was still ragged and in a parched, harsh whisper, Prim searched his face.  “What do we do?” 

Grigory did not get a chance to answer before Calvin’s voice rang out again: Gingy! Is Rosie home?  A childhood nickname did not make this situation any better. 

Neither did Gingy.  “I will check!” the elf sounded like she was being strangled.  Prim could have killed her.  She had one job!