Love and Sex: Ian and Dima Cross the Rubicon – James Finn – The Blog


e’re free, aren’t we?” said Ian.

His smile captured Dima. He pulled his American friend down onto the bed and drank him in for almost a full minute, not answering, not needing to. He savored the intensity of Ian’s stare, thrilling in the stark intimacy, wondering at the ease of voiceless communication.

He reached out and brushed Ian’s cheek with one finger, memorizing green eyes glowing in the cold fire of a setting set. He marveled at messy tendrils of blond hair framing a bronzed face, the subtle curve of a long neck. A wave washed over him, chasing away the sudden chill of sunset and submerging him in salty heat.

“Ian,” he stuttered. I …”

“I feel it too,” said Ian, leaning in to suction Dima’s lower lip between his own pair. Softly. For no more than a second. Thrilling to the taste, he cupped an open palm over his chest then ran it over Dima’s chest, feeling Dima’s heart beating in sync with his own. “Today was … strange. We aren’t just free, we’re … Nothing can stop us, can it?”

“You’re not worried anymore either?” asked Dima as he pulled his tee shirt over his head, let it fall, and placed Ian’s hand back on the hot skin over his heart.

Ian moved in for another kiss. Dima melted into his embrace, mind flashing to his anguish over the suffering his family might be coerced to inflict. As his thoughts raced from his father and uncle to Peltsin and Party, he felt the same powerful ideas coursing just below the surface of Ian’s mind.

Ian pulled back fast, like a finger from a live electrical outlet. “Wow, did you feel that?”

Dima nodded but didn’t answer with words. “Shhh,” he whispered as he reached over and pulled Ian’s shirt off. He pushed conscious thought aside, focused on being and feeling, on drowning in the sweet scent rising off Ian’s freshly showered body.

He pulled Ian in slowly, not wanted to stop seeing all of him, but needing to start touching and merging. An eternity later, he pulled away and asked. “Not still cold are you?”

Ian shook his head, mouth open. “Cold? Is that a thing? God, have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

Dima smiled. “Stand up, you.”

Ian obeyed, not taking his eyes off Dima, trying to see all of him at once, from his purple slavic eyes and silky hair to the swell of hard but supple muscle defining his slim chest and shoulders.

“Oh!” he said as Dima reached over to unsnap his shorts. He edged closer to give him easier access.

Dima laughed, soft and low, as he worked the zip and plunged his hand inside. “Silly Capitalist. Do you know how long I’ve been dreaming of his?”

Ian couldn’t answer, all of him subsumed by a wave of pleasure as Dima stroked and squeezed. He never felt or saw his shorts and boxers slip to the floor.

When he opened his eyes, Dima was standing, stepping out of his shorts, stepping into Ian, pushing in chest to chest, groin to groin, pulsing hardness into pulsing hardness.

Dima let out a guttural thrum as his lover’s frangrent warmth enveloped him. His pulse began to mount as their hands roamed and explored, tracing sinuous curves of silky skin as fingers found fingers to intertwine and squeeze.

“Turn around,” he whispered, willing Ian to rest his back against his chest, rest his weight against him. Dima squeezed Ian’s hips, pulling him in, pelvis thrusting into silky skin, pleasure mounting as he slid up and down.

He let his hands find Ian’s chest, brush against hard nipples, pull a gasp of pleasure from Ian’s throat. His fingers circled lower to caress vellum stretched tight over vodka bottle abs. His head lowered on its own, nostrils flaring, seeking the source of the aroma drifting up in hot waves. His lips parted and he tasted salt on the curve of Ian’s neck — salt and something else, something sweet and mysterious that stung his tongue.

“Dimka!” gasped Ian as hands and tongue drove stunning jolts through his body. As Dima’s fingers roamed lower then brushed against his erection, Ian’s body spasmed, forcing him on onto his toes, calves arched, back arched, butt clenching as Dima thrust and moaned.

“No, stop!” Ian growled from deep in this throat. “Not yet.”

He sank to his knees and grabbed Dima by the thighs, pulling him around. He didn’t decide to engulf Dima; his mouth moved on its own as his fingers encircled the base of a shaft that felt much larger than he remembered from their casual fumbling in Berlin.

He sucked Dima in — smelling, tasting, feeling, pulsing, bobbing, choking, then opening his throat and finding a rhythm, a rhythm Dima matched with a rasping whine from low in his throat, more animal than human.

Dima curled his toes and gasped, bouncing up and down as his arches flexed and contracted. He reached out for Ian’s hair, circled his ears with his fingers, cupped his smooth cheeks, thrilled to the rasp of his unshaven chin.

Pleasure mounted until it threatened to become pain. His hands pushed on the back of Ian’s head, pushed until he was as far inside Ian as he could get. “Oh my God,” he shouted as spasm after spasm shook him, stole the light from the room, stole the air from his lungs, stole the thoughts from his head.

When he came too, he was collapsed on the bed, lying on his back, staring into Ian’s emerald eyes.

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