Heat suffused him. He sat there, still perched on the end of the chair, head bent and breathing hard. His pulse raced, and his dick throbbed in his hand.
He swallowed.
Taras had never heard Ilarion make that kind of noise before, savage and primal, the kind of cry that men made in the Zone, under the cover of darkness. It still rang in his ears, even now, as the noises over the speakers faded back to low murmurs and rustling.
Civilized, cultured, coldblooded Lasha howling like a wolf.
Taras lifted his head, and eased away from the desk.
He had marked the floor pretty well, he saw, and to him, the evidence looked damning and obvious. Taras rubbed his face and rose to his feet as he put himself away, wondering what he was going to do to clean things up.
But first things first, he decided. The tape.
Old habits died hard. He took his gloves out of his jacket pocket, and pulled them on, then wiped down everything he had touched with his bare hands.
Taras found the drawer with the tape reels and took out a new one, then stopped the whole mechanism, replacing the tape with difficulty. At first he put it in backward, and had to take it out and switch it around, but he got the end threaded through, and advanced the tape to around the same place as the one he'd pulled.
He slipped the tape into his inner jacket pocket, then threw some papers on the floor, pushing them around with his boot to clean up the mess he'd made, more or less.
That couldn't have been the only time that had happened, Taras thought, vaguely, as he threw the papers away. Fortunately, his pants and jackboots looked presentable enough.
Taras was out and into the hall moments later, with no one the wiser. That was what they called a clean job, at least, technically. Taras decided he would get rid of the evidence later.
He frowned.
Or maybe he would keep it.
It wasn't hard to find a bucket and some water. There was even a cooler full of ice, presumably to be used to make suspects really uncomfortable. He took a bucket, and a few towels, then went back to the interrogation room.
Like Ilarion had, he knocked, then walked in. Casually, as if he expected nothing out of the ordinary.
Taras spotted the dancer's slumped form lying on the ground, but Ilarion looked up as he entered, also casually.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 06:15 pm (UTC)Heat suffused him. He sat there, still perched on the end of the chair, head bent and breathing hard. His pulse raced, and his dick throbbed in his hand.
He swallowed.
Taras had never heard Ilarion make that kind of noise before, savage and primal, the kind of cry that men made in the Zone, under the cover of darkness. It still rang in his ears, even now, as the noises over the speakers faded back to low murmurs and rustling.
Civilized, cultured, coldblooded Lasha howling like a wolf.
Taras lifted his head, and eased away from the desk.
He had marked the floor pretty well, he saw, and to him, the evidence looked damning and obvious. Taras rubbed his face and rose to his feet as he put himself away, wondering what he was going to do to clean things up.
But first things first, he decided. The tape.
Old habits died hard. He took his gloves out of his jacket pocket, and pulled them on, then wiped down everything he had touched with his bare hands.
Taras found the drawer with the tape reels and took out a new one, then stopped the whole mechanism, replacing the tape with difficulty. At first he put it in backward, and had to take it out and switch it around, but he got the end threaded through, and advanced the tape to around the same place as the one he'd pulled.
He slipped the tape into his inner jacket pocket, then threw some papers on the floor, pushing them around with his boot to clean up the mess he'd made, more or less.
That couldn't have been the only time that had happened, Taras thought, vaguely, as he threw the papers away. Fortunately, his pants and jackboots looked presentable enough.
Taras was out and into the hall moments later, with no one the wiser. That was what they called a clean job, at least, technically. Taras decided he would get rid of the evidence later.
He frowned.
Or maybe he would keep it.
It wasn't hard to find a bucket and some water. There was even a cooler full of ice, presumably to be used to make suspects really uncomfortable. He took a bucket, and a few towels, then went back to the interrogation room.
Like Ilarion had, he knocked, then walked in. Casually, as if he expected nothing out of the ordinary.
Taras spotted the dancer's slumped form lying on the ground, but Ilarion looked up as he entered, also casually.
"Brought the water," he said. "It's cold."
Taras let his gaze go to Barshov, deliberately.
"Get anything out of him?"