Taras' eyes fluttered shut briefly. His lips were parted and his brow creased and low.

"Da," he whispered. "It is."

He licked his lips in anticipation.

There was no shame in saying such a thing to one's krysha, Taras thought, because it was true.

Lasha stroked him with expert touch of a master rider, one who kept his steed reined in with a strong, even hand. Taras matched the rhythm, rocking his hips instinctually to grind his crotch against Lahsa's cupped palm in slow, hard passes.

Tiny sparks of heat shot through his groin, sharp and almost painful.

"Khorosho, Krysha. What's mine is yours."

Taras pulled one hand away from the chair, leaving the other to brace himself. He stroked Lasha's smooth body in turn, sliding his fingers against Lasha's stomach, enjoying the feel of taut skin over firm muscle.

He let his hand dip lower, and tangled his fingers in the rough silk that crowned Ilarion's groin.

"I serve you," he breathed.

There was a sudden noise, a sharp rap.

It had no bearing on his current state of blissfully rising lust, and it took him a few moments to register what it was.

Taras lifted his head, mismatched eyes wide, and he froze in alarm, one hand still down Lasha's pajamas.

The noise came again, louder and more insistent.

"Khui," he growled, softly. "Door."