The *Oh, Promise Me* Affair

By Jatona P. Walker

Napoleon Solo sighed with pleasure as silken sheets caressed his body. For the hundredth time he pulled at the satin chords binding his wrists to the ornate bedposts. He was instantly rewarded with the feel of talented fingers running the length of his body.

"Are you comfortable, Napasha?" asked a Russian-accented voice.

"Hmmmm," he purred.

"Bindings not too tight?"

Once again he tested the satin chords. "No," he hissed, as fingers xplored a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy.

"I am pleased," the voice said. "You please me, Napasha, and I am about to show you how much. Are you ready?"

Napoleon moaned. "More than ready," he managed to whisper.

"Then let us begin."

Lips as sweet as the finest wine nipped at his own in an effort to gain entry to his mouth. Unable to resist, nor wanting to, he parted his lips willingly. A tongue, hot and eager, invaded and began its thorough exploration.

Napoleon moaned deep in his throat. The sensual lips left his mouth and worked their magic down his chest, leaving wet kisses in their wake, until finally they fastened on his left nipple. His body arched as sensations he*d longed for coursed through his very soul. "Please...." he hissed.

The lips left his nipple for a moment. "Patience is a virtue, Napoleon."

The soft breath against the puckered bud was nearly his undoing. This is what getting your balls in a knot really means! "I*m going to burst!" he croaked.

"Just a few minutes more." The Russian returned to his task finally reaching the groin. Napoleon cried out as the mouth swallowed him whole; then he came in torrents, crying out the name of his lover. "Illya! Illyusha!! Illya.....!!!!"

Solo sat up in bed, trembling as the orgasm shook his body. As his heart, soul and body drifted back to Earth he reached out and, with a trembling finger traced the pool of cooling semen that had dripped from his dwindling cock. "Damn!" he said in awe, "Three sets of sheets in a week!"

Running a trembling hand through his hair, he reflected on the dream. It seemed so real, as if...

He cast sleepy eyes at the clock on his night stand: 3 a.m. "I can*t go on like this. Damn the consequences, I*ve got to talk to him." He climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

Illya Kuryakin hadn*t been able to sleep. He alternated between looking at the pages of a book he was not really able to concentrate on and pacing restlessly. He worried about his partner. After the successful conclusion of what had come to be termed *The Love Affair,* the American had been unusually quiet and distant on drive back to Manhattan.

A week had gone by and Solo seemed to be avoiding him. He*d even begged out of their usual Wednesday night dinner appointment. "What could he be so upset about," Illya muttered to himself, "The mission wasn*t that difficult." True, they*d both been pretty banged up, but being wounded on the job never seemed affect Napoleon this way before.

Then the phone calls began. Concerned females who had *booked* a date with Solo and hadn*t heard from him. He had fended them off with ease. Despite the situation, Illya had to smile. Most women of Napoleon*s acquaintance not connected U.N.C.L.E. actually thought he was an international jet setter.

The most disturbing call came from Erica Stanford, his current love interest. She had arrived at Solo*s apartment just as Illya had dropped Solo off. She had given him time to enter his apartment, then slipped a note under his door.

That also had been seven days ago.

Illya checked his watch. I was now 3 a.m. He went to his bedroom and dressed quickly. He had to talk to Napoleon.

Napoleon raised his hand to knock on the familiar door, lowered it, and was just turning to leave.

Keys in hand, Illya opened the door and gasped as he realized the object of his thoughts had come to him. "Napoleon!?" He breathed both in surprise and relief.

Napoleon Solo turned back to face his friend and tried to muster a smile. "Hi," he replied. "I was in the neighborhood...." He stepped forward and stumbled. Instantly a pair of strong arms caught and supported him. "Sorry," he muttered, letting the Russian take most of his weight.

Illya ignored the weak attempt at apology and concentrated on guiding his partner into his apartment. He deposited the American on the sofa then closed the door and reset the alarms.

A shuttering sigh brought him quickly back to the sofa. Boiz Moi! He looks like death warmed over! "Napoleon?" Silence. "Napoleon? Are you all right? I*ve been worried."

That got a response but not the one Illya had expected. Instead, Solo rose and headed for the door, his stride that of a caged tiger. Illya blocked his retreat. "Napoleon, where are you going?"

"Home," came the whispered reply.

"Why? You*ve just arrived."

"Didn*t call... Inconsiderate... Didn*t mean to bother....." Solo babbled. He kept his eyes glued to the door.

Truly concerned now, Illya reached out and lightly touched the rigid back. "You*re not bothering me, Napoleon; as a matter of fact I am very glad to see you. I*ve been worried since our return from Los Angeles."

Solo ignored the Russian and took another step toward the door. Once again strong arms prevented him from falling and guided him back to the sofa.

"You are not going anywhere, Napoleon. Now, sit!"

Napoleon sighed and, for the third time that night, did as he was told. When Illya sat down beside him he rose and moved to the opposite side of the sofa. He was grateful the Russian did not follow.

Silence reigned during which Illya took the opportunity to study his partner. The clothing, though clean, was uncharacteristically rumpled; but it was the face that disturbed him most. The dark Italian features were haggard and gaunt; fathomless brown eyes lacked their usual mischief and luster; the dark hair looked as if it hadn*t been combed in days. Add to this the unusual nervousness, the crossing and uncrossing of legs and arms. Certainly there was something wrong. "Want to talk about it," he prompted.

Solo shrugged. "What*s to talk about? I*m sitting here wasting both your time and mine," he mumbled, not meeting the Russian*s gaze.

Illya caught the tone of depression in the voice. "Napoleon, you*re not wasting my time. Do I need to remind you that one of the things that serves our partnership is communication. Talk to me."

"I can*t.... Too important....."

"Napoleon, please," Illya pleaded. "I*ve never seen you this distressed. What*s happened?"

Solo sighed. He swallowed in an attempt to steady his voice. "I*ve realized I*m in love with someone*and I can*t let that person know."

Napoleon in love? This roused Illya*s curiosity. "Why not?"

"That person means more than my life to me... More than my soul...."

"If that is the case, that person deserves to know."

Solo shook his head, slowly and began to tremble. "I can*t..."

"Are you afraid of rejection?"

Solo nodded. "This person...." he began.

"....would be unworthy of you if you were to be rejected," Illya finished.

For the first time Solo turned and actually looked at this partner. "What?"

"In my opinion if this person rejects you after you*ve expressed your feelings, that person is not only the greatest fool on earth but unworthy of you," Illya said.

Solo shrugged. "You*re only saying this because..."

"I*m only telling the truth," Illya interrupted.

"In your opinion," Napoleon reminded him.

"Yes. In my opinion. Something of which, you*ve told me you value highly."

"What you think of me has always been important."

"Good. Hear what I think, then: the real Napoleon Solo is someone I can call, either day or night, and know he will be there for me; the real Napoleon Solo does not hide his emotions; the real Napoleon Solo is worthy of love, be that person male or female

Napoleon had half listened to his friend but that last statement caught his attention. "Are you saying that if the person I love is another man you wouldn*t have a problem with that?"

Illya chuckled at the open awe on the American*s handsome features. You haven*t heard anything yet, Napoleon. Moving closer to his distraught friend, he hooked a finger under the cleft in the chin. So sexy...! and looked deep into dark eyes that portrayed both fear and hope. "Very little surprises me where you are concerned, Napoleon," he whispered.

Solo swallowed hard. The closeness of the mouth he*d fantasized kissing was having definite effects on a certain part of his anatomy. To his utter amazement it wasn*t his groin, it was his heart! "You*re certain of that?" he croaked.

The challenge in Solo*s voice wasn*t lost on Illya. "All right, Napoleon, surprise me," he responded.

Solo hesitated. "You will be angry with me," he said, trying to give the blond one last out.

"I will be the judge of my emotions."

"I will lose you."

"I have never known you to refuse a challenge, Napoleon."

Napoleon glared at the Russian, his heart sinking. He sighed. "Very well." Wondering if their partnership was going to survive this next move, he closed the mere inches separating them, leaned forward and captured his partner*s lips in a tender kiss.

The touch of those lips, and the sweet uncharacteristic shyness, sent shock waves through Illya*s soul, igniting it.

Reaching up he tangled his fingers in the thick dark hair and deepened the kiss. He could feel the other man*s body begin trembling. Slowly, Illya Nickovetch. Slowly, he reminded himself.

Reluctantly he broke the kiss and pulled back to take in reaction of his friend. The dark eyes were wide open and watching him, the lips were still parted. "Napoleon?"

Silence.

"Are you all right?"

"You kissed me," Napoleon murmured, finally finding his voice.

Illya smiled. "Yes, Napoleon, I did. May I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"You were talking about me, weren*t you?"

Solo nodded. "I*ve loved you since the beginning. You have no idea how close you*ve..." He broke off, a shudder running the length of his body, his heart beating fiercely, and his thoughts shamed him.

Illya ran a tapered finger along the strong jaw. "Tell me," he prompted.

Nerves almost to the breaking point, Napoleon, with the speed of a striking cobra, dragged the blond off the couch and pinned the other man to the floor. His body trembled with suppressed emotion as he bent over his friend. "Can*t you understand?! You*re not just some causal fling. You mean too much to me!!"

Calmly Illya returned his friend*s gaze while fighting to maintain his own

equilibrium. Any show of fear on his part could ruin this. The sadness in his friend*s voice nearly broke Illya*s heart. "More sense than you know, Napoleon," he whispered. He embraced the heaving body.

A deep sigh. "Oh, Illya."

"Hush, Napasha. Everything will be all right before this night is over. Trust me."

"That*s my line," Napoleon tried to smile.

"And a good one, that*s why I borrowed it."

"I... I*m not used to being like this and it scares the hell out of me," he confessed.

"I know; and I love you all the more for it." When there was no reply he continued. "Don*t you think I*m just as frightened, Napoleon?"

That got a reaction. "You*re frightened of me?"

"Not of you, Napasha, of my feelings for you. Did it ever occur to you that you*ve been my ideal wet dream?"

He was shocked at the blatant reference. "Are you saying you*ve fantasized about me?" He hadn*t been sure the other man understood the sexual feelings he had along with the love.

"I can match you sheet for stained sheet."

Napoleon blushed at the open lust in the blue eyes. "Illya," he whispered, finally finding his voice. "I can*t promise you forever. Our job makes too many demands and I have never lied, intentionally, to you. I can, however, promise that as long as there*s breath in this body, there is only one person who owns my heart, mind and soul; one person who I will love until time ends: You. Do you believe that?"

"I not only believe it, Napasha, I pledge the same. Time seems to have always been on our side."

"I hope so. What now?"

Illya grinned, his eyes sparkled with mischief. Illya leaned forward and kissed the sensual lips. "If you like, perhaps we*ll share a wet dream."

There was a rightness to the moment that he had never felt with anyone else before. Unbidden, part of a song came to his mind -- a song of commitment. No love less perfect than a life with me; Oh, Promise me! Oh, Promise me!

"I can*t think of anything I*d like to do more," Napoleon whispered, leaning into the kiss.

"Oh, Promise me that someday you and I, Will take our love together to some sky, Where we can be alone and faith renew, And find the hollows where those flowers grew; Those first sweet violets of early spring, Which came in whispers, thrill us both and sing, Of love, unspeakable, that is to be; Oh, Promise me! Oh, Promise me!"

"Oh, Promise me that you will take my hand, The most unworthy in this lonely land, And let me sit beside you, in your eyes, Seeing the vision of your paradise; Hearing God*s message while the Organ rolls, It*s mighty music to our very souls No love less perfect than a life with me; Oh, Promise me! Oh, Promise me!"