Chapter 9: A Table for Three
The restaurant was all dark wood and soft light, the air a layered scent of searing wagyu and the earthy sweetness of roasting root vegetables. Matthew smiled across the table at Oliver, reaching for his hand. “This was a great surprise. I’ve missed this.”
“I know you have,” Oliver said, his thumb stroking Matthew’s knuckles. His expression was warm, open. A direct contrast to the coiled wire living in Matthew’s chest. “You’ve been so buried in work. I figured we both deserved a night to just… be.”
That’s when Matthew saw him.
Across the crowded room, seated at a low-slung booth near the back, was Yakov. He wasn’t alone. A stunning woman with dark hair laughed at something he’d said, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. Yakov’s eyes, however, weren’t on her. They were locked directly on Matthew. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face, a predator recognizing another in an unexpected meadow.
Matthew’s own smile froze, then tightened. He forced it to remain, a practiced mask of affection. He gave Oliver’s hand a final squeeze and pulled back, reaching for his water glass. The ice cubes clinked a frantic rhythm against the crystal.
“Everything okay?” Oliver asked, his gaze following Matthew’s for a split second before Matthew could stop him.
“Yeah, of course. Just… thought I saw someone from the embassy.” The lie was ash in his mouth. He took a long drink.
“Who?”
“No one important.” Matthew focused on the menu, the words blurring. He could feel the weight of Yakov’s stare like a physical pressure against his skin. It was the same look he’d given him in the safe house, right before… He shut the memory down, hard.
The meal arrived. Miso-glazed pork belly, duck breast with a plum and ginger sauce. Oliver talked about a cultural attaché from Poland who was driving him insane, a funny, light story. Matthew laughed in all the right places, nodded, made comments. But his entire awareness was triangulated on that booth in the back. Every time he glanced over, Yakov’s eyes were waiting. The grin had softened into a constant, amused smirk. He wasn’t even pretending to hide it.
Oliver’s anecdote trailed off. He set his chopsticks down with a quiet click. “Matt.”
“Hmm?”
“That guy. The one you said was from the embassy.” Oliver’s voice was low, careful. “He’s been staring at you for the last twenty minutes.”
Matthew’s heart hammered against his ribs. He manufactured a confused frown, letting his eyes sweep the room before landing, with feigned surprise, on Yakov. He gave a slight, professional nod.
Yakov’s smirk deepened. He raised his sake glass in a tiny, intimate toast.
“Oh, him,” Matthew said, turning back to Oliver with a dismissive wave of his hand. He forced a chuckle, hoping it didn’t sound as hollow as it felt. “Yeah, that’s… that’s Viktor. Nasty piece of work. GRU, we think. He’s been making a nuisance of himself, sniffing around some of our commercial contacts. Thinks he’s being subtle.” He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “He’s probably just trying to get a rise out of me. See if he can fluster me in front of my handsome husband. Standard intimidation play.”
Oliver studied his face, his green eyes searching for a crack in the facade. The warmth in them had cooled into something analytical, concerned. “He’s with a woman. She’s beautiful.”
“Wife? Mistress? Who knows with these guys.” Matthew shrugged, stabbing a piece of duck a little too forcefully. “It’s all part of the cover. Looks more natural than dining alone.”
He could feel the story taking root, its details thin and brittle. Oliver, a diplomat himself, knew how these games were played. But he also knew Matthew. He could read the subtle tension in his jaw, the way he was holding his shoulders just a fraction too high.
“He just seems very… focused on you for a casual intimidation play,” Oliver said softly.
“They always are,” Matthew replied, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He softened them with a smile. “Sorry. It just… it pisses me off. That this crap follows us here. To our night.” He reached for Oliver’s hand again, a plea and an anchor. “Can we just ignore him? Please? I don’t want him to ruin this.”
Oliver held his gaze for a long moment, the sounds of the restaurant—the clatter of pans from the open kitchen, the murmur of conversations—filling the space between them. Finally, he nodded, squeezing Matthew’s hand. “Okay. Yeah. Of course.”
But as Oliver looked down at his plate, the easy comfort of the evening was gone. A new, quiet distance had settled over their table. And Matthew knew, with a cold certainty, that the lie was now a third person sitting with them, its presence as palpable as Yakov’s relentless, grinning stare from across the room.
And Matthew knew, with a cold certainty, that the lie was now a third person sitting with them, its presence as palpable as Yakov’s relentless, grinning stare from across the room. “I just need to use the restroom,” Matthew said, his voice sounding strained to his own ears. He stood, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, and walked away without looking back.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of cool, white tile and muted lighting. He braced his hands on the sink, staring at his own reflection—the faint lines of stress around his eyes, the tense set of his mouth. He turned the faucet, cupping his hands under the cold water and splashing it onto his face, trying to shock the feeling of Yakov’s gaze off his skin.
The lock on the door clicked with a definitive, metallic sound. Matthew’s head snapped up, water dripping from his chin. Yakov’s large frame filled the mirror, his expression no longer amused but intensely focused. “Your husband is very handsome,” Yakov said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “I am jealous, now that I see what I am up against.”
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Matthew’s gut. “We can’t talk here,” he hissed, turning to face the Russian. “This is a monumental risk. We only meet at the safe house. That’s the arrangement.”
Yakov moved with startling speed, crowding Matthew back against the cold tiled wall. He smelled of expensive sake and clean, sharp cologne. “Fuck the arrangement,” he murmured, his breath hot against Matthew’s ear before his mouth crashed down on Matthew’s.
The kiss wasn’t gentle; it was a claiming, all teeth and desperate, searching tongue. Matthew’s hands came up to shove him away, but his fingers curled into the fabric of Yakov’s jacket, holding on instead. A low moan escaped him, a sound of pure, defeated want. He was hard in an instant, the memory of their last encounter flooding back with punishing clarity.
Yakov’s hands were everywhere, pulling at Matthew’s belt with practiced efficiency. The buckle clattered against the floor. “I have thought of nothing but your cock in my mouth since you left me in that bed,” Yakov growled, his voice thick with need. He dropped to his knees, his strong hands yanking Matthew’s trousers and briefs down to his thighs.
The air hit Matthew’s exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Yakov’s mouth. He took Matthew’s entire length in one smooth, deep motion, his throat working around the head. Matthew’s own head thudded back against the wall, a choked curse tearing from his lips. “Jesus Christ, Yakov.”
Yakov’s technique was brutal, exquisite. He used his tongue and the tight, wet suction of his throat with a ruthless precision that had Matthew’s hips bucking involuntarily. One of Yakov’s hands cupped and squeezed his balls, the other gripping his hip hard enough to leave bruises. Matthew tangled his fingers in Yakov’s brown hair, not guiding, just holding on as the pleasure built into a blinding, unstoppable wave.
He came with a guttural shout, his release pulsing down Yakov’s throat. Yakov took it all, swallowing every drop until Matthew was spent, shuddering and sensitive. Then, without a word, Yakov stood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, adjusted himself, and unlocked the door. He left as silently as he had arrived, the door swinging shut behind him.
Matthew slid down the wall, his legs unable to support him. He sat on the cold floor, his pants around his ankles, the taste of his own betrayal sour in his mouth. The scent of Yakov’s cologne mixed with the stark, clean smell of bleach. He was so fucking deep in this, and the bottom was falling out faster than he could ever have imagined.
He pulled his clothes together with trembling hands, his fingers fumbling with the belt buckle. The face in the mirror was pale, a stranger’s face, with a frantic light in its eyes. He splashed more cold water, scrubbing at his mouth, trying to erase the phantom pressure of Yakov’s lips.
The walk back to the table felt like crossing a vast, exposed plain. Every laugh from another diner felt like a directed judgment. Oliver was studying the dessert menu, but he looked up as Matthew approached, his expression unreadable. “Everything okay? You were gone a while.”
“Yeah, fine. Just… stomach,” Matthew said, sliding into his chair. His voice sounded rough. He took a hurried sip of wine, the glass clinking against his teeth. “Must’ve been the duck.”
Oliver’s eyes lingered on him for a moment too long. “Well, your friend Viktor left. He and his date made a rather quick exit.” He said it lightly, but the observation hung in the air, sharp and precise. “Shall we get the check? I’m suddenly feeling pretty tired myself.”
The car ride home was silent, filled only by the swish of tires on wet cobblestones. Matthew stared out the window at the blurred lights of Prague Castle, his mind replaying the feel of Yakov’s hands on his hips, the brutal efficiency of his mouth. He could still smell him, that faint trace of cologne clinging to his own skin like an accusation. Oliver’s hand rested on his knee, a warm, steady weight that felt like a brand of his guilt.
Inside their apartment, Oliver dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door with a soft clatter. He didn’t turn on the main light, leaving the room illuminated only by the amber glow from the street below. He came up behind Matthew, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his lips brushing Matthew’s neck.
Matthew leaned back into the embrace, closing his eyes. “I’ve missed you, too.” It was the truth, and that made it all so much worse. Oliver’s hands were familiar, his touch a known language of comfort and love. He turned in the circle of his arms and kissed him, trying to lose himself in the simple, tender contact.
Oliver’s kiss deepened, becoming more insistent. He walked Matthew backward toward their bedroom, his hands sliding under Matthew’s shirt, palms warm against his back. “Let me just have you tonight,” Oliver whispered against his mouth, his voice thick with a need that felt like a lifeline. “No work, no thoughts. Just us.”
In the dim bedroom, clothes fell to the floor in soft heaps. Oliver’s touch was loving, patient, a world away from the frantic claiming in the restaurant bathroom. Matthew gave himself to it, focusing on the physical sensations—the scratch of Oliver’s chest hair against his skin, the gentle pressure of his hands. He moaned, arching into the touch, trying to anchor himself in the reality of his husband.
But his mind betrayed him. As Oliver moved over him, his body a familiar, welcome weight, the image of Yakov on his knees flashed behind Matthew’s eyelids. The memory of that raw, devouring hunger was a lightning strike through his nerves, more electric than the gentle, practiced rhythm of making love. He wrapped his legs around Oliver, pulling him closer, a desperate attempt to outrun the ghost in the room.
He clutched at Oliver’s back, his fingers digging into the muscle, as his body climbed toward its finish. A sound tore from his throat, but the name that echoed in the silent, vaulted chamber of his mind was not his husband’s. Pleasure washed over him, warm and suffusing, but it was inextricably tangled with a shame so profound it felt like drowning. He held Oliver tightly as his body stilled, the afterglow already curdling into a cold, isolating stillness.