Most men, Napoleon had noticed, had a tendency to fixate on a particular part of the female body. Personally, he'd always thought it more than a little ridiculous. Did being a "leg man" mean that a great pair of legs would spark interest in an otherwise ordinary woman? As far as Napoleon had observed...no. His colleagues were far more likely to bemoan the "waste."
For that matter, how did you define great legs, or a great ass, or a great bust? Long, slender legs might look good on a woman 5 foot 10 inches tall, but on a shorter woman they'd be unsettlingly disproportionate.
No, it was all about balance. Napoleon had decided, for himself, that all the sizes and shapes of the various parts of the body had to complement each other to create real beauty. And he was an acknowledged connoisseur of beauty. There were as many ways for a woman to be beautiful as there were beautiful women. He would, Napoleon mused, have to be either dead or hopelessly in love before he stopped appreciating the endless variation.
Secure in this conviction, he would listen to other men wax poetic about the perfect lips or legs or breasts and smugly think to himself, I know better.
At least, he had thought all of that. Napoleon was feeling rather sheepish now. He had, after all, finally discovered the particular body part on the particular person for which he felt an identical admiration.
Napoleon had taken them for granted at first. He'd never given a second thought to the strong grip that had helped him stand when his own strength was failing, the delicate touch that had tended his wounds, or the warm clasp that welcomed him back to the land of the living when he woke in UNCLE medical.
He grew to know the strength of Illya's fingers as well as he knew his own. He discovered that they were smaller but more powerful than his own were. Napoleon had never put any special attention into his grip strength, but Illya kept his skill up in at least one musical instrument. It showed in the broadness of his palms.
Illya had wrapped a hand around his bare forearm once and Napoleon caught himself cataloging the patterns of the gun calluses adorning palm and fingers. He had no recollection of why Illya had touched him, but the alternation of rough and smooth was branded onto his memory.
It had been those hands that had broken down his carefully constructed determination never to say anything to Illya about the images that had started to find their way into his dreams...waking and sleeping. Napoleon remembered the moment perfectly. Fingertips had landed on the corner of his jaw, turned his head, and all his defenses had come crashing down.
But if that counted as defeat, Napoleon was happy to surrender. Surrender meant having Illya's hands on his skin. Who better to turn himself over to than his partner? He had long trusted Illya to take care of whatever Napoleon put into his care--his honor, his life, and his heart. The moment he turned over his body was long overdue.
When Illya touched him, Napoleon couldn't remember why he'd held back for so long. Illya could bring his nerves to tingling sensitivity just by brushing the very tips of his fingers over his body. He could reduce Napoleon to helpless pleas by wrapping his hand, broad and powerful, around Napoleon's cock.
Illya's caress was unlike that of any woman Napoleon had ever known. It was strong and certain and all encompassing. For the first time, Napoleon felt free to let himself go, certain in the knowledge that not only would Illya catch him, he'd be more than capable of holding him. More than willing to tighten his grip and refuse to let go.
It was on Napoleon's lips to ask for that when Illya ran his hand down his back and over the curve of his ass. He came to rest with one cheek cupped in his palm, fingers dimpling the skin a little. Napoleon smiled against Illya's chest and settled down. He didn't have to ask, after all. It was all there, in the touch of those hands.