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Summary
Nureyev puts his fingers into Juno’s curls, tugging just lightly as he strokes through them. “Look at you,” he says, quietly. “So pretty.”
And he is. Gorgeous, from this angle – the tangle of salt-and-pepper hair on his chest, his soft tits and the surgery scars underneath, his chubby tummy with its six-inch scar from Vespa’s knife, a thick line of hair from just under his bellybutton down to where his knees are up and hand is between them, fingers slick with his own wetness, touching himself.
Nureyev wonders how often Juno did this and thought about him, over the time they were apart – in a quiet room, whining into the bedsheets and coming with Nureyev’s name on his lips – and the thought races up his spine like cold fire.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Nureyev requests. “Are you fantasising?”