Walking backwards, as they stumbled into the low light of room 54, Tommy was captivated by her gaze.
His eyes almost glazed over, if it wasn't for the way the shadows shaped Tatiana's silhouette, as the light from the fire flickered frantically in the background.
Still facing her, he lazily pulled the door shut, not bothering to turn around to apply the lock.
Discarding the bottle of whiskey he had gripped in his hands, he stormed towards her and pushed her up against the wall.
Kissing her with a sense of sudden, unleashed urgency; their tongues in a frenzied power play. His left hand gripped her hip bone, pinning her to the wall.
With his right hand, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged; taking the soft skin of her neck between his teeth, leaving a bruise in the shape of his lips,
before soothing the sting with a whiskey lipped kiss.
His breath lingered on her skin as he made his way down to her chest in a trail of kisses - until she opened her mouth and spoke words like daggers; stopping him dead in his tracks.
"You still love her, don't you?"
As he froze, his breath hitched in his throat, the silence separated them; becoming almost tangible, like a taste turned sour on the tip of their tongues.
His throat constricted, thick with emotion, as he snapped away from her in one fluid motion: fuelled by instant rage.
Gripping her shoulders with both hands, he shook her vigorously. In astonished anguish, he hoarsely breathed, "Why the fuck would you say that?"
Searching for clues in the void of her glazed over gaze, he shook her once again, "Why would you fucking say that?"
Overcome with emotion, he dropped to his knees before her and she sank to the ground along with him, silently cradling his head against her chest.
They stayed like this, her heartbeat thumping loudly against her chest until it soothed him enough to breathe easy.
As his breathing returned to normal, she spoke with a soft confidence, almost reassuringly.
"Watch," she held his jaw in her hand, forcing him to meet her gaze as she stood upright before him. "In the palace in Tbilisi, there was a priest."
He stared back at her, panting still with his mouth ajar and his eyes drowning in confusion, as she continued to strip bare with an unwavering gaze.
"He would put his hands here," she positioned her hands around his throat. "And with that strangulation, there was also ecstasy."
"It's called Khlysty. A Siberian prayer." She sunk to her knees in front of him, staring at him with eyes like wildfire.
"You are almost hung over. You are almost dead. But in that moment," she exhaled heavily, throwing her head back in euphoric ecstasy.
"Women who had lost men in the war would lay down, and they would fuck the ghost.
" Moving with the speed of a serpent, she struck, applying pressure to the sides of his neck and crashing to the floor along with him.
His own heartbeat thumped loudly in his ears, blood rushing to the surface as the oxygen dissipated from his lungs.
She began grinding her hips against his as he lay with his hands on her wrists, resisting for a brief moment.
Until finally, he succumbed to the temptation, gripping her hips with his hands and guiding her.
A nostalgic overthrow of a million memories flashed through his mind as he surrendered to the sweet ecstasy between her thighs.
Feeling everything all at once; his body a swelling, overstimulated mess, feeling as though he might burst.
Though he also felt himself slipping into the dark, his eyes drifting closed - until suddenly, she pulled away and he began gasping for air like a fish out of water.
As he lay gasping for breath, she danced around the room seemingly in her own state of ecstasy.
As he sat up, looking around the room in search of something to quell his afire throat, she made her way back over to him: smirking all the while.
As she stood before him, she tilted her head to the side, feigning doe-like innocence, before pressing her heel against his chest and knocking him to the floor yet again.
Momentarily stealing the breath from his lungs with her heel lightly pressed against his windpipe, her smirk is evident in her voice as she speaks with a covert confidence,
"She makes you hard but I make you weak."
They stay like that for a moment; her, basking in her own excellence and him, a mere mortal captured, like a moth to a flame, beneath it.
Taking her heel off his throat, she lay down beside him and handed him a glass of whiskey.
Raising the glass to his lips, he poured the rest of the whiskey down his throat and looked as her studiously.
"Why do you fuck with people's heads, playing mind games, when it serves no purpose?"
She smiled, all wild and hellish. "In Russia, because we were bored. In England, because we don't know how to stop."
"But," she said with a sly smirk, "I've barely even started."