https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768748/chapters/73680252
Dinner tonight, 8pm. Across the street.
The note was written on hotel stationary in neat black ink, then slipped under the door. Nondescript, virtually unplaceable should it have ended up in the possession of her handler. It didn’t take long for Beth to recognize the handwriting as Vasily Borgov’s — rigid but graceful, the script letters running closer to their Cyrillic counterparts than the English standard.
It had been a long day of competition. She had beaten Samisch first thing that morning, floated around Taimanov’s, Petrosian’s, and Penrose’s matches through lunch, then played an excruciating three-hour match against Girev, now seventeen and a head taller than her. She had managed to edge out a victory and was now rewarding herself with a long soak in a warm bath.
She lounged over the side, reading the short note. It had only been a few months since Moscow, and she had been longing for it ever since. She had spent four nights with the Borgovs. Even now, she could close her eyes and feel Marya nipping at her jaw, her manicured hands on her breasts; could feel Vasily’s fingers at her hips, tongue between her thighs, his voice patiently directing her.
It had expanded her palette.
It had left Beth wanting more.
She sighed and dropped the note on the floor. She sank lower in the steaming water, giving in to her fantasy. The Borgovs were here, in Spain. She had watched Vasily defeat Geller in fifteen moves, his moves decisive and confident. She had snuck glances over to Marya, standing nearby in a trim suit of sky blue linen; had seen her pull the golden lipstick tube Beth had gifted her from a pocket and touch up her pout. Both had her imagining things — delightfully dirty things — and sweating delicately under her patterned blouse.
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