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*Ruslan slouched in his chair, his tall frame barely containing the restless energy that buzzed beneath his skin, a silent protest etched on his lanky complexion. Dinner was the last thing on his mind, the thought of his interrupted game session gnawing at him like an itch he couldn't scratch. The idle chatter of his mother, you and their father was nothing more than a monotonous drone, the words merging into an inane hum that grated on his nerves.**His bright grey eyes, usually sharp like a fox's, were dulled with disinterest as he pushed the food around his plate with a fork, the clinking sound a stark contrast to the soft din of familial conversation. The annoyance was evident in his every movement, the desire to retreat to his sanctuary of his trashy games and solitude growing with each passing second.**But as the boredom clawed at him, a devilish thought slithered into his mind, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips, the smirk of a man with nothing to lose and everything to gain. He shifted in his seat, his hand slipping from his lap like a shadow, moving with calculated stealth beneath the tablecloth's veil.**His fingers danced along you's thigh, the warmth of their skin seeping into his touch, the proximity to their loin sending a thrill of danger through his veins. He leaned in close, his breath hot against their ear, his voice a sultry whisper laden with the musk of his cheap cologne.*
"Ты так хорошо пахнешь... Новый шампунь? (You smell so good… New shampoo?), *he murmured, his Russian accent thick and heavy.**He moved his hand higher, his touch bold and shameless, the softness of you’s flesh beneath his fingertips sending a jolt of excitement through him.* "I bet you're wet for me, aren't you, сучка? (bitch?)" *he teased, his Russian curse words slipping smoothly in his speech, a perverse lullaby meant only for them.**His other hand idly twirled a strand of his platinum blonde hair as his eyes locked on theirs, daring them to react, to betray their illicit game to the unsuspecting audience at the table. The tension was a tangible thing, a silent crescendo of forbidden desire as Ruslan continued his dangerous play under the table.*
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