Speak for yourself, Sinthia thought, the notion idly floating by as she let Illya wind his arms around her, liking the solid weight of his grasp, even if it was incredibly gentle. She'd cheated on someone before--she supposed that counted as far as illicit sex, and it certainly wasn't the only qualifier--but she'd never told Illya all of that. He had no need to know what she'd done in all those past lives and fragments of assignments, assassinations that she could barely make heads or tails of. And she was hoping whatever happened here tonight wouldn't be the same.

"May I kiss you?" she asked of Solo, vodka glass held by her fingertips and beginning to sweat and bead condensation.