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Beth leaned against the hotel bar, tossing back her cranberry juice with the same nervous intensity she brought to everything. She had been sober eight years, now. Her game was excellent, but she still missed the feeling of detachment that came with alcohol. Without it, she was often a little bit on edge.
Townes grinned, taking a sip of his whiskey. "Have you seen that new series in Chess Review? The one where they have interviewed Borgov about his greatest rivals?" he asked. "There's something almost fond in how he talks about you. Not like the others."
"Fond?" Beth raised an eyebrow. "Borgov doesn't do fond."
"Maybe not usually," Townes agreed. "But when he describes your play, there's a respect there that goes beyond professional courtesy."
Beth's smile turned enigmatic. "Well, we do have... history."
Townes nearly choked on his drink. "I'm sorry, what kind of history?"
Beth's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Don't tell me I never mentioned my catastrophic attempt at something with Borgov?"
"You and Borgov?" Townes couldn't hide his astonishment. "Slept together?"
"Once. Five years ago." Beth grinned at his stunned look at her. "We agreed never to do it again."
Five Years Earlier
The restaurant where they had decided to meet occupied the upper floor of a historic building in Paris's old quarter. Borgov checked his watch. Elisabeth Harmon was late, but then he wasn’t surprised. This was not the first time they had met for dinner at a tournament, and she was frequently not on time. After the Moscow Invitational they had met up, briefly, before she flew home. He had heard that she had stayed to play chess in Sokolniki, and with the agreement of his minders he had asked her out to dinner. He had been intrigued by how she had fallen in love with the chess tradition of his homeland. Not enough to stay, though, as much as his country would have preferred that she did. He was quietly happy she hadn’t - he would have hated seeing the fire in her be quenched by the dreariness of the control his country imposed on chess players.
There had been other dinners in the three years after that, at various championships where they both attended. They talked about chess, but carefully did not talk about how she was working on qualifying herself for the World Chess Championship. He did hope, he had realised, to play her for the title.
At a quarter past eight, Beth arrived, her usual tournament attire replaced by an elegant black dress that complemented rather than concealed her dangerous intensity. She swept into the restaurant with confident ease, drawing appreciative glances that she neither acknowledged nor discouraged.
Borgov rose to greet her, and drew out her chair. She slid into her seat with a smile that suggested the tardiness was deliberate. "I'm sure your carefully ordered universe will recover from my being a little late."
A bottle of wine already stood breathing on the table. Borgov poured himself a glass while the waiter appeared to take Beth's order.
"Perrier with a slice of lime, please" she said. Her gaze lingered on his wine glass for a moment before turning away.
She glanced toward the corner table where two men in unremarkable suits, their eyes constantly scanning the room.
"Your shadows managed to get a table," she observed quietly. "I'm impressed."
Borgov's expression didn't change. "They maintain a respectable distance. One of the few privileges of my position."
The first course arrived - the waiter approaching and retreating with practiced invisibility, leaving them alone with artfully presented seafood that balanced tradition with subtle innovation.
"So," Beth said after savoring a perfectly prepared scallop, "your annotation of my game against Hellstrom surprised me."
"How?" he asked, his attention sharpening on her.
"That weakness you found," she replied, and he could hear she wasn’t happy about it. "I missed it when I analysed the game later."
"Sometimes it takes another player to see it," he said. His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary. "Even the most careful players can make mistakes."
Beth felt a subtle shift in the air between them. "I have a chess set in my hotel suite," she said carefully. "Perhaps you'd like to analyze some positions after dinner."
They both knew what she was really suggesting. Borgov's dark eyes studied her face, reading past her casual tone to the genuine invitation beneath. They had met over dinner before, but this was the first time after his divorce. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her as a woman before that. Now, he found, he could suddenly think of little else.
"I would find that... illuminating," he replied.
When they came out from the restaurant, she shivered a little. Early autumn had made the night air slightly chilly, and she only had a thin cardigan over her dress. She watched as Borgov exchanged a few words with his minders, his tone formal but carrying unmistakable authority. The men nodded with clear reluctance, keeping their vigilant posture.
"They'll follow at a distance," he explained as he hailed a taxi. "I've told them I need privacy to discuss strategy with a respected opponent."
"And they believed that?" Beth asked skeptically.
His slight smile held surprising warmth. "They believe what is convenient to believe."
The drive was brief and silent, anticipation filling the space between them. Borgov sat with perfect composure, though Beth caught how his eyes tracked her crossed legs with momentary interest before returning to their usual vigilance.
They parted in the lobby, and the elevator ride gave her a moment to consider what she was about to do - inviting the man she'd been preparing to challenge for the world championship into her room, for purposes far removed from chess. She knew she shouldn’t, but the thought of it also sent a flush of heat through her.
Her suite reflected her professional status - elegant and spacious, with a chess table already set up near the window. She paced briefly, uncertainty battling with anticipation, before a soft knock announced his arrival. He was composed, as always, but Beth caught the quick, assessing glance he gave the corridor behind him.
"Your watchdogs?" she asked.
"I informed them I would be discussing strategy with you until morning." he replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “They understand... certain diplomatic courtesies."
"They know?" Beth asked, moving to pour him a drink from the suite's bar. She felt electric with nervousness now, too aware of his presence. She had thought of him only as an opponent, but now she was very aware of him as a man.
"They suspect," he said, accepting the glass with a nod of thanks. "But there are moments when looking away serves everyone's interests. As long as I appear after breakfast, questions will remain... unasked."
"The Soviet system has its pragmatic side," Beth observed, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
"Even the most rigid structures bend occasionally," he acknowledged. "We have until morning."
He moved to the chess table with natural grace, examining the position she'd been studying earlier.
"Interesting variation," he observed, fingers hovering over a knight. "Aggressive but potentially unsound."
"Sometimes unsound moves yield unexpected results," she replied, standing closer than necessary.
His eyes met hers. "Sometimes they create weaknesses that can be... exploited."
Beth reached past him to move a pawn, her arm brushing his deliberately. "And sometimes the risk is worth taking."
Borgov's hand caught hers as she withdrew, his grip firm but not restricting. "Are you certain this is the game you wish to play, Elizabeth?"
She met his gaze steadily. "I wouldn't have invited you otherwise. And call me Beth."
The kiss, when it finally happened, was neither awkward nor mechanical - rather, a careful exploration between equals. Borgov moved with assured confidence, one hand settling at the small of her back with gentle pressure that suggested rather than demanded. His approach had nothing of the clinical detachment Beth had half-expected, instead carrying a focused attention that was almost unsettling in its intensity.
"This is strange," she murmured against his lips, momentarily pulling back.
"Because we've played too many games," he agreed, his perception as sharp as always.
But they continued regardless, curiosity and mutual attraction overriding the odd sense of kissing someone who had been a respected opponent for years. Borgov's touch was neither tentative nor demanding - rather, it carried the same quiet authority that characterized his play. He touched her as if he mapped her out, trying to understand what made her sigh, and what made her gasp. By now she felt a bit languid, letting his hands roam over her, hot, syrupy arousal pooling between her legs, but her mind wouldn’t be quiet - she tried to anticipate his moves just like on the chessboard.
"You're thinking too much," he observed, his voice dropping to a register Beth had never heard before, rough and dark.
"Professional hazard," she replied, trying to keep her usual control.
His smile carried unexpected heat. "Then perhaps we need a different approach."
He slid one hand into her hair with just enough pressure to tilt her head back. The gesture was commanding without being forceful, and Beth found herself responding despite her usual resistance to being led. It was slightly uncomfortable, being forced to keep that position, and to her surprise she couldn’t resist whimpering as his mouth moved lower.
"Interesting," he murmured against her throat, approval in his voice.
Beth tried to regain some control, her hands moving to push his jacket from his shoulders. "Don't get too comfortable with this."
"I would not presume." But his eyes held knowing amusement as he allowed her to remove his jacket, his own movements deliberately yielding to her initiative - for the moment.
Her fingers worked at his tie, then the buttons of his shirt, each new inch of exposed skin revealing something Beth hadn't anticipated. Beneath the formal attire that had always defined him was a more impressive body than she'd imagined. Lean muscle, his chest broader and more defined than his tailored suits suggested, only a little softer with age. She remembered hearing that they kept the gym open for him at the Moscow invitational; now she could see the results. Years of disciplined training were evident in the solid planes of his torso. It was not the body of a young man, but one maintained with the same exacting standards he brought to chess.
"You're full of surprises, Vasily," she murmured, her fingertips tracing the unexpected contours of his chest. She flushed with heat at the contact, at how his breath caught when she traced her fingers over his nipples.
Beth kept to her usual approach - direct, confident, taking what she wanted. Borgov followed her lead with graceful patience, but Beth caught the watchful assessment in his dark eyes, the careful cataloging of her reactions that suggested he was playing a longer game.
In the bedroom, the dynamic shifted subtly. Borgov's touches became more deliberate, and she felt quite transparent to him - he found sensitive spots she hadn't realized she possessed, and every time she gasped or moan she could see him almost smugly file the information away for later use. She wanted to take back the initiative, but he didn’t let her.
"I've always wondered," he said quietly, hovering above her, "what it would take to make Elizabeth Harmon surrender."
"You'll never find out," she challenged, though her body betrayed her with its responsiveness.
His smile carried confident certainty. "We'll see."
What followed was unlike anything Beth had experienced. Borgov approached her body with the same focused attention he brought to complex positions - patient, thorough, each move building on the last with devastating effectiveness. His fingers dipped down between her legs, slipping further down into her wetness, touching her very lightly, stoking the fire in her. He kept her hovering at the edge of pleasure without allowing release, his control absolute.
"Vasily," she gasped, caught between frustration and need. "Damn you."
"Tell me what you want," he commanded quietly.
"You know exactly what I want," she bit out, unwilling to yield. But her body arched into his touch, and she knew she was losing.
"I do," he agreed, his voice carrying that quiet certainty that had always defined him. "But I want to hear you ask for it."
Beth fought against the rising tide of surrender, but Borgov's patience was infinite. He entered her with one finger, and it only made her feel more empty - it wasn’t enough. He slipped his one finger in and out of her, slowly, while his other hand, impossibly big on her belly, held her down gently. She tried to find enough friction, but even though he worked her body with relentless precision, his touch deliberately never became quite enough to push her over the edge. His mouth had found her breasts now, mouthing at one nipple, then the other. When she tried to wiggle, he suddenly took one nipple between his teeth, and bit, and it was like her nerves were hit by lighting - pleasure raced through her body and she arched under him, moaning. But it still wasn’t enough.
"Please," she finally whispered, the word torn from her against her will.
"Please what?" His voice held no mockery, only that same steady authority.
"I need you," she managed, a confession she'd never made to any lover.
His eyes darkened with satisfaction. "Good."
When he finally pushed inside of her, it was with the same controlled power that defined his chess. Beth found herself yielding to him, her usual dominance surrendering to his implacable authority. She struggled to take him in. He was big, too big for her to have taken him without foreplay, she thought. Even as wet as she was it hurt, and she felt as if she was forced open impossibly wide for him, but he patiently kept on breaching her slowly, bit by bit, considerate but relentless, deeper and deeper.
"Let go," he murmured against her ear, his voice a command that seemed to bypass her conscious mind. He kept touching her as he slowly fucked her, his fingers sliding around in her wetness.
And she did - surrendering completely to his guidance, her body responding with abandon she'd never allowed herself to show. The pain didn’t disappear as much as transmute into pleasure - a deep trembling within her, responding to how he forced her to take more and more of him. The release, when it finally came, was overwhelming, starting deep within her, shattering her usual defenses and leaving her trembling in his arms.
"Beautiful," Borgov murmured, genuine appreciation in his tone as he watched her come undone.
His own control, so carefully maintained until now, began to slip as he pursued his own release. His movements became more forceful, his breathing ragged as he claimed her with increasing intensity.
"Moya krasivaya," he growled, Russian spilling from him as his English deserted him. "Tak prekrasna."
Beth found herself responding even more intensely to this new forcefulness, to the Russian endearments mixed with commands she half-understood. This was Borgov stripped of his careful public façade - raw and demanding, and his need awakened something similar in her. His hands held her down, anchored her, and made her take his thrusts even deeper, at an angle that made him hit something inside her, and then the pleasure overtook her again.
When his release came soon after that, the carefully composed World Champion disappeared completely, replaced by a man utterly lost in passion. His hands gripped her with bruising force, his voice rough as he spoke her name like a benediction.
In the aftermath, Beth found herself curled against him, boneless, her usual sharp edges temporarily softened. Borgov held her with surprising tenderness, his expression unguarded and satisfied.
"How did you..." she began, then stopped, unwilling to voice her amazement at her own response.
"Everyone has patterns," he replied simply. "Even you, Lisaveta."
"Don't get used to it," she warned, though the effect was somewhat diminished by her position in his arms.
His quiet laugh vibrated against her. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Sleep claimed them eventually, conversation giving way to comfortable silence. Beth's last conscious thought was surprise at how natural it felt to fall asleep beside him.
Morning was another matter entirely.
Beth woke first, the early light revealing Borgov asleep beside her - his usual perfect composure softened in unconsciousness. The sight was disconcerting. This was her rival, the man whose games she studied obsessively. Seeing him vulnerable felt like a breach of some unspoken protocol.
More disturbing was her own memory of the night before - of how completely she had yielded to his guidance, how thoroughly he had dismantled her usual control. No one had ever seen her that way before, and the thought of facing him across the chessboard with that knowledge between them...
When his eyes opened, instantly alert, their gazes met with mutual recognition of the situation's fundamental awkwardness.
"Good morning," he said, in a voice slightly rough with sleep - another unfamiliar token of humanity that felt oddly intrusive. That she once thought he wasn’t quite human…
"Morning," Beth replied, suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness.
A knock at the door announced that breakfast had arrived. He rose with fluid grace, wrapping a hotel robe around himself to accept the delivery.
The sight of the World Chess Champion in a hotel robe, arranging coffee cups with the same precision he brought to opening preparations, struck Beth as surreally domestic. He poured coffee for them both, his movements as measured and controlled as ever.
"This is uncomfortable," Beth said finally. She knew her response to tension was directness, but she didn’t know what else to do.
"Indeed." Borgov sipped his coffee, his expression thoughtful. "Despite the evening's... undeniable quality."
Beth laughed, the sound breaking some of the morning's stiffness. "Ever the diplomat."
"Merely accurate." His slight smile acknowledged the absurdity. "Last night was excellent."
"It was," she agreed. "And yet..."
"And yet," he continued. "Because we're not merely lovers. We are also rivals."
"Like how am I supposed to concentrate on your Sicilian Defence now that I know the sounds you make when you lose control?" Beth's bluntness made him almost choke on his coffee.
"That," he agreed after recovering, "among other considerations."
"Or how you managed to make me..." Beth trailed off, unable to articulate exactly what had happened between them.
"Submit?" Borgov offered, a hint of satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
"We are never speaking of that again," Beth said firmly, though her cheeks colored slightly.
"As you wish." But his expression suggested he would not be forgetting it anytime soon.
They regarded each other in silence before Beth voiced what they both were thinking.
"We can never do this again."
"No," he agreed immediately. "Our competitive relationship clearly requires boundaries."
"And seeing you vulnerable is just too damn weird."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "As is witnessing aspects of you I suspect few have ever seen."
Beth winced. "Definitely never speaking of that again."
"Agreed." He finished his coffee with deliberate calm. “But, I must admit to liking it very much."
"Vasily."
"Forgotten entirely," he assured her, though his eyes carried a hint of amusement that was surprisingly human.
As he finished dressing, movements precise and efficient, Beth found herself studying him with newfound understanding. Not just the champion, the grandmaster, the Cold War chess icon - but a man with genuine depths beneath his carefully maintained control.
"This changes nothing professionally," he said as he prepared to leave, straightening his already perfect tie. As all his ties, it was surprisingly garish and she itched to remove it, to find something better for him. He is not mine, she thought repressingly to her unruly mind.
"Of course not." Beth leaned against the doorframe. "Though if you ever use that particular tone during a post-game analysis, I may have to throw my queen at you."
His laugh was unexpected and genuine - a sound few people ever heard. "Noted."
At the door, he paused, turning back with surprising candor. "Despite the morning's... awkwardness, I value your honesty. It's rare in our world."
"It was good," Beth admitted, matching his frankness. "Just..."
"Not to be repeated," he finished. "Some games need only be played once."
The next day at the tournament, Beth found a small package in her room - a leather-bound book of annotated endgames. The handwritten note drew her attention to a page with a game ending in a position where the king and queen faced each other in an eternal stalemate, neither able to advance without changing the balance. A draw.
Present Day
Townes was trying not to spill his drink as he processed this revelation. "You didn't," he said quietly, his understated shock evident in his widened eyes. "With Borgov?"
"Oh, I did," Beth confirmed, grinning at his reaction. "For a man so controlled on the board, he was surprisingly... expressive in other contexts."
"And was it really that awkward?" Townes asked, his journalistic curiosity clearly piqued despite his shock. "The morning after?"
"Like accidentally seeing your chess hero without his armor," Beth said. "You suddenly realize he's human, and it ruins the whole mystique. I used to believe he was a perfect, unfeeling machine. Then I realised he was a person, and a friend. But that was taking it a bit too far."
Townes smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. "Was he at least... good?"
"Devastatingly," Beth admitted, with a self conscious smile. "Patient, thorough, unnervingly perceptive. He anticipated my moves better off the board than on it."
"And you just... went back to normal after that?" Townes asked, clearly trying to imagine how they managed..
"Better than normal, actually." Beth's expression turned more thoughtful. "Something about seeing the human behind the legend changed things. We respect each other differently now." She smiled wryly. "Though we made an absolute pact never to repeat that particular experiment."
Townes took another sip of his drink, processing this new dimension to Beth's chess rivalry. "I'm almost relieved you decided against pursuing it further," he admitted. "The competitive dynamics alone would be..."
"Catastrophic," Beth finished for him. "Not to mention what it would do to tournament preparation. I beat him, finally, but I have no doubt he intends to try to take back the title in two years."
That was when Borgov entered the hotel bar with that quiet, commanding presence. Townes nearly dropped his glass. The Russian grandmaster paused briefly, taking in the scene before him.
"Miss Harmon, Mr Townes" he said, his voice carrying that perfect quiet authority, "I trust you're prepared for tomorrow's match?"
"Always," Beth replied innocently. "Townes and I were just discussing the finer points of...."
Borgov's eyes narrowed as Townes visibly struggled to maintain his composure.
"I see." His tone was perfectly calm, but the slight twitch of his hands betrayed him. "I trust this educational exchange has been illuminating?"
Beth managed to compose herself enough to meet his gaze, but she was blushing. Borgov's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes as he noted Townes’ measured look at him.
"I'll see you at the boards tomorrow," he said, his voice carrying that hint of authority she knew made her want to rebel. "Preferably without the fatigue these late conversations often encourage."
As he turned to leave, Beth couldn't resist teasing him back. "Vasily, did you know Townes is writing a feature on psychological advantage in chess matches? Maybe you would have some insights?"
She caught the momentary pause in his perfectly measured stride, followed by the ghost of a smile that touched his lips before he continued to the table where the other Russians sat.
Townes exhaled heavily. "I can't believe you said that. To Borgov!"
"It was worth it," Beth grinned.
"I never thought I'd see the day," Townes murmured, shaking his head in amazement. "Beth Harmon making Vasily Borgov almost stumble."
"That's not the only thing I made him do," Beth replied wickedly, then laughed at Townes' expression. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."
"You are incorrigible," Townes said, but his eyes gleamed with genuine affection. "I think I preferred you when you were just a prodigy with issues."
"No, you didn't." Beth smiled. "This is much more fun."
"For you, maybe." But Townes was laughing again, the easy friendship between them something both valued deeply.
Later that evening, Benny Watts sauntered into the hotel bar, his usual confident stride carrying him straight to where Beth and Townes were still talking. He had also advanced in his game yesterday, and Beth knew he hoped to win tomorrow and meet her in two days.
"There you are," he said, sinking into one of the chairs and stretching out his legs. "I've been looking everywhere. Browne wants to know if you're joining the analysis session tomorrow before -"
He stopped abruptly, following Beth's gaze across the room where Borgov was now making his way toward the exit. Something in the way Beth looked at the Russian grandmaster - a mixture of professional respect and something far more intimate - made Benny's eyes narrow in sudden comprehension.
As the elevator doors closed around Borgov, Benny's attention snapped back to Beth, his busy mind making connections with lightning speed.
"You didn't," he said flatly, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Beth's innocent expression wouldn't have fooled anyone, let alone someone who knew her as well as Benny did.
"Didn't do what?" she asked, taking a deliberate sip of her soda.
"With Borgov?" Benny hissed, leaning in closer. "Tell me you didn't."
Townes suddenly became very interested in the ice cubes in his glass.
"What makes you think that?" Beth asked, though her smirk gave her away completely.
"The way you just looked at him," Benny said accusingly. "Like you've seen... Jesus, Beth. Of all the players in the circuit?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, but there was mischief in her eyes. Needling Benny was always fun.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Benny muttered. "I thought we had an unspoken agreement about not sleeping with anyone who could beat me."
This startled a surprised laugh out of Townes, but he quickly disguised it as a cough.
"That would severely limit my options," Beth remarked dryly.
Benny's expression was a mix of wounded pride and reluctant amusement. "Very funny. I beat Borgov once."
"In speed chess," Beth reminded him.
"Still counts," Benny insisted, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "When did this even happen? Please tell me it wasn't during that Paris tournament."
"No, much later" Beth assured him. “And only once.”
"Small mercies," Benny muttered. "Seriously though, Borgov? The Russian? That man probably never stops calculating chess moves, even in his sleep."
"He's very... thorough," Beth said with a teasing smile.
Benny groaned. "I don't want details. I just want to be able to look at him across the board without thinking about..." He made a vague, uncomfortable gesture.
"Then don't think about it," Beth suggested reasonably.
"Easy for you to say." Benny downed his drink in one go. "Great. This is just great. Now every time he makes that little 'hmm' sound during analysis, I'm going to wonder if he makes the same noise when -"
"Benny!" Beth cut him off, laughing despite herself.
"I need another drink," he declared, signaling the bartender. "And maybe a lobotomy."
"If it makes you feel any better," Beth couldn't resist saying, "he was like a machine. Precise, relentless, never losing focus..."
Benny actually paled. "That does not make me feel better." He looked at her curiously. "Was he... I mean, did he...?" He couldn't seem to finish the question.
"Let's just say his endgame technique is impeccable," Beth replied with a straight face.
"I hate you both," he declared, reaching for his fresh drink. "And I'm definitely going to beat him someday. Out of principle."
"Of course you are," Beth agreed soothingly, exchanging an amused glance with Townes.
"That's it," Benny announced, standing up dramatically. "I'm leaving. I have to prepare for tomorrow's games, and I can't do that with these... mental images you've cursed me with."
The horror on Benny's face as he retreated was worth every moment of the morning-after awkwardness she'd endured five years ago, Beth thought. But then she remembered how good it had been before that. He was much older, recently divorced, and her competitor, but she had never found anyone who had understood her that well, and maybe she was overthinking the complications? Now when she had the championship title, she could allow for some indulgence. She wondered if he thought the same.