Russia barely stops the smirk from spreading across his face, simply reaches up and catches Canada's face in his hands, returns the kiss just as passionately. He doesn't necessarily have French roots, but he knows how to respond to that passion easily. There's a breathless sort of noise as they kiss, teeth catching at the curve of Canada's lip, tugging ever so gentle.

He could care less about the fact that they're in a car with clear windows, could care less about one of Canada's neighbors seeing them--it would be a thing they've worked with before, quick trysts in offices always had the chance of running that risk after all. But right now Russia's focused on the nation in front of him, on the warm, nearly desperate way they kiss. His fingers twine into hair like spun gold and Russia's eyes open enough for him to watch the way Canada's features light up as he blushes, the way his face looks when he's caught up in a kiss. It's breathtaking and there's a soft groan, Russia's shoulders drawing together as he deeps the kiss. But now that they're here---it would be much better to get inside the house before he draws Canada into his lap and they wind up staying in the car.

So with a huff he pulls back, blinks and pants. His voice is still low and husky, accent thick, "We should move, yes?"