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The first time he doesn't give it much thought.
Maybe because anything approaching higher brain function has been effectively fucked out of him. He's lying face down, rolling his forehead against the mattress, and Ilya is peppering his shoulders with kisses.
"You have freckles here," he says, anointing each one with his lips.
"They're leftover," Shane mumbles. His vowels are soft and rubbery. "From," he hums as he feels Ilya’s hand rubbing over his hip, "summer."
They're gone by October, fading like breath against glass, and he realizes that Ilya wouldn't know that. They've always spent their summers, and the subsequent Septembers, apart. In the long landscape of their relationship, there are new territories to explore. Shane lets his eyes slip closed, smiling softly.
"Oni prekrasny.”
Ilya lingers inside of him, the blanket of his weight along Shane's back deeply satisfying. They have nowhere to be. No practice, no plans. On mornings like this, the only thing that will drag them from bed is Shane's desire to shower or Ilya's hunger. After a long stretch of rubbery moments, he feels Ilya pull out. Shane grunts softly, feeling the loss.
"I can poach some eggs," Shane offers. "And there's bacon in the freezer."
"What kind of bacon?"
"Turkey."
Ilya groans behind him, one hand running down the length of Shane's sweaty back. "You were sent to torture me."
"Yeah, yeah."
There’s a warm, tacky trail of cum along Shane’s inner thigh. He can feel more of it leaking from his entrance. They rarely use condoms anymore; stopped last summer when they became exclusive. Shane doesn't love the mess, but it's always worth it to see that look in Ilya's eyes. The half-drunk, half-bliss, half-crazed stupor as he releases inside of him. Shane moves then, looking to flip onto his back. He'll shower, then strip the bed, and -
Ilya stops him with one large hand at the small of his back; a touch of pressure as one thumb glides over his dimples. "Not yet," Ilya whispers.
He nudges Shane's thighs open, his breath low and unsteady, and Shane shivers as Ilya’s finger collects that line of cum along his thigh. A heartbeat later, Shane feels that same finger nudging at his tender hole. He's still loose and sloppy from their fucking. Ilya's finger slips back in with little resistance and Shane's gasping, grabbing for a pillow. Knuckling it. His eyes squeeze shut.
"Ilya . . ." his voice hisses out of him.
It's too soon. He's still too sensitive. His hips stutter, knees gliding along the smooth sheets as he searches for traction. "Shhh," Ilya whispers.
“I can’t . . . ah . . .”
Ilya hushes him again, lips gentle as they run over the back of Shane’s neck. “Ty zdes' tak nayelsya.” Shane’s thoughts scramble in his head, his hips jerk again but he’s not sure if he’s trying to scramble away or hitching back. “I just want to feel you.”
It’s a slow slide. Gentle. Mindless. Almost kind as it teases over tender skin. Ilya’s finger only just grazes against his prostate. Maddening. Shane’s thighs tremble as new pleasure alights on oversensitive nerves. “Please, I -” he’s not sure what he was going to say, what plea because he feels a second finger teasing along his rim. He jolts like he’s been electrocuted, his toes curling.
The slickness pulls between them, wet and obscene. Gross. Some quiet, modest part of Shane’s brain clicks awake and it has one of Shane’s hands shooting out to grasp at Ilya. He squeezes without strength at the other’s wrist. “Ilya no, it’s too much . . .” Ilya stills. “It’s dirty.”
Their breaths climb over each other in the quiet morning air.
“It’s not,” Ilya whispers, his voice soft. But he pulls out, and flops back on the bed beside Shane.
When sensation returns to Shane’s legs, he shifts over toward him and kisses him, sucking softly on Ilya’s plump bottom lip.
“You’re insatiable,” Shane murmurs.
“I’m in love,” Ilya whispers back, his eyes still glazed, “there are consequences.”
_____________________________________________________________________
SHANE
Is tonight punishment?
HAYDEN
Have you done something deserving of punishment?
SHANE
Don’t use dad speak on me
HAYDEN
Are you still with that ugly Russian?
SHANE
??
Yes
HAYDEN
Then absolutely
SHANE
Babysitting your kids isn’t going to make me love him any less
HAYDEN
But it might keep you off him some nights
SHANE
Seriously?
HAYDEN
Jackie and I are going to dinner the next time Ottawa comes to play
You can watch the rascals after right?
Amber is a quiet baby with Hayden’s crop of wheat fine hair and Jackie’s kind features. She falls asleep on Shane’s chest while the sound machine fizzes in the background. She smells like talcum powder, and soft linen, and she drools a bit on his sweater. On impulse, he snaps a selfie with her and sends it to Ilya.
JANE
I think I’m getting better at this.
____________________________________________________________________
He’s back home that night, sleeping, and it’s nearly midnight when his phone rings. He fumbles with it, grumbling with annoyance at the sudden awakening. He doesn’t even look at the number.
“Hello?”
“I do not want murder tonight, Hollander.”
“Ilya?” He fumbles up onto one elbow.
“No, it is your other Russian boyfriend. I come in now, yes? You will not murder me?”
“In?” Shane’s dreams linger, soft as footprints in snow.
The call disconnects and in the next heartbeat, Shane hears the sound of the door clicking open. He stumbles upright and barely makes it to the bedroom door before he’s got an armful of his boyfriend. The outdoor chill still lingers on Ilya’s clothing. Shane fists a hand in that sweater as he breathes him in. Familiar aftershave and the whisper of cigarette smoke. He’s too tired, too happy, to linger on the shock of it all.
“I wanted you to stay in bed,” Ilya says. Lips alight on Shane’s neck, dragging up to nuzzle behind his jawline. “I guess I carry you back.”
Shane’s world tilts as Ilya hoists him into his arms with two strong hands on his ass. He wraps his thighs around Ilya’s hips, his head rolling down onto Ilya’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?” His voice is a low murmur.
“Needed you,” Ilya says, depositing him on the bed with heartbreaking care.
“Now?”
“Now.” Ilya’s hand slips beneath Shane’s shirt, his finger still cool enough to spring goosebumps. “Yes.”
“It’s so late.”
“You will not turn into pumpkin at midnight.”
“I don’t even like pumpkins.” It’s nonsensical. His brain is mush, and Ilya’s questing fingertips aren’t helping matters. Despite his light protests, Shane lifts his arms to help Ilya tug his shirt off. It’s flung to parts unknown. Shane will grumble at the wrinkles in the morning. Right now, he’s huffing as Ilya’s mouth wraps around his nipple, rolling it like a bead over the bed of his tongue. It’s soft, and unhurried, and the pleasure bubbles just beneath Shane’s skin. He feels his blood rushing languidly south.
Ilya chuckles and the vibrations are exquisite. “Noted,” he whispers. “No pumpkins.”
Then he’s pulling up, tugging his own shirt off and scrambling for the lube in Shane’s bedside table. “Yes?”
“Yes.” Shane runs his hand down the long line of Ilya’s chest. His gaze, movements, the kisses he tugs from Ilya are all thick as honey.
“Lie back then,” Ilya whispers. “I will take care of you.”
Shane shivers as he obeys.
Time means nothing right now. (It means everything) It’s the long moments where Ilya strokes his cock with wing soft touches, paying way too little attention to Shane’s tip. It’s the hot flash of a second when he feels that tongue along his other nipple. It’s the tick of his heartbeat when Ilya calls him beautiful, good, pretty. (Presses the words between kisses, chases them with a firm press of his thumb, like he’s massaging the words into skin. Working them deep.)
Ilya works him open with confidence, rubbing the pad of his ring finger over Shane’s prostate. It’s too slow by half, the tease of Ilya’s other hand over his hard cock suddenly having Shane grunting and reaching down. He needs some pressure, he needs the squeeze of Ilya’s tight fist to fuck into.
But Ilya tuts. “No,” he whispers, knocking Shane’s hand away. “I got you.”
“You’re teasing,” Shane says, he tries to throw something like a glare at Ilya but the effect is muted when Ilya’s finger dances along his prostate. His chokes on a cry. His hips chase the movement and Ilya’s hand forces them back to the bed with a hand low on his belly.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. He smiles. “Just a little.”
“You can’t,” Shane protests, voice high and thin. His thighs twitch as he grasps at the bedsheets. “I need . . .”
“You look perfect like this,” Ilya keeps that heavy hand on Shane’s stomach, anchoring him as he kisses him. Adds a third finger that has Shane quivering. “I’m going to fuck you so good. I’m going to fill you up.”
Shane’s eyes flick open, gaze snagging on Ilya’s fevered stare. He looks starved.
“Please,” Shane breathes, his muscles tensing as his hips are held off from chasing that budding pleasure. “Please Ilya.”
That seems to break the dam, Ilya pulls his fingers out, grips Shane’s ass to tug him up, and pushes in with slow hitching thrusts.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane whimpers, head falling back against the pillows. Ilya lifts Shane’s legs up around his hips, groaning deep in his throat. Only I get him like this, Shane thinks. And then promptly forgets how to think because Ilya finds a rhythm within him. One large hand rests on Shane’s chest, the other on the bed beside his head as Ilya thrusts in earnest. It’s so fucking good. It’s bone-melting and it buzzes high and keen at the back of Shane’s mind. Shane pants as Ilya teases along his prostate, trying to shift his hips, but Ilya doesn’t let him control one bit of this.
Shane reaches for his cock, desperate for some steady relief and Ilya shoves it back to the mattress. “I told you no,” Ilya grumbles. He thrusts harder and Shane nearly squeaks. “Brat.”
That sends a domino of heat down Shane’s spine. He can do nothing but take it, accepting the slow, easy breadth of Ilya’s thrusts. Nothing but . . .
“I love you,” Shane whispers.
Ilya’s breath hitches, his thrusts growing less controlled, sharper.
“You drove -uh -” Shane’s toes curl at a particularly well splaced thrust, “drove two hours to fuck me?”
A nod. Shane feels the subtle shift of power, as he clenches down and Ilya nearly sobs.
“Were you hard the whole time? Thinking about me?”
“Yes,” Ilya whines. His rhythm stutters as he grows closer, biting his lips to try to stave off the inevitable. Shane almost smiles.
“Then come for me, Rozanov.”
Ilya shudders as he does, muscles bunching along his shoulders. There’s a trail of sweat falling from his hairline to his jaw and Shane desperately wants to lick it. “Fucking hell, Hollander.”
Ilya doesn’t linger, pulling out only to urge Shane’s leg higher, to bend low, drag his lips over the sensitive skin of Shane balls and then lick over his hole. Shane jolts. His hands shoot down to Ilya’s head, tugging at his hair until Ilya whines, but does not relent. Shane can feel Ilya’s tongue licking along his hole. He knows Ilya must taste his own cum there and his brain short circuits at the thought. He’s blinking without sight at the ceiling when he feels Ilya’s tongue breaching him. It feels like he’s trying to feed his cum deeper. Shane nearly sobs as he feels Ilya’s warm, lube wet hand firmly stroking his dick.
Shane should find it disgusting, but he’s a jumble of crossed wires then, biting at his lips and whispering “fuck, fuck, fuck -”.
He shatters open when he comes, shooting ribbons across his chest. Ilya lingers, one hand over Shane’s stomach as he continues to eat him out. It’s only when Shane fucking whimpers that Ilya let’s Shane tug him loose.
“Next time,” Ilya whispers, kissing his neck. “I make you come with just my tongue.”
Shane grumbles about the mess but Ilya shushes him and then uses his own discarded shirt to clean up the mess on Shane's stomach.
(What are they sixteen?)
“We should-”
Shower. But the word doesn't come. His fatigue rushes back into him, and he lets his eyes slip closed.
“Sleep?” Ilya spoons his head on Shane’s chest. “Yes, Hollander. We should.”
___________________________________________________________________
Ilya is up before the sun the next morning, inching across warm bed sheets. Shane's fingers curl instinctively. A soft whine drops from his throat.
"Five more minutes."
"I will be late."
There's a shuffle of limbs, the brush of Ilya's lips across his cheek. "And we should shower."
We did last night.
Shane winks one eye open, thankful for the soft glow of the Montreal skyline. His memory of last night slowly drips into his head, one gasp and thrust at a time. And then afterward . . . His cheeks flush and he feels Ilya's thumb wipe along his cheekbone. His thighs twitch together and he feels the mess collected there. It should turn his stomach, but when he opens his eyes, he can see Ilya watching him with such a soft, loving expression.
"You're a menace."
"And you," Ilya bites gently at Shane's shoulder, "like it."
"Ugh, no. Get off me. Morning breath."
"Yes, so very gross," Ilya murmurs. He licks over the indent of his teeth. "So gross that I make you come hard last night."
Shane's breath stutters. "That was . . .not from . . ."
"Yes from.”
Shane squirms, falling back into old habits. "Shut up, Rozanov."
"Do not think I will."
"You're an asshole."
"It is always 'fuck off' or 'fuck me'. You should be nicer to your boyfriend."
"I was plenty nice last night."
"I know Yuna teach you how to say please and thank you." He runs his thumb over Shane's bottom lip. "Fuck off, please. Now that sounds sweeter."
Shane splays the flat of his hand against Ilya's face and pushes him away with a groan.
In the shower, Ilya's wit slips down the drain. He hugs Shane from behind, running a loofa over his skin. Their time is short, but there’s an elasticity to the minutes, they shrink and expand on their breaths. Shane has spent his life organizing his hours, and days, his months and his years. His life is as catalogued as a library. Ilya’s thrown the whole system into chaos, riffled through the pages and reshuffled them.
“You looked handsome,” Ilya whispers, “with that baby.”
His voice is barely audible over the stream of water. Shane’s eyebrows draw together slightly. “With Hayden’s kid?”
“Hmmm.”
Ilya’s hand lies flat against Shane’s stomach drawing him tighter against him.
“I’m a pretty terrible babysitter,” Shane admits. “But Hayd and Jackie get desperate sometimes.”
“You are terrible at nothing,” Ilya says. “You are much too-” he struggles for the word, English failing him just then. “You would not allow it.”
Shane preens at the compliment, even as he tries to hide it by tilting his head back against Ilya’s wide shoulder. At this angle his smile is probably hidden by the steam. “Yeah, well, baby drool is about as unsexy as it gets.”
Ilya’s hand tightens around him. He drops the loofa, uses his soapy fingers to rub over the soft, sensitive skin of Shane’s lower stomach; to dig into the curve of Shane’s ass. “Hmmm, yes, but you looked very sexy.”
______________________________________________________________________
Sometimes he’s slow. His body knows what it wants before he does, recognizes things about Ilya that his mind has to turn over once or twice. Like the little whine Ilya tucked behind his ear when he wiped soapy fingers over Shane’s hole, or the way his hands petted his stomach; like he was mourning the act. Like he wanted to leave a part of himself behind when he was gone.
Shane shivers. He decides he’s overthinking things.
Then he texts Ilya anyways.
JANE
Did you drive all that way to fuck me because of the picture I sent?
____________________________________________________________________
He’s too busy with the season to give it much thought. November chill promises December snow and by the time the holidays roll around he’s almost forgotten.
He spends Christmas in Ottawa with Ilya and his parents. Watching his boyfriend running about the kitchen in an apron and mittens shouldn’t make his heart hiccup. Seeing Ilya wink over a roast turkey shouldn’t make him blush, either, but surprise is part of the ride now. Ilya keeps refilling his cup of ginger ale throughout the night and Shane doesn’t know how he got this lucky. He’s too happy to worry about his performance diet. He eats second servings of meat pie and biscuits with gravy. He has a hearty slice of apple pie as they play Monopoly.
(He wins)
It’s snowing when they are shoving their feet into fur-lined boots. His mom offers his old room for the night.
“Nah, we should go home,” Ilya says.
That simple transmutation from cottage to home, makes Shane’s breath hitch. He drives them carefully home, stretching the ten minute drive into twenty for safety. He doesn’t let Ilya hold his hand, no matter how he pouts.
Once they’re inside he strips off his sweater and drops onto the bed. “I’m going to regret that dinner tomorrow.”
“Carbs are not the enemy.”
“I’m bloated already.” He huffs as he struggles up onto two elbows. “Look.”
There’s a slight curve to his stomach, his skin stretched wide over his abs. He runs a hand down it, feeling the bulge. “Food baby.”
Ilya doesn’t say anything, but Shane sees a muscle twitch along his jawline. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Ilya shucks his own clothes then comes to stand, wearing only his boxers, at the foot of the bed. He kicks Shane feet apart, his gaze darkening slightly. “I like you like this.”
“What bloated?”
“Full,” Ilya amends, and before Shane’s brain can process the word, he’s dropping to his knees. “Happy.”
Later, Shane will remember Ilya’s steady hand on his stomach, just as easily as he’ll remember the way his curls ticked his thighs.
____________________________________________________________________
“You’re good with kids,” Shane says. It’s January and they’ve managed, between their two schedules, to piece two consecutive days together.
“Says who?” Ilya asks, looking up from where he’s massaging Shane’s shin.
Shane took a puck there against Washington, his skin is still bruised. He’ll heal. It won’t mean any time off the ice, but Ilya’s been cursing out the player since. (“His mother teach him to aim?” or “I bet he did it on purpose. Wanted to say he got a hit out on Shane Hollander.” The player definitely hadn’t done it on purpose.)
“Me,” Shane offers. “I say so.”
“You have not seen me with children, Hollander.” Ilya smirks, playful with the use of Shane’s surname.
“Have to. At the all-star games.” He remembered vividly the smell of suntan lotion and chlorine, the beat of the Florida sun over his skin, the kids swarming to Ilya when he visited them in the shallow end. “You’re always a big hit.”
Ilya shrugs. And Shane drops his head back against the couch. He is terrible at this. After a long minute, he tries again.
“Do you like kids?”
“Sure,” Ilya says. “They are funny.”
“What about babies?” Shane asks, he scratches at the back of his head as Ilya’s gaze pivots from Shane’s leg to Shane’s face.
“Why are you blushing, Hollander?”
“I’m not.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow. “You are bad liar.”
“I just -” but he can’t say it, the words scramble in his throat. He’s suddenly worried that Ilya will find it offensive. “It’s good to know. Just, like . . .if Hayden wants us to babysit sometime.”
______________________________________________________________________
What’s the plan?
It’s a mantra that he repeats in his head. It amazes him that he can know two languages, that he can be working his way to a third, and still find it so very hard to find adequate words. He folds his clothes that night, prepping for the drive back to Montreal and Ilya watches him from the bed with a small twist to his lips.
“I hear you thinking from all the way over there,” he accuses, his voice dripping in tenderness.
“I’m . . .” Shane shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Come here.” Ilya opens his arms and Shane’s heart swoops. He crawls across the bed, dropping his head on Ilya’s chest. There is comfort here in the steady warmth of his boyfriend’s arms. Shane hooks one of their ankles together, rests his hand over one strong thigh. For a while, the only sound is the hum of the heater, then Ilya takes a deep breath. “Tell me what is wrong, Shane.”
“Nothing is wrong,” he says, he feels Ilya’s hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I just . . .”
“Yes. Just.”
Shane doesn’t know where Ilya got his patience. But he knows that the way he loves has always felt like an open hand and a soft landing. “Am I too boring for you? I mean - in bed?”
Ilya is so quiet that Shane looks up at him. He finds the other man’s expression painted with confusion. “You think this? Shane-” He grabs at himself, holding the outline of himself in his shorts. “My dick. He will be sore all week from you.”
“No, I-” Shane’s nose wrinkles. “Can you stop referring to your dick like that?”
“Like what?” Ilya blinks. All innocent.
“Like it’s a person.”
“This dick likes you very much.”
“Okay. Here we go . . .”
Ilya’s pout shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. He shouldn’t be allowed to pout while he’s still palming himself. “Do you like him?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Shane,” Ilya rubs the heel of his hand over the head of his dick. It makes Shane’s mouth feel suddenly dry. “You will hurt his feelings.”
Shane swallows, tries to put some weight behind his voice. He focuses his gaze on Ilya’s face. “You keep this up, I’m leaving tonight.”
“No, no.” Ilya releases himself, running that hand under Shane’s jaw and tilting him up into a slow, sweet kiss. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Shane, I think your head is very mean place sometimes. Cruel to you.” He taps his finger on the center of Shane’s chest. “I am very happy with our sex life.”
“And you don’t . . .have fantasies? Ones that you don’t tell me about?”
Ilya flashes a bit of teeth with his smile. “I have many fantasies.”
“Like what.”
Ilya shakes his head, taps his foot against Shane. “You tell me one of yours first.”
Ah, there is the old anxiety. It knocks at the forefront of Shane’s mind, but he doesn’t answer. Not with Ilya looking at him with such kindness. “Mine are boring.”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Probably.” He nods. “Still tell me.”
Shane bites at his bottom lips. “Well - I think sometimes about . . . having sex with you outside. Like at the cottage next summer.”
In his head, it feels like the final layer of secrecy stripped from them.
“You will get dirty,” Ilya tells him. His thumb rubs over the shell of Shane’s ear. “You will not like that.”
“We can put down a blanket. The big one for picnics.”
“And the loons?”
Shane laughs. “I’ll protect you from the loons, Ilya.”
“Then we will do it,” Ilya says. He kisses Shane's neck, soft and sweet and with the respite of Ilya’s piercing gaze, Shane takes his chance.
“You like getting messy,” Shane says.
“Yes,” Ilya kisses his collarbone. “Sometimes.”
“You like getting me messy.”
He feels Ilya shift, feels a hand against his chest and suddenly Shane is lying on his back on the bed. “Yes,” Ilya says, he presses one thigh between Shane’s legs. “Sometimes.”
Shane gasps as he feels that thigh roll against him. His cock rapidly hardens. “Keeping me messy?”
Ilya’s tongue runs up his neck, his hips working so slowly it’s maddening. He props himself above Shane with his thick triceps on either side of Shane’s head. “Yes.”
“I’ve um . . . noticed.” He places a hand on Ilya’s ass, trying to urge him faster, but he doesn’t listen.
Ilya smiles like a wolf sometimes. Shane doesn’t mind though. What happens after that smile usually features in Shane’s dreams for weeks on end.
“Say more.”
Words would be a lot easier if Ilya's thigh wasn’t grinding against his cock. Shane’s hips start to chase it. Heat curls up his spine. “You like to finish inside of me. You like - ah -” Ilya’s thumb pinches his nipple. “Fucker.” He bites at his bottom lip before mustering back his words. “You like to keep yourself inside of me.”
“Shane.” Ilya’s cock rubs over Shane’s hip, heavy and thick. “If you allowed it, I wouldn’t let you leave without marking you.” He drops his lips to Shane's ear, the angle making the pressure of their grind shift. “I’d fill you and plug you right up. I’d send you to practice dripping.”
Shit.
Shane’s breath catches in his throat and never comes back. He stiffens, squirming as the thought settles in his brain. He should find it gross. He’s always been particular about his hygiene. Shane’s dick hasn’t gotten that memo though. It twitches and Shane gasps. One of his hands flies to Ilya’s waist, begging for the space not to embarrass himself. Of course Ilya doesn’t give it to him. He continues that slow, torturous grind and Shane’s almost whimpering. “Fuck, Ilya!”
“Would you like,” Ilya is panting, “to stand on that ice knowing that I am still inside of you? I could keep you full. Stuffed. Bred.”
Shane’s eyes squeeze closed, leaving him with nothing but the sensation. He’s leaking in his sweatpants now. Shaking.
“I could fuck you before all of our games. No one would know. You’d beat me, of course you would.” Shane’s head rolls back as he whines. “No one would know Montreal’s Captain was dripping with his rival's seed.”
“I . . . Ilya . .!”
“Say yes, Shane. Say you want it.”
“Yes, Yes. I want it.”
He’s shoving at Ilya’s boxers, seconds away from begging when Ilya captures his wrists and forces them to the bed. His eyes are fevered. “Say the whole thing.”
“Yes. Fuck me. Breed me.” He pushes against his boyfriend’s strength, feeling the pleasure pop when Ilya doesn’t relent. “Please I need you inside of me, Ilya. Please.”
Ask nicely.
There’s a mess of limbs and clothes then, Shane tries to wriggle out of his shirt as Ilya tugs his sweatpants down. His arms get tangled in his shirt as his dick slaps proudly against his stomach. Before he can work out the puzzle of fabric pinning his arms down, Ilya has shucked off his shorts and is reaching for the lube. He tilts Shane hips up and wastes no time fingering him open. It’s a fevered thing, both of them panting. Ilya props himself up by grabbing the shirt tying up Shane’s hands. He thrusts his hard cock against Shane’s thigh. Shane can see the tip glistening with precum. Sweat slips down Shane’s forehead as he starts chasing Ilya’s fingers. “Now,” he breathes. He meant it as a beg, but it sounds like a command.
Ilya drops his forehead against Shane’s. “Get on your knees.”
They manage to free Shane from his shirt. Shane lifts up, tugging Ilya’s hair as he kisses him roughly, then he flips onto his hands and knees.
One of Ilya’s hands smooths up his spine and presses him chest down, ass up, on the bed. He spreads his legs wide, feeling his cock hang thick and heavy between his thighs. It’s a vulnerable position, but he feels confident here with Ilya. He feels powerful. He feels the thick head of Ilya’s cock at his hole, breathes at that first sting of entry, clutches at the sheets. Ilya’s thumb rubs soothingly over the base of his neck.
“Uminista,” Ilya whispers.
Ilya thrusts into him slowly at first, the strength behind each heavy enough to have Shane’s shoulders knocking against the bedsheats, but he drags out slowly. Shane bites his fist, almost hard enough to draw blood, tries to keep himself together in control - fails miserably.
“Harder,” he grunts. “Fuck me harder.”
“So demanding.”
But Ilya has always taken direction well. He picks up his pace, thrusting into Shane until he’s knocking cries out of him with every stroke. Sweat gathers between them, as the headboard began to rock against the wall.
And fuck he is full. So fucking full.
Ilya spreads his thighs wider, tilts his hips just right and suddenly he is brushing along Shane’s prostate with every thrust. Shane feels his eyes watering as he clutches at the sheets. He can’t believe he has to leave in the morning. That this is the last he’ll have of Ilya’s hands, lips, and cock for weeks. He wants to feel this tomorrow in the car, wants Ilya to carve out a spot deep inside him.
“Fuck,” he cries. “Ilya! I’m going to . . .”
“Yes, please. I want you to sweetheart.”
Ilya’s hand wraps around Shane’s cock. It digs a sob from deep in Shane chest. It is so good. So fucking good. He reaches blindly behind himself, fingers skirting over Ilya’s hip. He feels like he’s been broken open when he comes. Hard. Exquisitely. All over the sheets and Ilya’s hand. It rips through him so fast that his brain short circuits, and his body tenses. He loses sense of himself for a long minute and only blinks back into his own head when he feels Ilya's tension.
He hears Ilya gasping when he releases Shane’s spent cock, he feels him rut mindlessly into him. Shane’s oversensitive. His voice punching out of him with each thrust, but he bends deeper, feels that delicious way Ilya chases after him. He’s devolved into mindless Russian by now, rutting so quickly as he chases his orgasm.
“You're so deep,” Shane whispers, his brain foggy, but his words pointed. “God, I love your dick.”
“Fuuuuuccck, Shane,” Ilya growls as he releases inside of him, his grip bruising. Shane feels the warmth of it, the flood. It feels like a claim. It feels every bit as loving as the kisses Ilya drops to his shoulders.
Shane feels like he is floating. His breath slowly centers him and he feels Ilya carefully roll them away from the wet spot on the blankets. On their side, he cradles Shane’s hip and kisses him tenderly. Shane loves him with his whole stammering heart.
Ilya is still inside of him and with the slightest shift, Shane can feel the slippery mess he has made of his hole
He fights his old instincts, his desire to clean up, and tugs Ilya’s hand into his, tangling their fingers.
When he can talk again he says, “Just to be clear, though - even if I could - I wouldn't have any of you melon-headed babies."
"I think I could talk you into it," Ilya says.
"Not a fucking chance."
Ilya's laugh, digs one out of Shane, and suddenly tomorrow's departure feels very distant.
______________________________________________________________________
JANE
This department store has a baby section
LILY
Shocking
JANE
I’d send you a selfie of me with the strollers but I probably shouldn’t
I know you have a game
LILY
Send selfie
__________________________________________________________________
And maybe, Shane thinks, one night in late July, with Ilya’s head in his lap and the fire crackling; with the loons sensibly quiet and the cicadas singing, maybe he is starting to sound a touch like Ilya Rozanov.