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Shane is going to kill him.
He's going to wrap his hands around Ilya Rozanov's ridiculous, thick, Russian neck and he's going to squeeze until-
"Baby, you okay?" Rose's voice cuts through the red haze, her hand warm on his chest where she's been touching him, hand splayed under his shirt, being the perfect girlfriend in public the way she always is. The way he always is. Perfect. Controlled. Golden boy Shane Hollander, fresh off a win against Boston, celebrating with his beautiful actress girlfriend at the hottest club.
Except he can't fucking breathe.
Because across the room, Ilya Rozanov has a woman pressed against the bar, and his mouth is on her neck, and his hands are everywhere, and Shane can see his tongue-he can see his fucking tongue dragging up the column of her throat, and the woman is arching into it, grinding against him, and Ilya's hands are cupping her ass through her dress, squeezing, pulling her closer, and his eyes-
Ilya's eyes are open.
Ilya's eyes are on him.
"Fine," Shane manages, and his voice sounds wrong, sounds scraped raw. "I'm fine. Just-bathroom. I need-"
He doesn't finish the sentence. He's already moving, cutting through the crowd, and he doesn't look back at Rose, doesn't look at Ilya, doesn't look at anything except the hallway that leads to the bathrooms because if he stays out there for one more second he's going to do something stupid.
Something like crossing the room and ripping that woman off of Ilya's body with his bare hands.
Something like dropping to his knees right there in front of everyone and showing every single person in this club who Ilya Rozanov actually belongs to.
Fuck.
Shane slams through the bathroom door, and it's blessedly empty-single occupancy, thank god-and he grips the edge of the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. Flushed. Wild-eyed. Barely recognizable. His cock is hard in his pants, straining against the zipper, and he hates himself for it. Hates that watching Ilya touch someone else makes him feel like this-like he's going to crawl out of his own skin if he doesn't get his hands on him right now.
This is Ilya's fault. All of it.
And now he's out there with his tongue down some woman's throat, his hands all over her body, putting on a show specifically designed to destroy Shane, and Shane wants to scream, wants to break something, wants-
The door opens.
Shane doesn't turn around. He doesn't have to. He knows the weight of that presence, knows the particular displacement of air when Ilya Rozanov enters a room. Has known it since he was eighteen years old and too stupid to understand what the feeling in his chest meant.
"Hollander." Ilya's voice is low. Dangerous. "You leave your girlfriend alone out there. Very rude."
"Fuck you."
"Mm." The lock clicks. "You are upset."
Shane's laugh is ugly, sharp. "I'm not-" He finally turns, and-fuck-Ilya is right there, barely two feet away, and his lips are swollen and wet, and there's lipstick smeared on his collar and his jaw, and Shane can smell perfume on him, something floral and cloying that isn't his, and there's a hickey blooming on his neck that Shane didn't put there, and-
"You stink," Shane spits. "You smell like her. Like her cheap fucking perfume."
Something shifts in Ilya's expression. Something dark and satisfied and hungry. "Yes," he agrees, and he takes a step closer. "She taste good too. Very sweet. Like candy." Another step. "You want to know where I put my tongue, Hollander? Where I put my fingers?"
Shane's hand moves before his brain catches up-he grabs the front of Ilya's shirt, expensive fabric bunching in his fist, and shoves him back against the door. The thud echoes in the small space.
"Shut up," Shane breathes. "Shut the fuck up."
But Ilya is smiling now-that infuriating, knowing smile that makes Shane want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure. "Why? You don't like hearing about it?" He tilts his head, eyes heavy-lidded, voice dropping to a purr. "Don't like thinking about my mouth on her pussy? My fingers inside her? She was so wet, Shane. Dripping for me. Begging me to take her home and fuck her."
"I said shut up-"
"She was grabbing my cock through my pants." Ilya's voice is pure poison. "Right there at the bar. Anyone could see. Stroking me, telling me how big I am, how much she wants it inside her-"
Shane slams him against the door again, hard enough to rattle the hinges.
"Shut. Up."
"Make me."
XXXXX
Ilya knows he is being cruel.
He knows, and he does not care-not right now, not with the image of Shane's face when Rose was dancing with him and running her hand over him. The way Shane had looked at Ilya across the room like he was sorry, like Ilya was something to be sorry about, like eight years of hotel rooms and desperate kisses and Ilya's whole stupid heart laid out on a platter meant nothing-
So yes. He is being cruel. Shane makes him cruel.
Shane makes him a lot of things.
Right now, Shane is looking at him like he wants to tear him apart, and Ilya's blood is singing with it, every nerve ending on fire. This is what they do-have always done. Push and push and push until something breaks.
"Make me," he says again, softer this time, a challenge and an invitation and a plea all at once. Make me stop thinking about her hands on you. Make me forget you have a girlfriend. Make me believe I'm the only one.
Shane's jaw tightens. His grip on Ilya's shirt tightens. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding back, and ilya wants to break him.
"What's wrong, Hollander?" Ilya lets his eyes drag down Shane's body, lingering on the obvious bulge in his pants. "You jealous? You wish it was your pussy I was fingering at the bar?"
"I don't have a-"
"No. You have something better." Ilya reaches down, cups Shane through his pants, feels him throb. "Tight little hole that's been trained to take my cock. Eight years of training, yes? 8 years of me stretching you out, filling you up, making you scream-"
Shane kisses him.
It's not a kiss-it's an attack. All teeth and fury and eight years of frustration poured into the press of his mouth. Ilya groans into it, letting his head thunk back against the door, letting Shane take because this is what he wanted, this is what he needed-Shane's hands in his hair now, yanking hard enough to sting, and the pain zips straight down his spine to his cock.
"You're such a fucking asshole," Shane gasps between kisses. "Putting on a show out there-making me watch-"
"You could have stopped watching." Ilya bites his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and Shane moans. "You didn't. You watched me touch her and you got hard, didn't you? Got hard watching me with someone else because you're a sick, jealous little slut-"
Shane makes a sound-wounded, furious, desperate-and then he's dropping to his knees, and Ilya's brain whites out for a full second.
'-Shane-"
"Shut up." Shane's fingers are working his belt, rough and clumsy with urgency, yanking it open so hard the leather snaps. "You want to put your mouth on other people? Fine. But you're going to remember who you belong to. Who owns this cock."
Ilya's laugh is breathless, incredulous. "Who I belong to? Bold words from man with girlfriend waiting outside. Girlfriend so famous that I feel like a side whore."
Shane freezes. Just for a second-but Ilya catches it. The guilt. The shame.
Good. He should feel it.
Then Shane's face hardens, and he yanks Ilya's pants open, shoves them down his thighs along with his underwear, and wraps a hand around his cock.
"She's not-" Shane starts, then shakes his head. "It's not-you know it's not the same."
"Do I?" Ilya keeps his voice steady, even as Shane's hand squeezes him, even as his hips jerk forward involuntarily. "You dance with her. You let her put hands under your shirt, touch your chest, your stomach. You probably let her touch your cock too, yes? Let her stroke you the way you're stroking me right now?"
Shane's hand tightens almost painfully. "She doesn't-"
"Maybe I don't know anything anymore, Hollander." Ilya's voice drops, goes rough with something that sounds dangerously close to hurt. "Maybe I look at you with her and I think-maybe this is what you really want. Pretty actress on your arm. Normal life. Not- not me."
Something flickers across Shane's face-guilt, grief, something so raw and aching that Ilya almost takes it back.
But then it's gone, replaced by determination, and Shane's eyes go dark and dangerous.
"Then let me remind you," Shane says, and swallows him to the root.
XXXXX
The first taste of Ilya on his tongue feels like coming home.
Shane hates that. Hates how right it feels, how his whole body settles into this like it's where he belongs-on his knees in a filthy club bathroom, choking himself on Ilya Rozanov's cock like it's the only thing keeping him alive. He hates how Ilya's hand finds the back of his head immediately, not pushing, just there, cradling him like something precious even when everything else between them is so fucking vicious.
He hates that he's been thinking about this all night. All week. All his goddamn life, probably.
"Fuck, Shane-" Ilya's voice is wrecked already, and Shane takes a savage satisfaction in that, hollows his cheeks and sucks, feels Ilya's thighs tremble against his palms. "Your mouth- always so fucking good, you know that? Best mouth I ever have. Best throat. Made to choke on my cock. I can't believe I took your perfect mouth's virginity."
Shane should hate the praise. He doesn't. He moans around Ilya's length, lets the vibration travel through him, and Ilya's hips buck.
"That's it-fuck-take it deeper. Show me how much you missed it. Show me how hungry you are for it."
Shane relaxes his throat, takes him deeper, feels the head bump against the back of his throat and swallows around it. Tears prick at his eyes. Spit drools down his chin. He doesn't care. He pulls back, gasps for air, then takes him deep again, setting a brutal pace that has Ilya cursing in Russian and gripping his hair hard enough to hurt.
"Look at you," Ilya gasps, and Shane looks up through wet lashes, knows how he looks-lips stretched obscenely around Ilya's cock, spit and precome smeared across his face, tears tracking down his cheeks. "So pretty like this. On your knees with your mouth stuffed full. What would Rose think if she saw you now, hm? Her perfect boyfriend on his knees gagging on Russian enemy cock?"
Shane moans-can't help it-and his own cock throbs in his pants.
"You like that." Ilya's voice is wonder and cruelty combined. "You like thinking about her seeing this. Seeing what a desperate little cocksucker you really are."
Shane pulls off with a wet, obscene pop, strings of spit connecting his lips to Ilya's cock. His voice is wrecked when he speaks.
"Better than her?"
Ilya's laugh is strained. "You have to ask?"
"Yes." Shane tongues the slit, tastes the steady leak of precome, salt and bitter and Ilya. "Tell me. Was her mouth better? Was her hand on your cock better? You thinking about her right now? Wishing it was her lips wrapped around you?"
"Nyet." Ilya's grip tightens in his hair. "No-never-fuck, Shane, you are ruining me-"
"Good." Shane licks a long stripe up the underside, traces the thick vein with his tongue. "That's the point."
He takes him deep again, and this time he doesn't hold back-fucks his own throat on Ilya's cock, sloppy and desperate and so fucking filthy that the sounds alone would be enough to make anyone come. Wet gagging, slurping, the slap of Ilya's balls against his chin. Shane's own cock is aching, leaking in his pants, and he reaches down to palm himself through the fabric.
"No." Ilya's voice is sharp. "Hands off. You don't get to come until I say."
Shane whimpers but obeys, puts his hands on Ilya's thighs instead, digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise.
"Good boy." Ilya starts to fuck his mouth properly now, holding his head still and thrusting in, using his throat. "Such a good little slut. Taking it so well. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be on your knees with a cock in your throat."
Shane moans, and the vibration makes Ilya curse.
"Fuck-I'm close-Shane-"
Shane pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing the head. "In my mouth. I want to taste you. Want to swallow every fucking drop and then go back out there and smile at everyone with your come still on my tongue."
"Do it." Shane opens his mouth, tongue out, and he knows how he looks-obscene, desperate, completely ruined. Spit and precome smeared across his face, lips swollen and red, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "Come on, Ilya. Give it to me. Feed me your come. Please."
The please does it-always does. Ilya's whole body goes rigid, and then he's coming with a guttural groan, painting Shane's tongue with thick, hot spurts. Shane moans like it's the best thing he's ever tasted-it is, god help him, it is-and swallows greedily, chasing every drop, licking Ilya clean until he's shuddering with oversensitivity.
"Enough-fuck-enough-"
Shane pulls back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins up at him. Feral. Triumphant.
"Still thinking about her?"
XXXXC
Ilya hauls Shane to his feet and kisses him so hard their teeth click.
He can taste himself in Shane's mouth-bitter, musky-and it should be disgusting but it's not, it's the hottest thing he's ever experienced, and his cock is already stirring again, because apparently 8 years of Shane Hollander hasn't done a single thing to diminish his absolutely embarrassing recovery time around this man.
"You are insane," Ilya growls against his lips. "Completely fucking crazy."
"You love it."
Ilya doesn't answer that. Can't. Because the honest answer is yes, I love it, I love everything about you, I love you, and that's not something he's allowed to say.
Instead, he spins Shane around, shoves him against the sink, and grinds his hardening cock against his ass.
"What are you-"
"I'm going to fuck you." Ilya's voice is low, dangerous. "Right here, right now, in this bathroom, while your girlfriend waits for you outside."
Shane's breath catches. "We don't have-"
"No condom. No lube." Ilya bites the back of his neck, feels Shane shudder. "Just my spit and your greedy little hole. Unless you want me to stop?"
He doesn't want Ilya to stop. They both know it. But Ilya waits, gives him the choice, because as fucked up as this all is, he will never take anything Shane doesn't want to give.
"Don't stop." Shane's voice is wrecked. "Fuck me. Make me feel it for days."
Ilya groans and reaches for Shane's belt.
XXXXX
This is insane. This is the stupidest thing Shane has ever done.
Rose is out there. Waiting. Probably wondering where he is, probably checking her phone, probably worried. And Shane is bent over a bathroom sink with his pants around his thighs, watching in the mirror as Ilya spits on his fingers.
"So pretty like this," Ilya murmurs, spreading Shane open with one hand, rubbing spit-slick fingers over his hole. "Always so pretty for me. This ass-fuck-I dream about this ass, you know that? Every night. Can't stop thinking about how tight it is. How hot. How it grips my cock like it never wants to let go. One day I put big thick pink dildo inside it and make you TAKE IT."
"Ilya-" Shane's voice breaks as one finger pushes inside. It's not enough-not nearly enough-but it's something, and he's so keyed up that even this makes his cock drip.
"So hungry." Ilya works his finger in and out, adds more spit, pushes deeper. "Swallowing me up already. Since our rookie season and you're still so desperate for it. This hole knows who it belongs to, yes?"
"Yes-" Shane fucks himself back on Ilya's finger, shameless. "It's yours-always been yours-"
"Damn right it has." A second finger, and Shane groans at the stretch-it's not enough prep, not nearly, but he doesn't care. He wants to feel it. Wants to feel Ilya inside him for days after this, a constant reminder. "Going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name. Forget you have a girlfriend. Forget anyone else exists except me."
"Please-" Shane is begging now, past the point of pride. "Please, Ilya, I need-"
"Need what? Say it. Tell me what you need."
"Your cock." Shane meets his eyes in the mirror, and his own reflection is unrecognizable-flushed, desperate, completely debauched. "I need your cock inside me. Raw. I need you to fuck me and fill me up and make me yours."
Ilya's control snaps.
He pulls his fingers out, spits into his palm, slicks up his cock, and lines himself up. The head presses against Shane's hole-too big, too much, not enough prep-and Shane doesn't care, pushes back against him, tries to take him in.
"Greedy," Ilya hisses. "So fucking greedy. Going to hurt-"
"I don't care." Shane's voice is ragged. "I want it to hurt. I want to feel you for a week."
Ilya pushes in.
The stretch is brutal-it does hurt, a burning ache that makes Shane's eyes water-but underneath that is something else, something overwhelming and perfect. Ilya inside him. Bare. Nothing between them.
"Fuck-" Ilya's voice is strangled. "So tight-so fucking tight-Shane-"
"Move." Shane grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white. "Fuck me. Hard. I can take it."
Ilya moves.
XXXXX
Nothing-nothing-has ever felt like this.
Shane is impossibly tight around Ilya, hot and slick and bare, and Ilya has to freeze for a second just to keep from coming on the spot. 8 yearsof condoms and hotels and hiding, and now-now he's inside Shane with nothing between them, and it feels like-
It feels like everything he's ever wanted.
"Ilya-" Shane's voice is wrecked. "Move."
Ilya moves.
He pulls back slowly, savoring the drag, then slams back in hard enough to shove Shane forward against the sink. Shane cries out-too loud, someone might hear-but Ilya doesn't care. Let them hear. Let the whole fucking club hear.
"This is what you wanted, yes?" Ilya sets a brutal pace, pounding into him without mercy. "Wanted my cock stuffing you full while your girlfriend waits outside like an idiot?"
"Yes-" Shane is meeting every thrust, shoving back against him. "Yes, fuck, yes-"
"So fucking tight." Ilya reaches around, wraps a hand around Shane's cock, and Shane keens. "So wet for me. Dripping all over my hand. You close already? Going to come on my cock like a desperate little whore? What's your rate little whore?"
"Ilya-" Shane's voice breaks on his name. "I'm-fuck-I'm so close-"
"Not yet." Ilya squeezes the base of his cock, stopping his orgasm, and Shane makes a sound like he's dying. "You don't come until I say. You don't come until I fill you up."
"Please-"
"Please what?" Ilya fucks him harder, angles his hips to hit that spot that makes Shane scream. "Please let you come? Please breed your slutty little hole? Please ruin you for anyone else?"
"All of it-" Shane is crying now, actual tears streaming down his face. "All of it, Ilya, please, I need-I need you-"
Something cracks open in Ilya's chest.
I need you.
Not I need your cock or I need to come. Just-I need you.
"Fuck," Ilya breathes, and his hips stutter. "Fuck, Shane-I'm going to-"
"Inside me." Shane's voice is desperate. "Come inside me. Fill me up. I want to feel you dripping out of me all night-"
Ilya buries himself to the hilt and comes so hard his vision whites out.
He can feel himself pulsing inside Shane, painting his insides, marking him in the most primal way possible. And Shane is clenching around him, milking every drop, moaning like he's never felt anything so good.
"Now," Ilya gasps, hand flying on Shane's cock. "Come for me. Now."
Shane shatters.
His whole body goes rigid, cock pulsing in Ilya's hand, come splattering across the sink and the mirror. He's making sounds-broken, desperate sounds-and clenching so hard around Ilya that it almost hurts.
It's the most beautiful thing Ilya has ever seen.
XXXXX
Shane can barely stand.
His legs are shaking, his ass is throbbing, and he can feel Ilya's come leaking out of him, dripping down his thighs. He should be disgusted. He's not. He wants to stay like this forever-bent over a sink with Ilya still inside him, both of them sweaty and ruined and together.
But they can't. They never can.
"We should-" Shane's voice is wrecked. "Rose is-"
"I know." Ilya pulls out slowly, and Shane whimpers at the loss. "I know."
They clean up in silence. Paper towels and cold water and the gradual return of reality. Shane watches Ilya in the mirror-watches him tuck himself back in, straighten his clothes, wipe the lipstick off his collar-and something aches in his chest.
"Ilya-"
"Go back to your girlfriend, Hollander." Ilya's voice is flat. Empty. "She is probably worried."
Shane should. He knows he should. Rose is out there, waiting, trusting him, and he should go back to her, smile, pretend nothing happened.
But when he looks at Ilya-at the careful blankness of his expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way he won't meet Shane's eyes-something breaks inside him.
"I'm not going back to her."
Ilya freezes. "What?"
"I'm-" Shane takes a breath. "I'm going to tell her I'm sick. That I need to go home. And then-" He swallows. "I want you to come with me."
"Shane-"
"I know it's stupid. I know we shouldn't. But I can't-" His voice cracks. "I can't watch you walk out of here and go home with someone else. I can't do it, Ilya. Not tonight."
For a long moment, Ilya just stares at him. And then-slowly, like he can't quite believe what he's doing-he nods.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." A ghost of a smile crosses Ilya's face. "I come with you."
Shane's heart pounds so hard he's sure Ilya can hear it.
"Okay. I'll-I'll go talk to Rose. Meet me outside in ten minutes."
He unlocks the door, takes a breath, and steps back into the real world.
XXXXX
Lying to Rose is easier than it should be.
She's worried, of course-touches his forehead, asks if he needs water, offers to come home with him-but Shane waves her off, tells her to stay, to enjoy the party. "I just need to sleep it off," he says, and she believes him. She always believes him.
The guilt hits him in the cab, watching the city lights blur past the window. Rose doesn't deserve this. She's kind and beautiful and she genuinely cares about him, and Shane is-
Shane is sitting in the back of a cab with Ilya Rozanov's come still leaking out of him, counting the minutes until he can have him again.
He's a terrible person. He knows that. He's known it for years.
But when they pull up to his building, and Ilya is waiting in the shadows just like he said he would be, Shane can't find it in himself to care.
XXXXX
Shane's Montreal apartment is clean and smells like him.
Ilya has been here before-many times-but it still feels like a privilege every time. To be let into this space. To see the books on Shane's shelves, the photos on his walls, the unmade bed where Ilya has made him come more times than he can count.
"You want a drink or-"
Ilya kisses him.
Softer this time. Slower. Without the fury and desperation of the bathroom, because that was about claiming and this is about-
This is about something else. Something Ilya doesn't have words for.
"Bedroom," he murmurs against Shane's lips. "Want to take my time with you."
Shane shivers. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah."
They stumble down the hallway, shedding clothes as they go-jacket, shirt, shoes-and by the time they reach the bed, Shane is down to his underwear and Ilya is down to his pants.
"On the bed." Ilya's voice is gentle. "On your stomach."
Shane obeys. Crawls onto the mattress and stretches out face-down, and Ilya takes a moment to just-look. At the long line of his spine. The curve of his ass. The way his shoulders are already relaxing, tension bleeding out of him just from being here, being safe.
I love you, Ilya thinks, and the realization hits him like a punch to the chest.
He's always known, of course. On some level. But this is the first time he's let himself think it so clearly, and now that he has, he can't stop.
I love you. I want to buy you a ring. I want to tell everyone you're mine.
But he can't say any of that. So instead, he climbs onto the bed, straddles Shane's thighs, and runs his hands down his back.
"So tense," he murmurs. "Even now. Always carrying so much."
"I know." Shane's voice is muffled by the pillow. "I can't help it."
"Let me help." Ilya bends down, presses a kiss to his shoulder blade. "Let me make you feel good."
He works his way down Shane's spine-kissing, licking, biting gently-and Shane melts beneath him, making soft sounds of pleasure. By the time Ilya reaches the curve of his ass, Shane is practically boneless.
"Ilya-"
"Shh." Ilya pulls his underwear down, tosses it aside. "Just feel."
XXXXX
The first touch of Ilya's tongue against his hole makes Shane gasp. Ilya has eaten him out countless times. But this is new.
He's still loose from earlier-still sore, still sensitive-and the wet heat of Ilya's mouth is almost too much. He buries his face in the pillow and tries not to scream.
"So beautiful," Ilya murmurs against him. "So open for me. Can still taste myself inside you."
Jesus Christ.
Ilya licks into him, and Shane's whole body shudders. It's filthy-obscene-and he should be embarrassed by how much he loves it, but he's past the point of embarrassment. Has been since the first time Ilya did this to him, in this same apartment itself.
"Ilya-" His voice breaks. "Fuck-"
"That's it." Ilya spreads him wider, buries his tongue deeper. "Let me hear you. Let me know how good it feels."
It feels like-it feels like-
Shane closes his eyes, and unbidden, Rose's face floats into his mind.
I'm sorry.
The words form without his permission. A silent prayer of forgiveness to a woman who doesn't even know she needs to forgive him.
I'm sorry I can't love you the way you deserve. I'm sorry I'm not the man you think I am. I'm sorry-
Ilya does something incredible with his tongue, and Shane's mind goes blank.
"Fuck-Ilya-please-"
"Please what?"
"More. I need more. I need-"
"I know what you need." Ilya pulls back, and Shane whimpers at the loss. "Turn over. Want to see your face."
Shane turns over.
Shane is beautiful.
Flushed and desperate, cock hard against his stomach, eyes glassy with need. Ilya has seen him like this a hundred times, a thousand times, and it never gets old. Never stops taking his breath away.
I want to marry you.
The thought comes out of nowhere, and Ilya almost laughs at the absurdity of it. They're not even dating. They're barely anything-just two men who can't seem to stay away from each other, who keep crashing together like waves against rocks.
But god, he wants it. Wants to put a ring on Shane's finger-a big one, ostentatious, impossible to miss-and tell the whole world that this man is his. Wants to wake up next to him every morning. Wants to stop hiding.
One day, he promises himself. One day, I'll tell him.
But not tonight. Tonight is for this-for worshipping Shane's body, for making him feel good, for pretending that what they have is enough.
Ilya lowers his head and takes Shane's cock into his mouth.
XXXXX
Ilya's mouth is heaven.
Hot and wet and perfect, taking him deep with an ease that makes Shane's toes curl. He threads his fingers through Ilya's hair-gentler than in the bathroom, almost tender-and just feels.
"So good," he breathes. "You're so good at this-"
Ilya hums around him, and the vibration makes Shane's hips jerk.
"Fuck-Ilya-"
He can't last like this. Not after the bathroom, not after everything, not with Ilya looking up at him with those dark eyes like Shane is the only thing in the world that matters.
"I'm close-" Shane's voice cracks. "Ilya, I'm-"
Ilya pulls off with a wet pop. "Not yet. Want you to come on my cock."
Shane groans. "I can't-I already-"
"You can." Ilya crawls up his body, settles between his thighs. "One more time. For me."
He pushes inside, and Shane gasps-still loose and wet from before, but sore now, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive. It's almost too much. It's perfect.
"That's it." Ilya starts to move-slow, deep, nothing like the brutal pace in the bathroom. "Just like that. Take me so well, Shane. Always so perfect for me."
Shane wraps his legs around Ilya's waist, pulls him closer. Deeper. Until there's no space between them at all, until he can feel Ilya's heartbeat against his chest.
"Ilya-"
"I know." Ilya's voice is rough. "I know. I'm here."
I love you.
The words rise up unbidden, and Shane has to bite his tongue to keep them inside.
He can't say it. They don't say things like that. This is just-sex. Just two people who can't stay away from each other. Nothing more.
But when he looks up at Ilya-at the softness in his eyes, the way he's looking at Shane like he's something precious-Shane almost believes there's more. Almost believes this could be real.
"Come with me," Ilya whispers. "Together."
Shane shudders, and breaks, and falls.
XXXXX
Afterward, they lie tangled together in Shane's bed, sweaty and sated and quiet.
Ilya knows he should leave. Knows he should get up, get dressed, go back to his own apartment and pretend this was just another hookup. That's what they do. That's what they've always done.
But Shane is warm and pliant against him, head resting on Ilya's chest, fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. And Ilya can't bring himself to move.
"Stay," Shane mumbles, like he can read Ilya's thoughts. "Just for tonight."
Just for tonight. It's always just for tonight. Just this once. Just until they're satisfied. Except they're never satisfied. They just keep coming back, again and again, like moths to a flame.
"Okay," Ilya says softly. "I stay."
Shane sighs, and his body relaxes completely against Ilya's.
They lie in silence for a long time. The city hums outside the window. The radiator clicks and hisses. And Ilya thinks-
I love you.
He thinks about rings. About waking up to this face every morning. About a future where they don't have to hide, where he can hold Shane's hand in public and call him his and mean it.
But he doesn't say any of that. Can't.
So instead, he presses a kiss to the top of Shane's head and holds him tighter.
XXXXX
Shane should be sleeping.
He's exhausted-wrung out from the emotional whiplash of the night, the jealousy and the bathroom and the guilt and this, whatever this is. His body is heavy and sated and aching in the best way, and Ilya's arms around him feel like the safest place in the world.
But his mind won't quiet.
I love you.
He thinks it again, clear as a bell, and his heart aches with how much he means it.
He loves Ilya. Has loved him for years, probably-since before he even understood what the feeling meant. Loved him through all the rivalry and the hatred and the desperate collision of their bodies. Loved him even when he couldn't admit it to himself.
And he can never say it.
Because saying it would make it real. Would mean admitting that this-whatever this is-is more than just sex. More than just two people who can't stay away from each other. And Shane doesn't know if he's brave enough for that. Doesn't know if Ilya wants that.
So he says nothing.
Just tightens his arms around Ilya's waist and breathes him in and pretends this is enough.
XXXX
I love you.
The words sit on the tip of Ilya's tongue, heavy and terrifying.
He imagines saying them. Imagines Shane's face-the surprise, the hope, maybe the reciprocation. Imagines a future where they stop pretending.
But he's never been brave enough to reach for the things he wants. He's always waited, always held back, always watched the people he loved from a distance.
So he says nothing.
Just holds Shane tighter and closes his eyes and pretends this is enough.
The light is gray when Ilya wakes.
Shane is still asleep, curled against him, face slack and peaceful. He looks younger like this. Softer. Like the weight he carries during the day has finally been set down.
Ilya watches him for a long moment. Memorizes the curve of his cheek. The sweep of his lashes. The way his lips are slightly parted.
I love you.
He still doesn't say it. But he thinks it, over and over, like a prayer.
Maybe one day he'll be brave enough to let the words out. Maybe one day they'll stop hiding. Maybe one day Ilya will buy that ring and get down on one knee and Shane will say yes and they'll figure the rest out together.
But for now-
For now, there's this. This bed. This man. This quiet, stolen morning before the world comes crashing back in.
Ilya presses a kiss to Shane's forehead, feather-light.
One day, he promises silently. One day, I'll tell you everything.
Shane stirs, mumbles something incoherent, and burrows closer.
Ilya smiles, despite himself.
Maybe one day.