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The gala is going great. Shane is looser from a singular vodka ginger ale and they have managed to raise more money than he anticipated. They (Shane, Ryan, and Troy) are enjoying a moment as a collection of wallflowers while their drinks warm in their hands. It’s late — the main event has been over for a good amount of time and Shane feels the mental exhaustion creeping up on him. Where the trio have absconded is somewhat private; Shane allows himself the reprieve from networking as Ilya schmoozes enough for both of them.
Ryan is in the middle of sharing a story from Fabian’s last show when Shane sees it.
Her, rather.
Tall. Slender. A gorgeous navy dress clinging to an equally gorgeous ass and breasts that almost spill out of the top. Ringlets of blonde curls that frame her face and cascade seductively over her shoulders. Red, smiling lips that lean in to whisper something to the man who has been taking up all of Shane’s attention tonight.
His husband. Long fingers curl around Ilya’s bicep (clad in a delicious maroon blazer, matching equally tantalizing slacks that wrap around his muscled thighs and perfect, biteable ass). Shane’s husband who smiles back at her with his eyes bright and his expression all too familiar to Shane. It’s that look that he gives his husband before he decides to drop his voice low and bat his eyelashes. A gaze that turns from a simmer to a burn as he rakes up and down Shane’s body, ready to devour. Ilya hasn’t reached that stage of eye-fucking this random woman yet, but Shane wonders. All he can do is wonder — what is Ilya doing looking at this woman the way he looks at Shane right before they take one another apart?
From the wall, Shane watches all of it. The blonde leans in closer and Shane sees the hand that has his ring on Ilya’s finger slide to her back. That stupidly handsome grin that gets Shane on his knees is now being fixed on this woman— this random stranger who is touching something that does not belong to her at an event that she probably knows nothing about.
For a brief moment, Shane acknowledges how incredibly stupid this all is. She’s likely a donor or someone of equal importance and Ilya is doing what he does best — he charms everyone while Shane happily hides and shows face when only necessary. There’s no reason to be angry at all — their marriage has been public knowledge for years now, their love lasting longer than most in the public eye (and, nastily, Shane wonders if the lack of a ring on this stranger’s hand means that she’s a divorcee looking for her next gold mine in Shane’s husband). It’s a nothing issue — loyalty is the foundation of what they have (on top of really, truly, mind-blowing sex). It’s extremely unfair to let sudden envy cloud Shane’s knowledge that this perfectly fine woman (respectably professional in her own way, Shane is sure) is just trying to support their initiative by letting Ilya charm her to death.
And if she actually drops dead for daring to touch Shane’s man, then so be it.
Regardless — their dedication to one another is set in stone. Nothing can shake them after all these years, Shane knows that. But still; jealousy wraps around him like vines nevertheless.
A random woman is flirting with his husband, in public, at their fucking gala. She’s drinking another glass of wine that Ilya orders for her — wine that Shane pays for — and throws her head back with a laugh, exposing the long line of her neck and squeezing the muscled arm of Ilya Rozanov.
Hollander-Rozanov, even. Shane’s. Shane’s fucking husband. Possessiveness sinuates around Shane’s heart before he can really grasp the emotion. From over the rim of his glass, Shane watches the pair like he’s studying a play; his eyes track every single movement and replays it in his head the second there’s a reprieve from the grotesque showing in front of him.
And then, hazel eyes travel from directly in front of him to the adjacent wall where Shane is stewing. Ilya watches Shane, watching him. Shane lets the ice clink in his glass as he holds the look; the alcohol sits on his tongue before he swallows as he waits for Ilya’s next movement.
Ilya stares at Shane and leans in to whisper something in the woman’s ear. She laughs again, falling further into the embrace of Ilya’s arm around her waist. Hazel eyes stay focused on him the entire time.
Shane downs the rest of his drink and slams the glass on the table beside them. Nothing is said to Troy and Ryan as Shane stalks off to the coat check. It takes approximately seven deep breaths and some light pacing for Shane to get himself in a clearer headspace: Ilya has to be fucking with him. Ilya knows better than this. Ilya is loyal to Shane, just as Shane is loyal to Ilya.
And yet—
“Moy lyubov?” Ilya’s voice has that cheerful lilt to it that means he’s smiling as he says it. Shane turns to face him in the hallway, trying not to obviously fume at a very public event with photographers running around. “Are we leaving?”
Shane steels his expression and allows himself a brief moment to admire, once again, how gorgeous his husband looks tonight in his suit. It’s quite unfair — Ilya whores himself out to random women all the while Shane watches from the sidelines.
Then again, these random women don’t get to see the muscle underneath all the layers. The many scars and beauty marks that create one perfect Ilya Rozanov. That’s only for Shane Hollander to see.
“I’m leaving,” Shane says, far too casually for how angry he is. “If you want to go home with someone else, by all means.”
It’s truly infuriating how Ilya smiles at him, like he has Shane exactly where he wants him. Like the entire fiasco in the ballroom was planned and executed to perfection, some sick idea of his that has Shane’s blood boiling. And it’s working; that’s what infuriates Shane more than anything.
“Who else would I want to go home with, solnyshko?” Ilya wraps his hands (the same hands that rested on the back of someone else and slid a glass of wine into the waiting grasp of another person) around Shane’s waist. He steps into Shane’s space with ease — Shane is fighting the natural instinct to pull Ilya into the embrace, but he refrains out of spite.
They’re still very much out in public. Beyond the length of the hallway, people mingle about and the coat check attendant is one craning neck away from seeing them.
It’s quick; Shane steps away from Ilya (who pouts, and it should not be so adorable) and grabs his hand. They round the corner into the coat check closet and startle the poor part-time employee. Shane jerks his head for the kid to leave, who glances between them and quickly exits.
“Shane,” Ilya exhales with excitement. “Are you really that hungry for me that you kick out some poor college student—”
Pulling out his wallet, Shane leaves a $50 on the desk for when the kid returns. In clipped words he interrupts his husband, “I need one minute of privacy so I can rip you a fucking new one.”
Ilya’s eyes go wide. Shane hopes it’s not out of delight, but rage is clouding him at the moment.
“What the fuck are you doing in there?” Shane hisses.
“Networking,” Ilya shrugs, the line of his mouth slightly downturned as if to tell Shane it’s no big deal that his hands were on another woman. “Did you want to—”
“No, I don’t want to fucking network,” Shane snaps. “I also don’t want to see you—” he jabs a finger at the defined muscle of Ilya’s pec, “flirting with another woman.”
“Flirting?” Ilya’s grin gives him away. “I am simply charming a wealthy donor, Shane. You’re tired, I think. Thinking too hard, lyubimyy—”
“Don’t call me that.” Cold determination overtakes Shane’s tone. “Not when you had your lips so close to her neck, not when you—”
Ilya slinks forward, hands coming to Shane’s waist again and sliding to his back. Shane lets the touch happen (he thinks he might actually unravel if Ilya’s arms don’t hold him together). Shane exhales as Ilya walks them towards the wall, pressing Shane against it and leaning in to brush his lips over Shane’s neck.
“Like this?” Ilya whispers. “Is this what you saw me do, hm?”
It’s an automatic response to drop his hands to Ilya’s waist. Shane almost hates himself for giving in so easily.
“Yes,” he admits. “She was all over you, Ilya—”
“No, no.” Ilya chastises Shane, condescending him with a kiss under Shane’s jaw. “I would never let her touch me like this.”
“You touched her,” says Shane, low and threatening. “You had your hands on her, Ilya. You— you were fucking flirting with her. Right in front of me.”
“Maybe,” Ilya finally admits. It makes Shane tighten his grip on his waist, wanting to rip his clothes off. “Maybe I wanted to see what it would do to you.”
Blood boils over inside Shane. Quickly, restraint leaves him. One hand snaps to grab at Ilya’s hair, tugging and pulling him away from Shane’s body to stare into cold fury. Ilya tilts his head back into the grip, neck long and unmarked (neither with Shane’s bites, nor that woman’s lipstick, though Shane can fucking see it and it makes him rage). There’s a bob to his throat as he swallows eagerly, eyes lidded and mouth parting open in exhale.
“What,” Shane growls, “did you just say?”
Ilya opens his mouth to speak, but Shane jerks his head and forces Ilya closer, foreheads almost touching. A hand reaches up to grip Ilya’s jaw, holding him in place to look with intent, look at his consequences dead on.
“Think very fucking carefully about what you’re about to tell me, Rozanov.”
Ilya isn’t as reckless as people make him out to be. Sports cars are a luxury statement, not so much a desire to live fast and furious. Long ago the bad-boy bachelor in Ilya died with the realization of his love for Shane Hollander. And when that realization became a confession, every bit about him submitted to Shane in the most intentional way possible. Everything Ilya does is with Shane in mind — from moving to Ottawa to his Instagram posts to their very public displays of affection in their more recent years.
It’s with this knowledge that Shane knows everything Ilya has done tonight has been with Shane at the forefront of his mind.
Shane slides his hand from Ilya’s jaw, tight and wrathful, to wrap his fingers around Ilya’s neck, loose but promising.
No one, especially not the blonde in the ballroom, touches Ilya like this.
“I wanted…” Ilya’s voice is deafeningly quiet, every word carefully enunciated. Shane feels the words come out of Ilya’s throat under his palm as he swallows thickly. “...To see how you would react.”
Shane tightens his grip around Ilya’s neck for a brief instant. Gorgeous, long lashes flutter hopefully. Ilya exhales again, breath ghosting over Shane’s lips from their proximity.
It’s with great restraint that Shane doesn’t kiss him and he cools his features instead. Ilya looks, for a moment, mournful. As if he hopes that Shane will punish him right here in the goddamn coat check room of their very well-publicized event.
“You’re so stupid,” Shane whispers. He grins venomously. “Actually, you’re fucking insane.”
Ilya beams at him, eyes wild and teeth showing. Shane is so beyond in love with this lunatic he may die. Ilya might die; he has no idea what Shane has in store for him tonight.
“Go get the car, we’re going home.” Shane shoves him back and quickly finds their coats. Ilya scurries away with one look back at his husband, expression dripping with fervor and adoration. Shane adds another $50 on the desk for when the attendant returns.
Brusquely, Shane bids everyone who matters goodbye. It’s with a knowing smile that Ryan and Troy welcome his farewell, clearly noting the absence of Ilya in the room.
When they’re in the car, Shane lets the silence speak for itself. Clearly, Ilya is hard next to him — he won’t stop flexing his grip on the steering wheel as he peels through the city towards their neighborhood. Shane has to remind him once to slow down, and Ilya snaps back into obedience.
Crashing would be a real damper on their evening. Aside from Ilya intentionally flirting with a woman to make Shane jealous, he supposes.
Once they’re parked, Shane exits the car without a second glance back towards his husband. Ilya follows behind him like a lost puppy and it makes Shane grin as he punches in the code to their home.
It’s with a smug cheeriness that Shane welcomes Anya at the door with, “Who’s a good dog?” and intentionally looks up at his husband. His smile is cruel and deliberate, noting the way Ilya’s breath hitches.
Realization hits Ilya in that moment and Shane indulges in watching it dawn on his face in real time.
Hopelessly, Ilya whispers, “Shane—”
“So obedient,” Shane coos to Anya, kissing her head. When he rises from the floor, Anya stands between Shane and Ilya with her tail wagging. They face each other, locked in a staring contest and not inviting a change to the atmosphere by looking away. Shane drinks in the arousal of his husband; the top two buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned to reveal the contrast of gold against the scarlet on his chest. Rising and falling, the metal of his cross glints in the dim overhead lights. Outlined clearly is his desire within the confines of his suit pants — Ilya is so hard, so desperate.
Shane listens to panting and wonders if it’s Anya or Ilya. He decides it doesn’t really matter.
“Sit.” At the same time, Anya sits on the floor and Ilya stumbles to sit on the barstool at the kitchen island. Shane grins. “Good dog.”
Ilya swallows. Wild eyes track Shane’s movement as he stalks over to his husband. Naturally, his legs spread to welcome Shane into his space. Two gentle hands land on Ilya’s chest, moving up to cup his jaw on either side.
At the touch, Ilya’s lashes flutter closed and his mouth opens on an exhale. Firm hands tilt him upwards, ready to press a tender kiss to Ilya’s lip. Shane hums approvingly as Ilya becomes pliant in his hold.
“So you can be good,” he ponders aloud over Ilya’s lips. “Are you ready to behave now?”
Ilya nods silently. Shane drops one hand to grip his hair again, forcing the other to snap his eyes open and look at the smoldering intensity Shane fixes him with.
“Use your words.” And because Shane is extra cruel; “Speak.”
“Yes,” Ilya whines. There’s no sense in holding it together anymore — they’re comfortably alone. Heat plumes from Ilya, his clothes suddenly too much, too tight. His fingers twitch to loosen buttons, rip clothing from body and get both he and Shane naked as quickly as possible.
But he waits. Shane hasn’t given him his next command yet.
“Good boy,” his husband purrs and Ilya melts. In Shane’s grasp, Ilya folds forward and nuzzles into the warmth of Shane’s neck. He tilts his nose up and breathes in the subtle smell of his cologne, inhaling deeper to claw under the scent and find the musk that’s completely Shane.
It’s in his heady state that Ilya starts licking and Shane has to tug on his hair again.
A pathetic whimper echoes in the otherwise quiet kitchen.
“I know,” Shane says gently. “You’ve been pretty bad tonight, Ilya. You know what happens to bad dogs. I don’t have to tell you, baby.”
Ilya wants to protest, but chooses to rub his cheek against Shane’s shoulder and pull the other man closer by the lapels of his jacket. It’s enough of a plea for Shane, who relents his tight grip and swarms Ilya in an embrace.
It’s extremely tender, unmistakably intimate for how Shane is about to treat his husband.
“You’re going to go upstairs and strip down to your underwear,” as Shane instructs, Ilya groans in delight and presses his lips closer to Shane’s body. “I want you to wait for me, no touching yourself.”
Shane leans back, pinches Ilya’s chin between his forefinger and thumb, and blinks his big brown eyes at his husband.
“Can you be a good dog and do that for me?”
Ilya nods, curls flopping in his face, barely covering his wild eyes.
“Go on.” Shane steps away. “I’ll be up in a moment.”
But Ilya doesn’t move. One flick of his eyes down to Shane’s lips and it leaves the unspoken request hanging between them.
Shane acquiesces easily, because this is Ilya we’re talking about. One inch forward and he captures Ilya’s lips with his. Immediately, Shane feels the knee-jerk reaction to deepen the kiss — he feels the way Ilya’s tongue wants to prod and be let in. Shane is helpless to keep him out, moans into the feeling of Ilya’s tongue on his and has to step away after only a few heated seconds.
“Up,” he demands, breathless. In any other setting, Ilya’s smugness would be obvious on his face, but all Shane sees is the familiar adoration and excitement to step further into a scene together.
Indulgently, Shane admires his husband’s ass on his way towards the stairs. In the minutes that follow, Shane prepares for the evening. He double checks that there’s enough cold water bottles in the fridge and finds some ready-to-eat food to have on hand. Once he’s made sure Anya is comfortable downstairs, Shane takes the steps two-by-two to go play with his other pet.
Low-hanging fruit, he knows, but Shane is too smug to care. When he opens up the door to their bedroom, the self-satisfied smile drops. Shane’s breath is abruptly taken away.
There Ilya kneels on the bed, hands clasped behind his back. Ruddy hues bloom all over Ilya’s chest, rising and falling in a lovely rhythm. His eyes find Shane’s intrinsically; magnetized to lock onto him like a compass pointing north. Slipping out of his jacket, Shane carefully lays it behind the accent chair, his shirt undone but not yet off. Steel overtakes his features as Shane rounds the bed — Ilya’s cock is hard and straining against his black briefs but Shane elects to ignore him as he beelines for their dresser.
Not for clothes, though. Shane pulls open the far-right drawer to examine its contents. Carefully, he pulls out one item, then the second. His back is to Ilya as he speaks:
“Can’t let you out of my sight for a second,” he drawls. “Never know where you’re going to run off to. Don’t want you getting lost.”
Wisely, Ilya chooses to stay quiet. Besides, Shane is hot when he’s all dominant and monologuing.
“I never know who might pick you up, take you home.” As if Ilya will ever let that happen, though his actions tonight really speak to the contrary. Shane turns, showing Ilya the accessories he’s pulled from their dresser and grins depravedly at his husband.
“I think I have to keep you on a pretty tight leash, sweetheart.” Ilya moans, then, eyes fixating on the collar and leash that Shane holds loosely in his grasp. It’s a slow saunter over to him, standing at the foot of the bed to look down at Ilya. It’s not often Shane gets to look down at him, so he savors the advantage. Hazel clings to the rim of Ilya’s pupils, arousal making his eyes glaze over and dark.
Shane drops the leash to the bed, but Ilya doesn’t look away. His mouth parts as the sound of the collar’s clasp is undone and he feels the soft fur lining touch his skin. Shane trails the fur up Ilya’s bare chest, ghosting over his neck to his cheek; Ilya immediately turns into the sensation, mouth opening quietly as he indulges in the feeling. Deft fingers clasp it around his neck and two jut in underneath to test the stringency. From there, Shane trails over the exterior leather and presses lightly into Ilya’s neck.
“Fuck.” Shane lets himself have a moment of wonderment — any time he gets to see Ilya in the beautiful black collar he so carefully picked out for him is a moment to marvel at. Gold thread accents the piece, something Shane thinks is the perfect accent to Ilya.
And the leash matches it, matches the man that wears it. Metal clinks against metal as Shane clasps around the D-ring on the front. Glittering as it moves, the dog tag matches the same gold of Ilya’s cross. It’s hedonic, it’s heavenly.
Любимый (Darling). Shane pinches the heart-shaped tag between his fingers, admiring the truth of the word.
“Gorgeous,” Shane mutters to himself.
Dark eyes flick to Ilya, who is already looking at Shane through long lashes. Shane holds the gaze as he wraps the leash around his fist, curling his wrist slowly to wind the leather into a coil. Firmly, he presses a warm palm to Ilya’s chest and the other scrambles, backing himself towards the pillows as Shane crowds him on the bed. Ilya goes down onto the mattress with the shove and the short leash Shane has him on nearly snaps taut.
Nearly — Shane is careful to keep the authority he has on Ilya in check. A modicum of slack is given so that Ilya doesn’t hurt his neck falling onto the bed. It’s this kind of attention to detail that, in Ilya’s lust-hazy mind, makes Shane such a perfect partner.
Ilya whines, high and needy in his throat.
“What’s that?” Shane murmurs. Fingers curl and trace from Ilya’s cheekbone down towards the plump cupid’s bow of his mouth. “Need something, pet?”
Ilya nods, eyes wanting to screw shut but he focuses on keeping them on Shane. Darting back and forth between the flush on Shane’s cheeks to the leather wrapped around his fist, Ilya photographs the visual in his mind. Gentle, reverent touches from Shane have Ilya unraveling into a sordid mess. Easily he nuzzles into the small touch which blooms; Shane’s fingers turn into a palm on Ilya’s cheek as he finds solace in the affection.
“What does my puppy want, hm?” Shane turns sweet, which alerts Ilya of two things:
Either, he’s about to get fucked to the brink of death or Shane is indulging him. Based on how he’s behaved tonight, the latter seems a bit far-fetched.
“You,” says Ilya brokenly.
“You have me,” Shane coos automatically and cards his fingers through Ilya’s hair. This is what really cues Ilya in, reminding him that he knows his husband better than he probably knows his own body. The calm before the storm. The other shoe that waits to drop. As Shane’s fingers meander through his curls, Ilya waits with bated breath for the delicious sting.
Shane tightens his grip; Ilya cries aloud against his lips. It lasts for a moment — Shane takes advantage of Ilya’s open mouth and shoves two fingers onto Ilya’s tongue. Lips wrap around the digits immediately, sucking and moaning at the intrusion.
“I don’t think that’s what you wanted tonight, though.” Shane’s mouth hovers by Ilya’s ear as he spits his disdain. “If you really wanted me, you wouldn’t have gone wandering off to find something new. A new leg to hump, someone else to drool on— like the slut you are.”
And Ilya is drooling, he’s a mess. Shane loosely fucks his fingers in and out of his mouth as he keeps talking, the leash coiling around his fist once more to tighten the hold and he rolls. Shane tugs Ilya with him, the leash barely leverage as Shane utilizes muscle and momentum. Ilya straddles him; hips involuntarily bucking, lips still sucking, tearful eyes brimming.
“Fuck, look at you. Do you think that she could have had you like this?” Bringing her up feels like hot coals on Ilya’s body. He’s been waiting for this, bucking his hips eagerly for Shane to continue. His husband sees the way his body reacts and smiles viciously. Shane pulls his fingers free, watches the drool that pools over his lips and down his chin.
Shane slaps Ilya’s face with his wet fingers, delighting in the result. Ilya throws his head back and damn near howls with a moan — he really is something else.
He’s Shane’s. All Shane’s.
“Answer me,” Shane snaps, tugging the leash again. Wet fingers trail down Ilya’s face, catch on his plump bottom lip and tug on the flesh as it meanders down to tweak a pert nipple.
Ilya squirms in his lap. “No,” he breathes.
“Of course not.” Fingernails scratch down Ilya’s chest, over his toned stomach and hook into the band of his underwear. “Who the fuck else could get Ilya Rozanov like this?” Shane flicks his eyes up to stare at his husband. “Obedient.” Shane snaps the elastic. “Domesticated.” He flicks the other nipple and has to bite his lip to stop from moaning at the wild jolt of his husband’s hips against his hard cock. “Pretty and gagging for it. A slobbering fucking mess.”
“No one,” Ilya whines. His hands have stayed at his side, but it’s on this confession that Ilya braces himself against his husband’s bare chest. He rocks forward, testing the truth of his obedience with the movement. “Only you— you get me like this. No one else Shane, please.”
“Damn right,” Shane mutters. “You’re mine. My dog. I hate it when you forget that, Ilya.”
“I could never forget,” pleads Ilya. “I’m yours, only yours.”
“Say it,” Shane can’t help it, he grips Ilya’s hip and pulls him up and down the clothed shaft of his cock. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m your dog.”
“Again.”
“I’m your fucking—” Ilya grits his teeth, “dog.”
“Fuck yes you are.” There might be something deeply wrong with Shane at how perfect it feels to have his husband beg and whimper like a feral fucking animal, grinding against him and falling apart all at his demand.
Or there’s something entirely beautiful about it. Perhaps both. Shane does not care to parse it out right now. He pulls the leash towards himself, bringing Ilya with it. Their lips brush, their eyes drooping halfway as Shane breathes in the pants of his insatiable husband.
“Go on then,” Shane says meanly. “Hump my leg.”
Ilya nearly sobs at the command, quickly rutting against Shane and hanging his head to his husband’s shoulder to cry in pleasure. Ilya mouths at the naked skin, slobbery and messy as he moans.
“So desperate for it.” Shane holds Ilya against him, one hand on the back of the collar and the other pressing the fisted leash against Ilya’s sweaty back, urging his discordant humps and cooing at the whimpers. “You could have done this anytime tonight— you know I’m so easy for you,” Shane confesses, “I would let you get off on me wherever you want, Ilya. All you had to do was be good and ask.”
“‘M sorry,” Ilya sobs and Shane knows he means it. “I wanted—”
“I know what you wanted,” Shane isn’t harsh in his words, but there is a bite to it. “And now I’m giving you what you need. You don’t go anywhere else to get what you need. I’m the only one who gives you what you need, baby.” Ilya’s hips stutter and Shane knows that they’re closing in on the end, that Ilya’s insatiability to please throws him closer and closer to the edge of release.
Feeling Ilya hump against his leg like a dog in heat nearly brings Shane to climax without even being touched. It’s depraved; so completely in control of Ilya’s pleasure and holding his trust in the stiff coil of the leash around his fist. Shane moans at the thought of it, having to screw his eyes shut and breathe through his nose so he doesn’t ruin this perfect, hedonic moment.
“Get me naked,” Shane says quietly. He drops the leash — with the dull thud on the bed, Ilya lurches off Shane’s lap to yank at his belt and undo all the effort Shane made to look presentable and professional tonight. Leather thwips out of the loops, then the unzipping of metal teeth, and the shuffling of nicely pressed slacks rip their way off Shane’s toned legs. Next he surges forward, finding Shane braced on his elbows with his shirt falling off at the shoulders.
Ilya slips his hands underneath the fabric and indulges in the flex of Shane’s muscles. Shane sits up, chest flush to Ilya’s as they look into one another’s eyes and he slips out of the dress shirt. Shane can’t help it — he steals a kiss from his husband as the man works to eagerly undress him.
Ilya doesn’t need to be told to fold them; he just does it. Shane watches with rapt attention as Ilya gathers his clothing and places them neatly atop the blazer. The leash dangles in front of Ilya and sways once, twice against his tented front. With a bitten-back groan, Ilya finishes the command and turns to stand at the foot of the bed.
Here, his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open when he sees how his husband is laid out for him.
“Good boy,” Shane coos, legs spread wide and fingers teasing the brightly colored plug that’s been resting inside him all night. “Do you like what you see, pup?”
Ilya’s head jerks up and down; his eyes don’t leave Shane’s plugged hole as he actually begins to pant.
“Do you want a treat?” Shane grins, enjoying the way he has such an effect on Ilya without even touching him.
Ilya whimpers, high and throaty.
“Come here.” Shane’s voice is quiet, but the command echoes inside Ilya — he’s pulled as if Shane still has the leash. The second it’s within reach, Shane grabs at it, anchors a hand on the back of Ilya’s neck and yanks. Their mouths crash together, both moaning into the other as if the sound will reverberate from the depths of their lungs and back out into the limited space between them.
A hand finds Shane’s thigh, resting and waiting for the next command to touch (to pull, to get the fucking plug out of him and get Ilya’s cock in). Ilya licks into Shane’s mouth, desperate and needy and loud. The clink of the metal on Ilya’s neck is barely audible over the wet kisses and chaotic noises of pleasure they share.
“Can I—”
“Yes,” Shane all but growls, bucking his hips into Ilya’s waiting touch. Ilya slips a hand between them, fingers carefully wrapping around the jeweled base of the plug and easing it out with care. “Faster, Ilya— can’t fucking wait any longer.”
“Don’t want to hurt you,” Ilya mumbles, pressing messy kisses onto Shane and lingering in the brief moment of tenderness. Shane throws his head back as the plug is free, his neck exposed and Ilya’s lips kissing up and down the length of it.
“Be a good boy, Любимый (Darling), come on.” The slip of Russian has a needy cry ripping from Ilya’s chest. Shane swats at his cheek again; something about the carelessness of the impact has Ilya thrusting forward with vigor. Spurred on by the degradation of it — he really is an animal for Shane. In this haze, Ilya notices that Shane’s already warming lube in his hands to reach between them.
Ilya gasps at the contact, Shane wrapping his fingers around him for the first time all evening. He has to bite on his lip to suppress himself, the contact far too good.
Quickly, a hand comes up to pop the lip free. Ilya gazes down to see Shane staring at him with that evil look in his eye — in that same hand is the leash, the thick, dark leather contrasting against the creamy skin of Shane. Ilya looks at the accessory and flicks his eyes back to his husband.
“You want to bite down on something,” Shane says, “here you go, boy.”
Ilya opens his mouth obediently and Shane wedges the thickness of the leather between his teeth. When he lines himself up and presses his tip to Shane’s hole, his teeth clamp down and he groans mutedly around the hide. Shane holds onto the leash where it’s closest to the clasp, gripping the strap tight and wrenching his husband closer, closer—
Until Ilya is finally breaching him, pushing in and crying around the gag of the leash. Shane throws his head back in pleasure, fucking himself back on Ilya’s cock. Ecstasy is within reach — fuck, he’s coasting on it now, but there is no way the feeling lasts long at the rate they’re going. Ilya bottoms out; drool and spit and tears wet the leather around his plump lips, his grit teeth.
“C’mon pup,” Shane grunts, fucking himself back on his husband. “Fuck me like you wanted to fuck her so bad, huh? Show me how you’d make her come, Ilya. Don’t hold back.”
Ilya cries his disagreement against the gag, but Shane isn’t having it. Sordid eyes stare at pleading ones, their bodies locked together along with their gazes. Shane tugs the leash again.
“Be good for me, Ilya— fuck me like you mean it, baby.” Ilya draws out, thrusts back in, and Shane bows his back. The grip on the leash tightens and Shane scrambles to touch him elsewhere; he lands on the side of Ilya’s neck and instinctively wraps his fingers under the collar. It creates tension; Ilya’s eyes roll back as the pressure of the collar, the gag of the leash, and the bliss of Shane’s hole overwhelm him.
“There you go—” Ilya fucks Shane in earnest, the encouragement spurring him on. “Such a good fucking—” he’s losing his coherency, trying to hold onto it like he’s gripping the leather adorned onto Ilya and it’s a personal challenge to get Shane babbling and useless on Ilya’s cock alone, “—pet, such a good dog, my good dog. Мой Любимый (My Darling). Only mine, all mine. No one else gets to put you in your fucking place like this.”
Ilya whines, this time fully acquiescing to Shane’s words.
“Should take a photo of you like this— could you imagine?” Shane’s laugh is bitter, teasing. “What the fuck would anyone say to— Christ— Ilya Rozanov in a pretty little collar, muzzled by his own leash and fucking me like this? My sweet pup. They’re always calling you my-my guard dog. God, if they only knew.”
Ilya is so fucking close he might pass out. Shane squeezes around him and Ilya lurches forward, head falling onto Shane’s shoulder as he tries to keep his pace steady.
“Got one last command for you, pup,” Shane groans. He pulls at the collar and leash simultaneously, keeping Ilya in suspense.
Ilya holds himself up on shaky arms to look at Shane, waiting. Patient. Obedient.
“Come.”
Ilya is very well trained and does as he’s told.
Shane lets go of him as Ilya holds his husband’s hips down with both hands, pistoning his release into the euphoria of Shane’s hole. For a breath, Ilya luxuriates in the feeling of his come filling up his husband. The moment Ilya finishes Shane shoves him off, grips his curls, and pulls him down to swallow his cock. Fucking up into Ilya’s throat is a favorite pastime of Shane’s; hearing the sloppy and choking sounds of his husband only brings him to the finite edge that much sooner. Shane spills down his throat with a shout and an unrelenting grip in Ilya’s hair. Holding him still, Shane comes apart and waits until Ilya’s throat seizes at the intrusion, at the lack of air that keeps him gagging.
Using the collar as leverage, Shane hauls his husband up.
Understatement of the century: Ilya is a wreck. Red and wet, his face is a riot of contradictions. Sated and wild, sinful and wonderful. Tearstreaks track over his cheeks, his plump lips puffy and shining. Curls bunch and coil in different directions, the darkness of the collar a stark, blinding disparity to the scarlet and cream splotches of his skin. The last remnants of Shane’s come beads on his lower lip, which Shane is more than happy to swipe up with his thumb and feed back into the waiting mouth.
Shane exhales a swear, he’s not sure which one, but it causes Ilya’s lips to twitch ever so slightly upward as he pops the digit free. Falling forward, Ilya nuzzles into Shane’s stomach and lathes at the sweat.
“Not done yet, baby,” Shane’s voice is rough, but he’s certain Ilya’s is far, far worse. Ilya leans back, bracing himself on his elbows as he knows exactly where to go (so well-trained, Shane thinks). With all his strength, Shane manages to move his legs wide to reveal his fucked-loose hole.
One swipe of his fingers gathers a hearty amount of Ilya’s come. Shane doesn’t have to do anything further to instruct him; Ilya naturally opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. Messily, Shane spreads the come over his waiting tongue and smears it.
“Lick.”
Ilya wraps his lips around Shane’s fingers again, sucking briefly to get all the spend. Shane gasps, face relaxed and mouth open as he watches Ilya lick his fingers clean.
“Clean up your mess, Любимый (Darling),” Shane says reverently. Ilya watches him as he sinks his head low, nudging his arms under Shane’s exhausted thighs and hoisting them up. Toned legs rest on Ilya’s shoulders as he dives into lick and suck at Shane’s come-soaked hole. Disgusting noises sound from between Shane’s thighs; Ilya eats him as if he’s starved. Like Shane is his last meal, or his first one since coming home from war, or—
Shane is everything. Ilya eats him like he can keep a part of Shane inside of him forever. Maybe the imprint of his tongue on Shane’s body can be enough to leave pieces of Ilya on Shane, too.
When the heat turns back down to a low simmer, when Ilya is kitten-licking at Shane’s thighs and kissing the dusting of hairs atop his thighs, Shane pulls at him again. Once with the leash to get his attention, then again with a hand around the back of his neck to urge him up.
Easily, Ilya goes to him; it’s effortless, going to Shane. The leash and the collar are all pomp and circumstance — Ilya will always go where Shane leads, no accessories required.
Leisurely kisses snake a pattern up Shane’s chest until Ilya can press the affection into the hinge of Shane’s jaw. Strong arms wrap around Ilya’s shoulders, anchoring him into the warm embrace of his husband’s body. A whoosh of breath billows out of Ilya as he’s finally lax on top of Shane. In the quiet of their bedroom, the only thing that exists is the dovetail breathing between them. Shane’s chest rises with Ilya’s, they both fall together. Flush with one another as they fit like jigsaw pieces.
It’s moments like this, in the aftermath, where Shane is grateful he knows Russian.
“Good?” The question is muttered into the mop of curls on Ilya’s head, a kiss following shortly thereafter. Ilya is a blanket of muscle on top of him, sweat cooling their bodies.
All Ilya does is grunt his affirmation, but Shane knows it’s only a matter of time before Ilya’s mind and body slot back together. To aid in the process, Shane squeezes Ilya tighter in his arms.
“You did so well, Ilyusha,” Shane coos, accent tripping over itself. “I’m so proud of you. I am so happy to call you mine.”
Shane tips Ilya’s chin up and lovingly gazes down at him. Ilya is dead weight on him, exhaustion apparent all over his features. Shane leans down and kisses him long and slow.
“My Darling,” he says against his husband’s lips. “My Ilya.”
Fingers start to work the clasp of the collar, but Ilya breaks the kiss to whine his displeasure. Shane pauses, waiting.
“Not yet,” Ilya whispers in Russian; even in the quiet, Shane can hear the wreckage of his voice. “Just a little longer, okay?” Before Shane can kiss him again, Ilya tucks himself back into the juncture of shoulder and neck to inhale the sex-and-sweat-heavy scent of him.
“Okay,” Shane agrees easily. “However long you want, Darling.” Ilya mewls at the affection, the pet name. Strong arms wiggle under Shane to try and fit them ever closer.
Shane continues a train of thought in simple Russian: There’s water downstairs. Fruit in the fridge. We can sleep in tomorrow. A laundry list of nonsense to babble about (and practice, if he’s honest with himself) in a sure way to bring Ilya back to himself. The language helps bridge the gap; Shane can aid Ilya’s psyche much more easily if he can do so in Russian.
Shane is mid-thought about the story Ryan was sharing earlier when Ilya interrupts him.
“Shane,” he grumbles.
“Ilya.” Shane smiles around the word. “Hello, my love. What do you need?”
“Here,” Ilya says in English. It’s all the confirmation Shane needs; I’m trying, I’m here, I’m coming back to you. A low groan starts as Ilya stretches, still on top of Shane, then turns into a near-moan as he pops some bones in his spine. Flopping back on top of Shane, Ilya peppers his neck and cheek with kisses.
There he is.
“Okay—” Shane sputters, but then Ilya is fucking licking his face and the laugh that bubbles out of him is involuntary. “Oh god— down boy, Jesus!”
Ilya laughs and the sound makes it that much harder to stop. Shane shoves at him, but then his wrists are pinned on top of his head and Ilya is kissing him with passion and depth.
“Ilya.”
“Shane,” Ilya matches the tone, mocking his husband with ease and joy. “Let me slobber on you— it’s what dogs do, no?”
Shane bucks his hips, but he’s still so boneless that the movement barely does anything to the 200 pounds of hockey player on top of him. “Oh my god, get off of me. You’re disgusting.”
Ilya grins at him, wild and unhinged. “Of course,” he says like it’s obvious. “I’m your husband— what is that saying? My freak matches your freak?”
Shane can’t help but giggle, cupping Ilya’s jaw and pulling him in for one more tender kiss.
And because he can, he slaps Ilya’s cheek one last time with a little meanness behind the touch. “Up you get, boy. You need a bath.”
If Ilya had a tail, Shane is sure it would wag right now. He follows Ilya into the bathroom, eyeing the perfectly coiled leash that sits on the counter like a prized jewel.
When Ilya is about to step under the spray, Shane has to wrap a hand around his arm and pull him back in for one more kiss, one more embrace, and a reminder—
“You still have your collar on, baby,” he mutters against Ilya’s kiss-red lips.
Ilya pouts. Shane is so abhorrently in love with him, his heart might leap right out of his chest and make a mess on their bathroom floor. Still, there's something in the expression that gives Shane pause. He searches Ilya’s expressive eyes for it, and he thinks he finds his answer.
“After, you can put it back on,” Shane soothes him in his native language, brushing back his curls. “You can wear it as long as you want. Sleep in it, if you want.”
Ilya grins, lets Shane unclasp the collar, and presses another kiss to Shane’s lips.
“Spasibo,” he says, barely audible over the noise of the shower. “Moy lyubimyy.”
“My Darling,” Shane praises. “Anything for you.”