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Shane disappears from under Ilya’s arm sometime after dinner.
The days at the cottage this year have been even longer and lazier than normal. They may not come back here after the wedding this year, and although there are new and exciting things on the horizon—Spain awaits—it makes these quiescent days at the cottage all the sweeter. Ilya has been lounging, eating or napping whenever the mood strikes him, glass of ice water or tea or lemonade or nice, very chilled Coke at his elbow at almost all times. Rolling over, finding Shane, putting him on his knees, going down on him, popping back up and resetting. Wash, rinse repeat.
It’s been slow and sweet. Molasses. They went into town once, where Shane saw his own face on a tabloid cover and clenched his jaw hard enough that Ilya heard it click. Lately if they need something that can’t be ordered, they entreat David, who likes to drive.
In six days, they drive back to Ottawa to get married. In nine, Ilya will sit on a plane next to his lover of eleven years for the first time. It’s heady stuff. He’s not sure what to expect.
Shane is doing something. He’s flitting in and out of the sliding door to the deck, disappearing in the direction of the dock, returning after a few minutes. First time he just seems to wander out there, and Ilya doesn’t pay much attention. Shane paces sometimes. It’s best to leave him to it, at least until some other telltale sign of growing anxiety appears. Sometimes, he just needs to move his body. Get the energy out. He might decide to go for a run in a little while, or disappear into the gym. Or he’ll ask Ilya to make use of him.
When he comes back, though, he’s suddenly a man on a mission. He disappears down the stairs to the guest bedrooms and returns with a thick blanket, two pillows and a flashlight. Takes his entire burden outside and down the hill. Ilya scrolls on his phone and pays half attention, curious but with no desire to intervene. Outside, the sun goes orange on the horizon.
Shane returns, goes into the bedroom, stays there for awhile. When he comes back out, he goes first into the kitchen and then returns to the couch with a pair of beers—already perspiring in the humidity of the early summer air. He hands one to Ilya, presses a kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you, baby,” Ilya mumbles. He’s minding his little virtual plants, succulents and cacti in a pot that need to be clicked on the correct number of times to get enough water. Galina had said do things for yourself, some daily thing with a simple goal that brings simple joy. So Ilya plays solitaire and Candy Crush and also curates a tiny garden on his phone. There is a succulent named Anya, a succulent named Yuna&David, a tall and pretty agave plant named Shane. There is a cute little snail whose only purpose is to crawl along the edge of the pot and, if Ilya taps on it, it smiles.
He sips his beer and forgets, a little bit, to wonder where the blanket and pillows went. Shane takes his beer when he’s done with it, goes into the kitchen.
“You want another?” he calls.
“Mmno,” Ilya sighs, leaning his head back.
“Kay.” Shane putters in the kitchen for another minute—Ilya hears the sink turn on and off, hears clinking glasses. He’s empty-handed on return, but his hands are damp. Ilya knows this because he puts them on Ilya’s thighs, leaning over him, head tilted.
“Hi, baby,” Shane murmurs, pressing close. “You wanna come with me?”
“I do,” Ilya says, jauntily, because he’s been doing that for about a week now (“I’m practicing, Shane. Cannot choke on the big day.”) and it makes Shane either grin or blush or look off into the middle distance with a small, wobbly smile. This night, he huffs out a little laugh and tugs Ilya to standing with his long, strong fingers interlocked with Ilya’s. Ilya puts an arm around his waist, his lips against his neck, kissing slow. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Shane hums, pulling him slowly towards the door. Walking backwards with his eyes closed, the maniac.
“Is it a surprise?” Ilya says. The space behind Shane’s ear is sensitive, makes him shiver. Ilya places a little pursed-lip kiss right there, light as a feather.
“Mm. May-be.”
“Is it…” Ilya catches a hand on the doorway, snorts, keeps Shane from stepping backwards into nothing. “Careful, Hollander.”
“Hah, sorry.” Shane finally opens his eyes and turns around, taking Ilya’s hand and the lead. “C’mon, down on the dock.”
In the waning light of the sun, now nestled well below the horizon, the calm water of the lake looks violet-red. Shane has spread out the blanket on the dock, placed the pillows on the end farthest from the water, and has apparently hidden the flashlight underneath one of them—Ilya knows it’s there, and now knows that it’s because their phones are back in the house and Shane won’t chance a jaunt back up to the cottage with only the light of the moon and the millions of rural stars.
Ilya understands what’s wanted of him even before Shane says, “Lie down with me,” and kicks off his slides to toe across the blanket, crouching down and then laying himself fully on his back. When Ilya does the same, Shane shifts closer and Ilya welcomes his head into the crook of his shoulder and armpit, silky hair sweet against his face.
He’s quiet for a moment. He reaches his hand up, traces his fingers along the length of Ilya’s forearm. It’s partially trapped underneath Shane’s shoulders, and the pins and needles will be worth it.
“Are you okay?” Ilya murmurs, after some long and silent moments during which Shane doesn’t seem particularly interested in saying anything. Which would be fine, normal even, but there’s a certain energy about him. Something kinetic, ready to move.
“Mm? Oh, yeah.” Shane breathes in deep, a contented little sigh, and then pauses for another long time. Just slightly tensed, like he’s preparing himself for something, but Ilya doesn’t really have the chance to worry before he says, “I had…a good time tonight.”
“Mm, was good night,” Ilya murmurs. Kisses hair, kisses eyebrow. “Nice dinner, nice weather.”
“Yeah, it was nice,” Shane murmurs. He sighs, clears his throat. “Thank you for such a nice first date.”
Ilya mouths first date to himself, mind running faster than it wants to in this moment. He spends a moment trying to figure out what that phrase could possibly mean in this context—it’s not the first of the month; it’s not the anniversary of anything he can remember, let alone the first one; he can’t recall any holidays on the Canadian calendar called ‘first date’—
Then Shane shifts and says, “I wasn’t sure what to expect when you asked me out.”
Ah.
Ilya shifts onto his side, slipping Shane’s head onto the pillow. The night has sucked up almost all of the sunset now; Shane’s face is only visible in the blue twilight cast onto the curve of his lips and the line of his nose. He looks nervous, really channeling the skittishness Ilya thinks he’s trying to portray. Part of him is always a little amused when Shane pulls something like this—because Shane always finds it hard to hide his appetite for sex, even in these moments. Part of him is always some mewling animal, some wretched and horny little thing. Ilya, far from being taken out of the illusion, loves it.
“Oh,” Ilya murmurs, and trails his fingers up Shane’s arm, pressed between them and plush with the nice, clean sweatshirt Shane slipped on while he was in the bedroom earlier. New—Ottawa Centaurs #24. A fucking dream come true. Shane’s fingers twitch against their hips. “Someone as pretty as you…I’m sure you’ve been on plenty of dates.”
Shane closes his eyes, shakes his head. One jerk to the left, one jerk to the right. His eyelashes flutter as he says, “No, I’m—” Inhale. “I’m a good girl.”
Ilya feels absolutely, stunningly dizzy.
“Of course you are, baby,” Ilya coos, even as the rotation of the earth makes itself known underneath him. “Why do you think I took you out? So sweet and pretty. Couldn’t resist.”
“Yeah?” Shane murmurs, eyes bright. “I, um. I really like you, too.”
Ilya smiles, finds Shane’s hip, touches. “We had a nice night, hm? Had nice dinner together, got to know each other a little. Hm? And now we are here…all alone.”
“Well, I just wanted to, um…” Shane shifts. Ilya feels his stomach twitch—another message from Shane’s body that betrays him. Touch me, touch me. “You know. Have some time alone. It’s nice out here, right? Peaceful.”
“Mm. Yes.” Ilya leans over. “If this is your very first date, maybe you need someone to tell you what to do, yes? Do you know what people do on first dates, after they have a good time together? After nice dinner with pretty girl?”
Shane, slowly, shakes his head. “No.”
“Well,” Ilya says. “First, I think you should maybe let me kiss you. Hm?”
Shane’s pink tongue makes its usual appearance, poking out to wet his thick bottom lip and then retreating. Another of his tells; a clear indicator to Ilya that he’s already thinking about being kissed. Contrarily, he says, “I don’t know…” even as his eyes slip down to Ilya’s mouth, and his tongue sweeps out again.
“Hmm,” Ilya pouts. Pushes his thumb up towards Shane’s chin and nudges at it, tilting Shane’s head down at an angle where his eyes catch the very final sparks of twilight as it fades into starlight. Huge pupils, round and deep. “I think maybe you owe me a little kiss, sweetheart, after I paid for dinner?”
“Is that—” Shane hesitates, eyes rolling up at the sky as he clearly thinks about if he really wants to say his next words. “Um. Isn’t that a bit—I don’t know, slutty? I just don’t want anyone to think I’m easy.”
Jesus Christ. Ilya is so fucking hard. The tent in his pants must be visible from fucking space. He can’t remember ever wanting to rub his dick against something as badly as he wants to rub against Shane’s hip right now—less than an inch away and somehow not touching at all. Playing his fucking role. Ilya doesn’t want to ruin that for him—can’t, because fuck if he doesn’t want to play this game too. It doesn’t stop his zipper from aching.
“No, baby, nobody would think that.” He gives into himself just a little; lets his thumb creep up, press against Shane’s lip, pull it down. “Is only what’s fair, hm? Only what I deserve.”
Shane shivers.
“You won’t tell anyone, right?”
“Nobody,” Ilya promises, leaning in.
Credit where credit is due, Shane at least tries to hide his own eagerness. Where he would usually part his lips almost immediately for the swell of Ilya’s tongue into his mouth, open and placid and wanting, he starts the kiss mouth closed and lips tight. Ilya gives him one slow kiss, a taunt, and pulls back to look at him. Shane stares back, eyelids low and blushing—or so Ilya thinks, can’t tell in only moonlight. It reminds him that they used to fuck like this almost every time—in the dark with their constant lunar witness peeking through any given window, complacent in their secret.
He leans back in, going tongue-first now. Shane emits a brief, aborted hrg, which Ilya can tell was going to turn into one of his wanton moans before he reminded himself of his own little fantasy. He hiccups something like wait into Ilya’s mouth and pulls back.
“Relax, baby,” Ilya breathes against his mouth. “We’re good…nobody around…let me show you how this is done.”
Shane shivers all over.
“It’s not what—” Shane squirms, ostensibly with his own nerves but in reality because he’s getting himself so turned on with his own silly lines that he can’t help it. Ilya knows those squirms, the movements of his hips against the empty air. He thinks he knows what Shane was doing in the bedroom earlier, and he’s eager to confirm the theory
“Not what?” Ilya coos. “Not what good girls do?” He moves his hand to touch, finally. Flat on Shane’s stomach, then pushing up underneath his sweatshirt. “Do you want to be a good girl? Or be my good girl?”
“Ilya,” Shane whimpers.
“Shh,” Ilya says. He finds the top button of Shane’s jeans and pops it open, massages the lowest part of his belly where the hair is straight and dark, coarse against his fingers. His cock aches. “Do you touch yourself, sweetheart?”
Shane gives another jerky shake of his head.
Ilya lets his mouth fall open, faked surprise and mocking incredulity. “Really? Nobody’s ever played with your sweet little pussy? Not even you?” His fingers sweep lower. It’s hot inside Shane’s pants. Humid. His cock is leaking against his thigh and Ilya can feel it in the thick strands of his pubic hair. His mouth waters.
“No, I never—” Shane bucks up when Ilya’s fingers find his cockhead. “Oh fff—wait, wait—"
Ilya does not. He jams his hand further down, rough with Shane’s tender cock and balls—Shane throws his head back, throws his arms over his eyes, whispers no, wait, please—and then Ilya finds his goal. The base of the plug is slick with lube leaking out, body-hot, and Ilya presses in on it to hear Shane’s frantic, overwhelmed moan.
“You’re so wet already for me,” Ilya says. “Not such a good girl at all.”
“I am,” Shane protests. “I can’t—can’t help it. Please just—we can kiss again? If you want that? I—I liked the kissing.”
“Yeah? You liked my tongue in your mouth?”
Shane nods from behind his folded arms.
“Look at me, pretty.”
Shane reluctantly lowers his arms. His watery eyes catch the moonlight. Ilya has always been fascinated and driven crazy by the fact that Shane gets so overwhelmed with his own pleasure so quickly. That the experience of sex is such an emotional one for him, or perhaps just so intense. He doesn’t always cry—used to do it more, honestly, when every single one of their encounters was as much an exercise in anticipatory longing as it was a moment of shared gratification. Still, Shane has always felt deeply during sex. As much as Ilya has always thought of himself as someone who needs relief, needs sexual release and the connection of another body with his own, Shane might actually be the one between them for whom sex is an absolute imperative. Shane wouldn’t know what to do with himself, the pent up emotions in his body, if Ilya wasn’t regularly ripping them from him using his own body as his only, highly-attuned tool.
The thought of who Shane would be if he were actually the kind of person to actively deny this to himself—the fact that he could have very easily become one of those people…it doesn’t bear thinking about. It makes Ilya feel unbearably sad.
Shane taps him, once, on the shoulder. A question. Ilya shakes himself from his odd, singular moment of melancholy and taps him back.
He sits up, clears his throat and says, “I want to kiss you somewhere else, sweetheart.”
Shane sinks back against the pillow, a sort of meek retreat, and only manages to say, “Oh no.” which Ilya thinks is kind of funny, but he hides the smirk in the dark as he positions himself with enough leverage to pull Shane’s pants down. The dock sways with the quick movements of Ilya’s tugs and Shane’s assisting kicks.
“Oh, eager,” Ilya murmurs.
“Shut up,” Shane whispers, like he thinks it doesn’t count as breaking character if he does it very quietly. “They’re tight.”
They are. A more snug pair than Shane would normally wear in the summer, if he wore jeans at all. They make his ass and hips look incredible, like something sculpted by hands with an ancient Greek skillset and a modern gay man’s taste in porn. Ilya recognizes this now as a kind of day-long tantalization. Subliminal fucking foreplay. He’s marrying a madman.
“Fuck, I want to eat your pussy,” Ilya says, entirely unsure if it’s part of the play or just a plain, bald statement of fact.
Shane shivers and pouts and says, “That’s so—that’s dirty,” and they’re off to the races again.
“I’ll make it good for you, baby,” Ilya says, as he reaches down to tug on the plug, turning it, nudging it in shallow thrusts in and out. He wishes the night was more forgiving, that there was more moonlight to see by, but it’s just a crescent and the shore is crowded with trees. Ilya can only see the vague shape of what’s happening between Shane’s legs; the compliant give and take of his hole as the plug moves within him.
“Does that—” Shane grips the pillow by his face, parts those pouty lips to moan. “Does that count? Does that make me—”
“No, sweetheart,” Ilya says. “You’ll still be good. A slut uses her mouth—but I won’t make you do that, hm? I know this is not what you want.”
Shane only darts a look down at the front of Ilya’s pants, licks his lips, squeezes his eyes closed. So predictable.
“Hmm,” Ilya sighs. Hand on Shane’s thigh, smoothing up. “You are a good girl, yes? Not a slut? You don’t want cock in your mouth?” Shane shakes his head against the pillow, even as his neck bows and strains in a way that tells Ilya he’s gulping. Mouth watering. “No, no, of course not—what a naughty thing to think about my sweet girl.”
He leans down and kisses against Shane’s jaw right where his pulse jackrabbits against his thick, strong neck.
“Tell me how you want me to kiss you on your pussy,” Ilya murmurs.
Shane whimpers.
“Tell me you want it, sweetheart.” He plays between Shane’s legs again for a moment, encouraging Shane’s stretched hole to make a loud, obscene sound around the plug. “Do you hear how wet you are? I know you want it. I want to hear you say it.”
Shane turns his face against the pillow again, hiding in his own arm.
“Please,” he says, finally, when Ilya has tugged the plug almost all the way out.
“Please what, baby?”
“Please kiss my pussy,” Shane says.
“Knees up,” Ilya says.
This bit is practiced and necessary, though not something that Shane-the-blushing-virgin should really know how to do. He pulls his legs up to his chest, folding easily and wrapping his big hands around his own kneecaps. Ilya kisses his beautiful furry calf, the bulging muscle of his quad working so hard in his thigh, the gorgeous arch of his foot. He grabs the second pillow, shoves it under Shane’s ass to prop him up and sucks kisses all the way down to the curve of his ass.
The plug comes out with a filthy sound, and Shane moans above him. Ilya tosses it indiscriminately away—doesn’t hear a splash, so it must land on the dock, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. Shane doesn’t get attached to plugs the same way he does to dildos, and if it ended up in the water—well. Ilya has more than a few commas in his bank account.
The first swipe of Ilya’s tongue, flattened broad against the twitching pucker of Shane’s hole, tells him that he used the flavored lube. The bottle says something, something organic, something, something gluten-free sugar-free dye-free. Vegan. Tastes like peach, which is—maybe Shane’s idea of a joke, though Ilya does like peaches.
“Oh-my-God,” Shane gasps, hole fluttering on Ilya’s tongue. Ilya thinks about a bedroom in Montreal, and fucking buries himself.
This, truly, has to be one of Ilya’s favorite places in the world. Laying on his stomach like a sniper on a rooftop, hands flat against Shane’s belly, face buried in his ass. Shane’s enormous thighs muffle all but the loudest sounds, and the loudest sounds are all coming from him—deep and constant moans, overwhelmed by pleasure to the point where he’s inconsolable. Ilya likes to grab one of his hovering feet, massage the arch with his thumb where Shane’s overworked feet always ache at least a little. He is strong and wonderful and never complains, but Ilya knows. Knows specifically because Shane sometimes goes so boneless with relief afterwards that he can’t speak.
He almost forgets about their little game while he’s down there, so completely full of the simple joy that is eating the ass of the man he loves. He makes a spear of his tongue, fucks into him as far as the limitations of the position will allow—he could get deeper with Shane on his knees, and maybe that’s what Shane would prefer too, but this is the game. Sweet virginal Shane laying on his back all over again.
Ilya doesn’t know how long he spends between Shane’s thighs—long enough that Shane’s hole and the crease of his thighs are all coated in Ilya’s enthusiastic spit, and long enough that the taste of the lube has mostly vanished into the broader, quieter flavor of Shane’s skin, the man-savory scent of his arousal and the musk behind his balls. He realizes that Shane is saying stop stop stop at the same time that a fist curves into the curls atop his head and pulls.
“What?” Ilya gasps, rising from his happy home. “Is okay?”
“I’m gonna—” Shane’s chest is heaving, his hair wild from tossing against the pillow. “It’s too much, I’ll—”
“Oh,” Ilya hums, then swallows and finds Shane’s hole with two fingers. “You don’t want to come yet, ah? Want to save it for my dick?”
Shane shakes his head frantically. “No, you said you wouldn’t put your cock in me, you said—"
“Ah, I said I wouldn’t make you take it in your mouth,” Ilya corrects. He shifts further up between Shane’s legs, hips snug now between them. He draws down the zipper on his pants and it’s loud in the quiet night, a strange juxtaposition against the lapping water and chirping crickets.
“You can’t,” Shane whimpers. He tries to close his legs, bring his knees together, but Ilya’s entire body is in the way and he only succeeds in bringing him closer.
“Why not?” Ilya murmurs. “I’ve been so nice to you, sweetheart. Bought you dinner, drove you here in my fancy car…” This is technically true; it’s Ilya’s Mercedes parked outside the cottage. The fantasy can ignore the fact that Ilya brought them here three weeks ago. He reaches up a thumb and presses it against Shane’s bottom lip. “I even ate you out. Did you like it?”
“Yes.” Shane’s eyes are glassy, lips around the tip of Ilya’s thumb like he’s forgotten that his role is to play the prude. Fortunately, Ilya’s soon-to-be husband is a natural slut and loves having his mouth full far too much.
“Of course you did,” Ilya says. “So I deserve something in return, no? I need to get my dick wet, baby.”
“But I’m—” Shane separates his mouth from Ilya’s thumb, saliva stringing across the distance. He swallows. “I’m saving myself. For marriage.”
Ilya tilts his head back, breathes deep and yells, “Fuck,” at a volume that can probably be heard across the lake. He tugs at his fly and the waistband of his boxers, says, “Oh, sweetheart, you should know most guys can’t wait that long,” and moans when his cock flops out.
Sometimes Shane still does that thing where he makes his eyes big at the sight of Ilya’s dick—will kneel down in front of him and pull Ilya from his pants and pretend to be surprised by it, like he doesn’t know the exact shape of how it feels in his hand and his ass and his throat. It strokes Ilya’s ego in a way that he should probably be immune to at his big age of thirty—but well. He’s only a man.
Tonight, Ilya can’t quite see what Shane’s eyes are doing, but he can hear him whimper and say, “It’s so big, oh my God.”
“Shut up,” Ilya says, gripping the base of his cock—too much in such a short amount of time, fuck. Saving myself for marriage, it’s so big. Just when he thought that Shane couldn’t think of anything crazier—but that should never be something he thinks, knowing this man.
“You can’t put that in me,” Shane laments. “It’s too big, it won’t fit—” He squeaks and jerks when Ilya slaps his ass, not gently and with enough force that the dock undulates underneath them again.
“It will fit,” Ilya says, bullying Shane’s knees fully apart. “You’re so wet and loose, will just slip right in. Oh, fuck.” Cock gripped in hand, he nudges the head against Shane’s hole, feels it catch on his rim and the first wave of that familiar, encompassing heat inside his body. “Just the tip, baby, huh? I’ll just put it in a little.”
“Just—” Shane gasps, shuddery, fingers clenched into the backs of his own thighs. “Just the tip? You promise?”
“Promise, baby,” Ilya says, and pushes the head of his cock into Shane’s spit-drenched hole. It is, as always, fucking incredible to be inside him. Far-off galaxies implode every time the head of Ilya’s cock pops inside Shane’s body, and he sees them in the dark behind his eyelids. The sound of Shane’s keening moan is exaggerated, because Ilya knows how loose he got him, but fuck—fuck it’s good.
“It hurts,” Shane whimpers, and then wiggles his hips like the slut he is.
“I think you like it,” Ilya pants, straining to hold still. “I think—”
“No, no—”
Ilya slaps him again. The dock ripples. Shane is crying now, little sobs that are familiar to Ilya only because Ilya knows what his fiancé sounds like when he’s frustrated by his lack of fullness, by the dearth of cock inside him.
“I think you’ve been lying to me,” Ilya breathes, trembling with the strength associated with keeping still, core locked to prevent the swaying of the dock and Shane’s fevered, half-aborted bucks from driving his cock any further inside Shane.
A fat tear slides down the side of Shane’s face, caught just so by the moonlight. He shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”
“Oh, I think so.” Ilya shoots a hand up, grabs his face, mashes his cheeks between his thumb and fingers until those pretty lips are puckered out and his eyes are crinkled almost-shut by the force of Ilya’s fingers against his face. He forces Shane to nod his head. “Yes, sweetheart, I think you are a liar, and a bad one. You tell me you are virgin, that this is your first date ever—but you’re so wet for me, so loose. I think you’re just a little slut who wants my cock very badly, aren’t you?”
“I don’t,” Shane sobs, muffled by his own cheeks and sounding miserable—but only, Ilya thinks, because he’s still searching. That awful, hungry thing inside him is aching.
“You can say what you want,” Ilya says, voice soothing. “But your body doesn’t lie. Do you feel how you’re pulling me in?” He releases Shane’s face and pushes his hand down between them, thumbs at Shane’s stretched hole. “Your body knows how to take me, baby. It’s done this before.”
Shane is reaching a level of incoherency where he loses words—he whimpers and throws his head back, arching his back, and Ilya finds that he can’t make him wait any longer.
“Tell me you want it,” Ilya says, hands hard on Shane’s hips. “Fuck, Shane, tell me how much you need it.”
“I need it,” Shane cries, hands scrambling over Ilya’s, fingers pressing into the backs of his hands, frantic to dig bruises onto his own hipbones. “Ilya, I need it so bad—put it in me, please, fill me up—”
Ilya thrusts the rest of the way inside him in one furious motion, bottoming out with an utter lack of gentleness that makes Shane cry out loudly enough to disturb the birds. There is an echo of agitation from the nature around them—tittering from the sleepy trees and a beat of silence from the crickets and, in the distance, something howls almost as an echo of Shane’s outcry. It feels like he, himself, is some wild thing—some feral part of nature, following nothing but his baser instincts as he lets his body take the pleasure it is always craving.
“Poor little slut, can’t get enough,” Ilya growls, hips thundering into Shane’s with a repeated slap of his balls that sounds absolutely disgusting, wet and sloppy and heavy. There are no breaks between Shane’s moans, now; it’s one continuous flow of sound from deep in his chest, stopping only when his throat forces him to swallow, clicking around the flow of his own saliva. Some of it drools out the side of his mouth, down the arch of his neck. Ilya can’t see this so much as he knows it’s there because he knows exactly the kind of mess that fucking this man creates.
“Are you full now?” Ilya asks, as Shane’s thighs begin to tremble, telltale. “Or do you want more? Want me to ruin you? Come inside you?”
“Fuck, yes, please,” Shane wails. Ilya doesn’t think he remembers the game now, but that’s fine. “Fill me up—want your cum—want it in me—”
“Will ruin you,” Ilya hisses, mouth grimaced into a thin line as his balls draw up, as his orgasm clusters white-hot in his stomach. “Fuck, nobody—nobody will want to marry you after this except for me.”
“You, just you,” Shane cries, “Always just you, oh fuck—love you, love you so much—”
“Come, sweetheart, come on my cock and I’ll give you what you need.”
“Ilya,” Shane whines, as his cock jerks and he comes untouched—they really are just playing all the greatest hits tonight. Ilya wasn’t convinced that Shane could even do it in this position, but—
“Perfect,” Ilya tells him, chasing his pleasure with even more abandon now. “My perfect slut, fuck, good job.” Shane’s spent cock twitches with every downstroke, whimpering with it, and Ilya focuses on the tear tracks on his pretty face as the fucking supernova in his gut finally explodes.
He groans and grunts, fucks his way through it until he can’t stand the feeling of it anymore. When he pulls out, Shane whines—likes for him to stay inside after, and Ilya knows that, but that’s a bed thing. Or at least a couch thing. The night is cool now and Ilya can feel the gooseflesh on Shane’s thighs.
“You are fucking insane,” Ilya tells him—says it in the same tone he would say you are perfect after slumping down onto the blanket beside him and petting blindly in the direction of his face. Shane catches Ilya’s thumb as it strokes by, sucks it into his mouth, self-soothing.
“Mm-hm,” Shane hums, and now that Ilya is so close he can see shades of the deep flush across his nose and cheeks. The tear tracks trail into his hairline. Ilya tenderly swipes at the drool on the side of his mouth.
“Want your kisses?” Ilya murmurs.
“Mm-hm.”
So Ilya leans in and they kiss for awhile, Shane plaint under him, mouth open, contented with Ilya’s slow remapping of his mouth and the weight of Ilya’s tongue on his own. Then he shivers, a gentle quake from his spine, and they both remember that Shane is bottomless and the breeze off the still-cold water of the lake is an intrusive presence in the afterglow.
“Ready to stand?” Ilya says, pulling back, and Shane’s eyes have focused again.
He nods, game for it. “Yeah, let’s go.”
Shane finds his jeans and tugs them back on just far enough to tuck his sticky and spent cock inside for the walk back to the cottage. He leaves them unzipped, unbuttoned, and Ilya luxuriates in the sight of all of his dark pubic hair. They leave the blanket on the dock after Ilya assures that he will grab it in the morning; Ilya picks up the pillows, and Shane wields the flashlight.
“Why the dock?” Ilya mumbles, curious, halfway up the hill.
“I dunno,” Shane says. He’s loose-limbed, well-fucked and content. He’s walking with a swaying saunter that only seems to occur in his body in the exact hour after orgasm. It’s one of Ilya’s favorite things about him, though the list is long. “Seemed like it would be hot.”
Ilya chuckles. “You are such an exhibitionist, Hollander.”
Shane smirks at the ground, doesn’t deny it.
“It was, though,” he says, flash of teeth and nudging shoulder when Ilya mounts the stairs back into the cottage alongside him. “Hot.”
“Oh, very,” Ilya says. “Very hot.”
Shane grins, pulls him in against the window, and they make out. He’s playful now, after his successful little game. Smiling into Ilya’s mouth, tugging on his hair. Still pliant and sweet—he’s Shane, after all. But he is Shane. Without the pretense of the game, he’s every bit the man that Ilya will soon marry.
They shower quickly and Shane gives Ilya head—maybe a bit grumpy about Ilya denying it to him earlier, though he doesn’t say so. They eat a snack, which sort of becomes a second dinner given the appetite worked up by rough sex and the caloric deficits they’re still trying to recover from, even if neither of their teams pushed that deep in playoffs this year. Afterwards, Ilya texts briefly with Sveta, who’s in Russia, while Shane does his closing-down routine around the cottage. He checks the locks, makes sure the fridge is closed, sets Anya up in her room for the night. He brings her to Ilya for a brief cuddle before she goes away to sleep.
When they finally slip under the blankets together, it’s gone midnight and Ilya has wound down enough for sleep. He rolls onto his preferred right side, feels Shane push up behind him.
“Six more days,” Shane tells him, kiss to his bare shoulder. “Then you’re mine forever.”
“Good,” Ilya whispers. “Can’t wait.”