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"I want you…" Shane huffs. Throws a leg over Ilya, straddles his lap. "closer," he finishes, then he presses his hands on Ilya's face, transferring his sweat.
Ilya notes the flush in Shane's cheeks and the growing jut of his cock. Shane shifts so it presses into Ilya and starts to rock slightly, seeking friction, and Ilya holds back a laugh.
"You are so drunk."
Shane pouts. "You're drunk too."
"No." Ilya rests a hand on Shane's hip, lets his other fall to his cock, squeezes twice, then just holds it. "I am, maybe, a little tipsy."
"Semantics." The syllables slur together.
Ilya tries to remember how many wine glasses Shane had. Hosting like this—as a couple, as husbands—is still new to them, and Ilya's proud of Shane for being able to relax enough to drink even a little, let alone enough to get like this.
Shane's hands move from Ilya's face to his hair, pulling and pushing at his curls, then he tips forward. His nose collides with Ilya's cheek at the same time as his cock presses against his hand.
"What are you doing?"
"Closer," Shane insists, and Ilya removes his hands from Shane as he shuffles forward in Ilya's lap until their torsos are nearly flush. They kiss, and Shane moves in slow motion, yet somehow he's still desperate. His hips roll, and he gasps into Ilya's mouth as his hard cock presses against Ilya's stomach.
"Fuck, Ilya. You gotta fuck me."
Ilya pulls back from the kiss, and pushes up the hair plastered to Shane's forehead, skin warm against the touch. Shane grinds into him again, as if he can't help it.
"Am I going to fuck you or are you going keep rutting against me?"
"No, no, I need you to fuck me." Shane drops his head to Ilya's shoulder, still moving his hips. "I'm not gonna—not gonna come. S'just… feels nice."
"Oh, I know it does." Ilya sometimes still can't believe he has this—Shane Hollander, falling apart in his lap. "You take what you need, kotonok."
Ilya shifts them, and Shane whines at the growing space between them, but then he gasps as Ilya settles him on his thigh, his cock pressing into the firm muscle. Rocking into it, he moans.
"Does that feel good, Hollander?"
Shane nods, face twisted with pleasure. He's cute like this, with the red of too many wine glasses leaked into his skin, inhibitions lowered enough to do this—ride Ilya's leg, not caring how it makes him look.
"S'really good. You feel really good," Shane says. "I— oh…"
He groans again, then stops speaking entirely as he grinds against Ilya. The only sounds in the room becomes Shane's gasps and ohs as he loses himself to the sensation. Ilya's cock starts to ache, but he ignores it.
"Baby," Ilya coos, moving his hands to guide Shane's hips. "You need to slow down, or you are going to come like this"
"No," Shane whines. "No, I'm not. M'fine… just give me a minute." The words come out mushed, slurred together and obscured by Shane's heavy breathing. "We're gonna, we're gonna have sex. I need you inside me."
"Okay," Ilya says, disbelieving.
Despite his protests, Shane doesn't slow down, his flush only spreading. Ilya helps him continue the roll of his hips, leans forward to capture his sounds inside a messy kiss. Reaching down, Shane grabs Ilya's cock clunkily, still moving above him.
"Want this inside me," he breathes.
Ilya swats his hand away. "You're going to come before that."
"No." Shane shakes his head. "S'not enough to come. You're going to fuck me."
"You think you can't come like this?" Ilya presses more insistently at Shane's hips, urging him to speed up. And Shane is close, no matter what he says. Ilya's known what Shane Hollander looks like before he comes for over a decade.
"I— I won't, I don't wanna." Shane's rhythm falters, face squeezing up. The realization comes slowly, mind loose because of the alcohol, but his eyes widen when it catches up to him. When he sees how close he really is. "Fuck, Ilya, m'gonna come."
"Yes." Ilya won't let him stop now; he'll move his hips for him if he has too.
"I can't stop it," Shane gasps. "Ilya, can I—"
His hips stutter, and he cuts off with a groan. His body collapses forward even as Ilya reaches down to palm Shane through his orgasm, until Shane's trembling and shaking in Ilya's hold. Ilya wants to drink him in.
"Fuck, you are so beautiful."
Shane groans, hides his face in Ilya's shirt. "Shit."
"What is it, dorogoy?" Ilya runs his hand over his hair, watches as another fraction of him melts.
Shane lifts his head enough for Ilya to see him. His eyes are shining. "I— I didn't mean to come. I wanted— I want you to fuck me."
"Oh, you are so sweet like this, Shanya," Ilya says, considering. His own cock is still hard enough to hurt. "You still want to be fucked?"
Shane's face scrunches up, like he's actually considering it, like he won't surely fall asleep in the time it would take to get hard again.
"How about this?" Ilya reaches into the cushions behind him for the lube. "You can lie down, all comfortable and tired out. I will fuck your pretty thighs."
Shane's lips part and then he's nodding, letting Ilya help him off his lap and out of his ruined pants and underwear. Laid out on the couch, Shane looks up at Ilya with nothing but adoration and want as Ilya slicks up Shane's thighs. Ilya knows he isn't going to last like this. Not with Shane's warm flesh tight around him. He feels almost feverish with want he as fucks into him.
And when Ilya does cross over that edge and spills between Shane's thighs, Shane pulls him down for another kiss. Whispers thank you before they both head off to bed.