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Shane was haloed by the morning sun.
Squinting one eye, Ilya craned his neck to kiss the corner of his serious mouth. He smelled like toothpaste and aftershave. Ilya squinted harder. His hair was damp. Shane nudged his head into Ilya's hand but resisted another kiss, scrunching up his nose, mouth firm.
Ilya stared at his unblinking face and got out of bed. Shane made no move to join him, because he'd been up, Ilya guessed, for hours already. He'd showered and shaved, then came back to bed and tucked himself under the covers, arranged them to look like he'd never left. His eyes were big and dark and too fucking awake for 6AM on a day they had nothing to do and nowhere to be.
Ilya had a few options, but his sour mouth made the decision for him. He stared at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror and then smacked his face, once, hard, to wake himself up. Pissed, brushed his teeth. Thought about showering just to make Shane wait, but that meant Ilya would have to wait too, and his cock had long since risen to the occasion even as the rest of him struggled to catch up.
Shane was still curled onto his side when Ilya returned, sheets drawn up to his chest, modest. Ilya climbed back in bed and mirrored him. They lay that way, breathing in the quiet, until Shane's eyes dropped to his mouth. No protest this time when Ilya leaned in to kiss him. He kept it dry and soft, because they had time, even if Ilya's heart rabbited, unconvinced. Shane shuddered when Ilya slid his tongue in.
Too fast, ok, but Shane took it. Ilya deepened the kiss and Shane moved under his mouth like a ragdoll. Were they going to fuck? Ilya bit his lower lip in question and Shane sighed. No way to know. These stuttering little kisses had Ilya's cock throbbing, but the chances of Shane throwing a leg over and fucking himself on Ilya's cock were about as high as him hopping out of bed and straight into a morning yoga routine that would render him deaf and blind to Ilya's existence for many unbearable minutes.
Ilya was patient. He could be patient. They had the whole day, the whole week. Ilya would not think about what came after; he, too, was practicing mindfulness. Living in the moment. The moment here and now consisted of Shane working him up with his shy mouth. Ilya's lips tingled. They weren't touching anywhere else.
Shane made an annoyed noise when Ilya palmed his chest. Then he pushed him away.
"Cut it out." He licked Ilya off his own mouth, slow swipe of tongue. "No funny business."
"Ok," Ilya said, belated. Shane's mouth twitched. Yes, fine, Ilya was slow this morning, but he had spent half the night fucking someone until they cried, Shane. What the fuck were they talking about? Funny what? Ilya should have taken that shower.
"You promised," Shane prompted. He blinked once, hard. "You said we were just going to, like, make out a little. So don't, don't touch me there."
Ilya raised his brows and put a hand on his shoulder. "Where?"
"Ilya," Shane said, reproachful. Prissy, familiar whine. "You know."
"I don't." Ilya traced the line of his collarbone, let his knuckles drag. "You have to tell me. Don't touch you where?"
"Don't touch my." Shane dropped his eyes. "My tits."
Ilya squirmed his other hand under the covers to grip the base of his dick. Shane saw it, of course he saw it, but he didn't even twitch, gone somewhere else in an instant. The bed of an old pickup truck at the drive-in, or under the bleachers, or getting a little high on the weed fog at someone's shitty houseparty. Maybe he'd cobbled it together from movies he'd been watching on the plane or that fucking jeans commerical that ran a hundred times last night or half a dream from weeks ago that put him in a short skirt and push-up bra, Ilya didn't know. But wherever Shane went, there Ilya was.
"I'm only holding you," he said. "I only want to kiss my pretty girl." Shane's mouth opened for him, because he was easy for it. Ilya's hand dropped to his chest again. Shane forgot the play for a second, sucking on Ilya's tongue too hard for a nervous virgin, so Ilya thumbed the stiff peak of his nipple. "Sorry, sorry," when he jolted, "didn't mean to." A pinch this time, still too light to really feel. "I just want to make you feel good, красотка. Doesn't it feel good?"
"Yes," Shane said, arm over Ilya's shoulder, hand in his hair. Rough, before he remembered to be tentative. "Yes, but you—you can't take off my bra."
Jesus Christ. That fucking commercial.
"I won't," Ilya said, "I won't," and circled his nipple with the pad of his numb. No nails, not for this. Nothing that hurt. Shane sighed into the kiss, then again, a deep, shivery hum when Ilya mouthed at his jaw and sucked a kiss into his throat, so Ilya dared to move lower, teething the swell of his pec when it flexed.
"Ilya."
"Jane," Ilya said. Nails dug into his scalp so hard his eyes prickled. "Is ok," Ilya soothed, "I am only kissing," and placed a chaste kiss on the hard point of a nipple, ignoring the way Shane's hips were shifting under the covers. "Your bra is pretty. Pretty lace. Looks good on your little tits."
"Don't take it off," Shane said, and arched into Ilya's mouth.
"I would not do that," Ilya said, a little offended, and sealed his mouth over a nipple. Shane tugged on his hair how he did when Ilya had his cock down his throat, bicep bulging, strained. Then he gentled, stroking how a girl might. How Jane might, fingers light and shivery. Ilya suckled and lost himself to working his mouth, tugging on his own balls to keep from getting too close. Shane's nipples were small and dark and took work to show a bruise. Ilya sealed his mouth over as much flesh as he could and sucked hard.
"I have to go," Shane said, sounding strangled. Ilya didn't understand until he squirmed, then pulled Ilya's head away. "It's getting late. Oh, fu—uh, Ilya, I have to, um. I have to be home by midnight."
Ilya sucked a kiss to his sternum, then his mouth. It got sloppy fast, impatient. Shane's nipple was wet from spit and swollen from attention, hot to the touch. Ilya plucked at it as they kissed until Shane was panting, barely kissing back.
"Ilya," he said, biting at his mouth, eyes a little wild. "It's getting late. I have to go."
Oh. The frantic shift of Shane's hips as rocking the bed. How long had he been hard? He hadn't woken Ilya. He'd worked himself up while Ilya slept, spinning out the story in his crazy head. Getting close to the edge and pulling himself back over and over again. Waiting.
"Ten more minutes," Ilya said, "and I will drive you home."
Shane wet his mouth. "Only ten?"
"Promise." Shane's eyes fluttered. Ilya's throat was dry. "Let me touch you, pretty girl."
"You said," Shane began, but he wasn't fast enough to catch Ilya's hands as they slipped under the sheets and over his twitching hips. Ilya notched his thumb along the bone for a second, pressing hard to ground himself. Then wrapped his hand around Shane's cock.
"Baby," Ilya said. "What's this?"
"My—clit."
"Yes," Ilya said, and gave him a rough stroke as reward, twisting at the head. He swiped this thumb through the wet there but didn't linger, Shane's hips stuttering, trying to follow the movement of his hand. Ilya paid no attention to that, or to his tight, sensitive balls, just worked his hand between his legs to rub at his taint. Found his asshole soft and loose before it clenched right up under his fingers. "And this?"
"My pussy," Shane gasped.
"Yes," Ilya said, "that's right. Your wet little pussy."
The bellboy had a pussy too, but begged Ilya only fuck his thighs and pinch his clit until he came. Sometimes Ilya held him down and fucked his pussy anyway, and he hid his face in the pillow and cried and said, please, sir, don't, it wasn't my fault, please, please. Ilya smacked his face to shut him up, and then he would go glassy-eyed and soft, all the fight gone, and let Ilya fold his legs up to his ears and wreck his cunt.
Ilya was nicer to the rookie. He had to be; the kid was his responsibility. Rookie had a big dick that Ilya took great satisfaction in ignoring. If he came, it was on Ilya's cock: riding him, straining to get himself off; his thighs burning shivering shaking from all the drills Ilya had just made him run; face red and teary but so determined. He earned the fuck, and what came after: Ilya rubbing him down and telling him how good he was, how special. A winner. And rookie would look up at him, adoring, and let Ilya have whatever he wanted.
Sometimes Ilya was Coach, and sometimes he was fifteen and fucking around with his coach's son. He sucked Ilya's cock every now and then, sloppy and unpracticed, but most of the time they never even made it out of their clothes, just humping each other like they didn't know how to do anything else. He left scratches on the back of Ilya's neck and mean little bruises in the shape of his mouth all over Ilya's throat. He didn't talk—not like the hooker, who wouldn't stop running his mouth. Who turned up with a plug in his sore, used asshole and a little smirk on his face. Ilya wasn't his only client, and he reminded him of this every time. Ilya fucked him so hard he bruised his hipbones, then sucked his softening cock until the tight, ugly feeling in his chest loosened and he remembered where he was. Who he was.
It got crowded, in his head; too many lives, and some of them hurt. But this was Jane, and she was sweet, and left no room for ugliness. Wife material, Shane said of her once, then flicked his eyes up quick and away. Right? But Ilya had not yet met Jane, his wife—only Jane, his girlfriend. He'd assumed she was a hook-up at first and been corrected by her flat mouth and immediate departure. No, not a hookup. Fuck, Ilya was an idiot, it was just a joke, a bad joke, he was sorry. He had to beg to get her back, text after text, missed calls for days. Not casual. No, of course not. He loved her, and he was loyal, didn't Jane trust him? Ilya didn't even look at anyone else—how could he, she was so beautiful, she was so perfect, she was—
—going to make him fucking work for it.
"Ilya," she said, squirming away from his fingers. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing." Ilya shushed her when she started to complain, and fucked two fingers in to the knuckle. Easy, because she was easy. Ilya would never say so, of course; it was only for him to know. Jane had to be treated with respect. "Just a few more minutes."
"We can't have sex," she said, trying to sound annoyed. "You know we can't."
Ilya freed his other hand to stroke her throbbing clit. "Is not sex."
She shivered, clenched down on him. "It's not?"
"No," Ilya said, kissing her jaw. "I just want to make you feel good. Because you make me feel good."
"I do?" Jane whispered.
"You make me so hard, sweetheart," Ilya said, and saying it out loud reminded him of just how hard he was. His balls were starting to hurt. His fucking abs hurt.
Ilya did not know what kind of mood Jane was in, and how much longer she would take to convince. Sometimes she arrived sopping wet and sore from fucking herself on her fingers. Sometimes she'd never seen a cock before, and it took an hour to get his dick inside her pretty mouth.
Ilya was not going to last an hour. He wasn't sure he could last another minute. When he rolled onto his back, he took her with him. The covers tangled, wrapped them up, got shoved aside. He didn't have to guide her hand to his dick, but she only stroked him with her fingertips, so gently even the air felt heavier.
Her thumb circled the purpling head, collecting precum at the slit. "It's so big. Does it hurt?"
"Yes," Ilya said, bucking up when she took her hand away. Fuck. He was patient. He was so patient. Having to coach her on how to touch his dick was going to make him cry. "I want to fuck you."
"You can't," Jane said, and Ilya knew, fuck it, he gave up, he would come on her belly, her ass, pay for it later. He was about to flip her when she put her hands on his chest and settled over his lap. "But maybe if—maybe just the tip."
Ilya bit the inside of his cheek and stayed very still.
"Because it doesn't count," Jane said, rising to her knees. Ilya's nails were digging into her hips, would leave little red crescents. She had his cock notched right up against her warm, wet cunt before he could even finish picturing it. "Right? Ilya? It doesn't count if it's just, just."
"Doesn't," Ilya said through this teeth, "you can," and all the air left him in a groan when she sank down, tight, clinging heat on the head of his dick.
"It's so big, I feel. I feel like—does it still hurt?"
"Yes," Ilya said, then, "no, it's—perfect—Sh—Jane, fuck."
"Ilya," Shane said, and then dropped down onto his cock so hard Ilya's vision went blurry. "Oh, fuck, sorry, I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, I'm going to come," and folded himself up to get at Ilya's mouth, hands in his hair, working his hips in tight little circles then lifting himself up, slamming down. Ilya kissed him back blindly, groping for his chest, his ass. Gripping him with both hands and working him down using just his arms because Ilya had no leverage to fuck up into him, because he was fucking crushed under two hundred and four pounds of muscle. His little girlfriend, Jane.
Shane rolled them over again, and they narrowly escaped falling off the bed. Ilya caught himself, one foot on the floor, trying to stay upright while Shane folded his legs up and held them open and said, "fuck me, fuck me, make me come, fuck me."
"My god," Ilya said, holding his dick steady, "Jane, you fucking slut. What happened to you?"
Shane threw an arm over his face and whined. "Fuck off, asshole," then, when Ilya made to pull away, "no, don't stop, please, please, Ilya, please."
Ilya wanted to tease, drag it out and rub it in his face, because Shane never broke first. It had been Ilya last time, and the time before that, and every time Shane sulked over it. You don't take it seriously enough, that's why. You're not even trying, Ilya. Here, finally, the tables had turned: poor sweet virgin Jane cracking right open under the weight of Shane Hollander's desperation. Ilya could milk this for days.
Later. He'd do it later. Because everything had gone blurry and hot and it was only a minute before Shane came all over himself, so hard it landed on his fucking throat. Each pulse milked Ilya's cock, his asshole bearing down so tight Ilya could barely fuck the tip in, the tip, the fucking tip, and he came like that, just the head notched in Shane's asshole and filling him up.
He slumped onto him as he slipped out, hot face pressed into the curve of Shane's neck. A hand in his hair pulled him back up and to Shane's mouth. Kisses on his jaw, his nose, the corner of his eye, because Shane liked getting what he wanted and liked making it known. Positive reinforcement. It made Ilya want to laugh and slap him and hold on to him forever.
"Sorry," Shane was saying, planting another kiss to Ilya's chin. "I don't know what happened, I just, I just got so—"
"Greedy," Ilya finished. "You are a greedy cockslut. This is known."
"Shut up." Mouth to mouth this time, slow and easy. Shane's eyes were dark, sleepy at last. "It was good."
"It is always good," Ilya said. "Except immigration officer."
Shane kicked him. "Ok, we're done."
"Everyone has stupid ideas sometimes," Ilya said, "except me, but don't feel bad," and caught him before he could roll off the bed. They wrestled, and Ilya won even though he couldn't feel his arms or legs or face, and Shane was biting the corner of his mouth to keep from smiling. "Do you think Jane would let me eat come out of her pussy?"
"No," Shane murmured. Ilya kneaded his hamstring and he shivered into the stretch while Ilya kissed his way down his chest. "Never. That's so gross."
"No?" Ilya hummed. "What about Shane?"
"Who's that?"
Ilya rested his chin on his knee and looked up at him. "My favorite."
Shane's eyes went liquid. He fisted a hand in Ilya's hair and pulled him in.
"Shane might."
He did.