Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Oneshot, Porn What Plot, Daddy Kink, Kink Discovery, Established Relationship, Domesticity, Improper Use of a Dining Table, Grinding, Spanking, jerking off, Oral Sex, Rimming, Dom/sub, Post Heated Rivalry, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Bratty Shane Hollander, Smut, Shameless Smut, Come Marking, handjobs, Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink

Language:

English

Collections:

my fav gay hockey players, Heated Rivalry ➻ Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov / Shane Hollander, Hockey hockey hockey

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-27 Words: 4,844 Chapters: 1/1

Slip of the Tongue

Summary

One accidental word sends Shane spiraling, but Ilya knows exactly what Shane needs—and he’s going to make him ask for it properly.

or

Shane accidentally calls Ilya Dad and realizes he might have a daddy kink

Notes

“—and I told them we could absolutely host it at the lake cottage if you think that would work,” Yuna said, “But only if you’re comfortable with it, sweetheart. I know how you feel about—”

Shane stirred the pasta sauce, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. His mother’s voice filled the kitchen—bright, excited, planning another charity dinner for the Irina Foundation. He tested the sauce with the wooden spoon. Salt. It needed more salt. Behind him, Ilya moved through the living room, footsteps muffled against carpet, and Shane’s attention split between his mother’s words and the awareness of Ilya’s presence.

“No, Mom, it’s fine,” Shane said. He reached for the wooden spoon and tasted the sauce. “The cottage is perfect for that and as long as they’re, you know, safe, it’s fine. How many people?”

“Maybe twenty? Thirty at most. Your father’s very excited. He’s already planning the menu.”

Shane smiled despite himself. His dad took any excuse to fire up the grill. “Tell him I’ll handle drinks so there’s both alcoholic and nonalcoholic options. And he doesn’t need to make enough food for sixty people.”

His mother laughed. “You know how he gets.”

Ilya came into the kitchen barefoot, jeans riding low on his hips. No shirt. Shane’s stomach did that stupid swooping flip it always did when Ilya looked like this—relaxed, unselfconscious, home like he lived here all the time instead of just a guest. Ilya opened the fridge and grabbed a beer, twisted the cap off. Shane tracked the movement, the flex of muscle in his forearms, the line of his shoulders.

“Anyway,” his mom continued, “we were hoping you could come up on the weekend of the fifteenth? I know your schedule is impossible, but—”

“Mom, one second, let me check.” Shane pulled the phone away and covered the microphone with a hand. “Do we have anything for the fifteenth?”

Ilya took a swig of beer, leaned against the counter. “Is Saturday?”

“Yeah.”

“Bears play Toronto on Friday.” Ilya said, thinking. “But is home game, so I will not be able to go. But you… I do not think the Voyageurs play anyone that day, so you could go Saturday morning.”

Shane nodded, bringing the phone back. “I can do Saturday, Mom. I’ll drive up in the morning.”

“Oh, wonderful! Your father will be thrilled.” She paused. “And is that Ilya there? Tell him hello from me.”

It was still surreal that his parents knew, and even more strange how quickly they’d accepted.

Weeks had passed since the phone charger, the freakout, the spaghetti dinner that somehow became family. Still, hearing his mother say Ilya’s name—casual, fond, like it had always been there—felt like waking from a dream he hadn’t known he was having.

Or maybe a hallucination.

“And tell him we’d love to have him visit sometime. Both of you.”

“I will.” Shane turned the heat down under the sauce. “I should go, dinner’s almost ready.”

“Of course. Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

Shane ended the call, set his phone on the counter. Ilya was watching him with that particular expression—the one where his eyes went soft and his mouth relaxed into an almost-smile. The one he only wore when they were alone.

“Your parents are good,” Ilya said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Shane pulled plates from the cabinet. “They want to get to know you more properly. Not just—you know. A real visit where we spend time and no one’s… processing. You know?”

“I would like this too.” Ilya drained his beer, set the bottle aside. He moved closer, slid his arms around Shane’s waist from behind, chin hooking over Shane’s shoulder. “You are good son. Is sweet.”

Shane’s face went hot. “Shut up.”

Ilya’s laugh rumbled against his back. “Is true, though. You call your mother every week. You go to lake house for parties. You—” His lips brushed the side of Shane’s neck, and Shane felt the scrape of stubble. “—you are very good son. You—”

“You are going to make me burn the sauce.” Shane tried to sound stern, but Ilya’s hands had started moving—thumbs tracing the waistband of Shane’s jeans, fingers spreading wider across his stomach. “Stop distracting me.”

“Am I distracting?” Ilya’s mouth curved against Shane’s skin—Shane could feel the shape of his smile. One of Ilya’s hands slid higher, thumb dragging along Shane’s ribs through his shirt.

“Yes.” Shane exhaled. “And you know it.”

Ilya pressed one more kiss to the side of Shane’s neck, then let go. “Fine. I set table.”

Shane watched him move around the kitchen, pulling out silverware and napkins with the ease of someone who’d done this dozens of times. They’d fallen into this pattern over the past few months; Shane cooking when Ilya came to visit him in Montreal, Ilya handling cleanup, both of them moving around each other like they’d been this domestic for years instead of months.

The pasta water boiled. Shane drained it, mixed everything together. Ilya had already poured wine, set out the parmesan. They sat across from each other at the small table by the window, Montreal’s lights spreading out below them.

“So,” Ilya said, twirling pasta on his fork. “Your father wants big party?”

“My Mom does, to thank some of the sponsors for the Irina Foundation, and it’s a good idea,” Shane said, ignoring his wine for water instead, “My Dad’s a good cook and… yeah, looks like my Mom just emailed the menu he has in mind too. Um, but, the dinner, yes. It might spread more word of mouth and drum up more donations if we treat them somewhat family style to a dinner because of…” He gestured vaguely at himself.

Ilya’s eyebrows rose. “Because you are very famous hockey player with well known brand and media history with marketable face?”

“I guess.”

“And very handsome?”

“Stop.”

“And very good son who calls his mother and father—”

Shane kicked him under the table. Ilya grinned, unrepentant, and took a bite of pasta.

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and chatted lightly for the rest of the meal. Ilya’s schedule in Boston. Hayden and his five hundred children. Shane was reaching for more wine when Ilya pushed back from the table, gathering their empty plates.

“I got it,” Shane said.

“You cooked.” Ilya was already at the sink, running water. “I clean. Is fair.”

Shane took another sip of wine, watched Ilya rinse the dishes. His phone buzzed with a text from his mom with three heart emojis and a photo of his dad at the grill—He is so excited! What did you think of the menu?—Shane smiled, typing back a response.

“Shane? More wine, or should I rinse your glass?” Ilya asked, turning from the sink.

Shane glanced up, still half-focused on his phone and the photo. “Yeah, thanks, Dad.”

The words left his mouth before his brain caught up. Oh no. Oh fuck. Shane’s entire body went cold, then hot. The phone nearly slipped from his hand, the photo of his actual father still grinning up at him from the screen. His ears were ringing. Oh fuck.

Ilya stopped mid-step. His eyes went wide, lips parting.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck. Shit. Where the hell did that come from?

“I—” Shane’s face burned, “I didn’t mean—I was just—my mom—the picture—”

Oh fuck. He was unable to even finish the sentence or a single coherent thought, much less explain how his brain had crossed those wires—his real father on the phone screen, Ilya’s voice behind him, the word just... emerging. Shane could feel the molten embarrassment spreading down his neck, across his collarbones. This wasn’t—he hadn’t meant—

Ilya set a plate down on the counter. Slowly. His expression had gone carefully blank, but Shane knew that look. That was Ilya thinking. Processing.

“Sorry,” Shane said. His ears were ringing. “I was still thinking about the call, and I just—it slipped out. I wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?”

Shane couldn’t read his face. He couldn’t tell if Ilya was uncomfortable or offended or—

“Is interesting,” Ilya said softly.

Shane’s stomach dropped. “It was an accident.”

“Mm.” Ilya moved closer, leaning against the counter. His eyes hadn’t left Shane’s face. “You were thinking about your father?”

“No. I mean—yes. I was just—” Shane couldn’t finish the sentence. His thoughts had scattered.

“So you look at me,” Ilya said, still in that soft, considering voice of his, “and you think ‘Dad’?”

“It was a mistake, haven’t you ever messed up one word for another? I wasn’t thinking.”

“Not that one.” Ilya tilted his head. His gaze dropped to Shane’s neck, his chest, then dragged back up. “Your face is very red.”

It was. Shane could feel the heat spreading down his neck, across his collarbones. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

“Interesting,” Ilya said again. He picked up the wine bottle, filled Shane’s glass. The wine climbed the crystal, dark and slow. When he set the bottle down, he didn’t step back. “You are embarrassed.”

“Of course I’m embarrassed, calling you… that! My Dad is my father.” Even as he said it, Shane knew he was protesting too hard. And from the way Ilya’s eyes glittered, Ilya knew it too.

“If ‘Dad’ is your father,” Ilya said, “would Daddy be easier for you to say for me?”

“Fuck you,” Shane spat out automatically, “That’s gross.”

And it was. It was. Pornstars said it in videos Shane had watched once and immediately closed. Hayden had made the joke last time he’d seen him when he spotted an expensive watch Ilya gave Shane—from your sugar daddy?—and Shane had walked away from that conversation, skin crawling at the implication. And who wanted to fuck their actual father? Nobody. That wasn’t what people meant when they said it, obviously, but Shane had never understood the appeal of the word itself, the way it showed up in porn titles and romance novels like it was supposed to be hot instead of weird.

Except—

Shane’s brain kept working, turning the idea over despite himself. When Ilya pressed him into the mattress, hands rough on Shane’s wrists, when Ilya’s weight pinned him down and that voice dropped low in Russian—malysh, baby—Shane didn’t think about fathers or anything remotely close to that. He thought about how Ilya knew what Shane needed before Shane knew it himself. How Ilya took control when Shane’s brain got too loud, when the anxiety spiraled and Shane needed someone to just tell him what to do. How safe that felt, being held down, being taken care of, being—

Was that what people meant? That part of it? Loving someone, trusting someone, and letting yourself be small small when they could just take over and control through care? Obliquely, through his periphery, Shane could see the appeal of it now, just a little. Okay. Fine. Maybe that was why someone might want a word for that dynamic, something that captured all of it at once.

… but that wasn’t what he and Ilya did. Control yes, trust yes, but there wasn’t a name for it. They just... did what they did, and it worked, and Shane had never needed language for it before.

And Ilya… was still looking at him. He hadn’t moved from his spot against the counter. His gaze stayed fixed on Shane, tracking the movement of Shane’s throat as he swallowed the wine. When their eyes met again, Ilya’s pupils had blown wide, nearly drowning out the hazel. He was waiting to see what Shane would do next.

And Shane was still spiraling.

David Hollander: his goofy, middle-aged, silver haired father in his loon apron making enough burgers for ninety people wearing socks in his sneakers and grinning like a fool for the camera. Dad.

Ilya Rozanov: his boyfriend, his sexy, all-consuming, stunning boyfriend, staring at him now with half-lidded eyes, all his rippling muscle on display, those strong arms relaxed now, but easily able to haul him up and carry him to bed, or even bend him over the counter right here and….

A shudder. No. Not Dad but… oh fuck. Daddy?

Feeling dizzy, Shane reached for his wine and drank half the glass in three swallows. “Forget it. Can we just—”

“Try it.”

Shane’s fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass until he felt the delicate crystal flex under the pressure. Blood rushed in his ears. “What?”

Ilya stepped closer. Close enough that Shane could smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “I said ‘try it’. Maybe you like the taste of that one for me more.”

“... no.”

“Why not? Is just word.”

It wasn’t just a word. They both knew it. Shane could feel his heartbeat everywhere—pulse, throat, wrists. Ilya was reading him the way he always did, seeing things Shane hadn’t even realized were there. Was there something here? For him? Or—

Shane blinked. Wait. He looked at Ilya more carefully now, noticing the flush creeping up his neck, the way his hands had curled into fists at his sides like he was restraining himself.

“You—” Shane realized, “You liked it.”

Ilya had been the one to stop moving in the kitchen. Ilya had been the one whose voice went soft and dangerous. This wasn’t just Shane’s mortification, no, this was also interest.

“Who wouldn’t when you say it so prettily?”

Shane’s mind raced. Ilya had indulged every one of Shane’s anxieties, every careful boundary, every need for control. Had sat through Shane’s performance diet without complaint, had learned to read his moods like sheet music. And now Ilya was standing here, flushed and restrained, wanting something and not taking it.

Shane could… give him this.

Ilya had given him everything—all his firsts, structure, love, acceptance. Ilya had given and given, and Shane had taken. He could give Ilya this. He… wanted to give Ilya this.

Pulse kicking hard, Shane’s fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass. “You … really want this.”

Ilya shrugged and turned away noncommittally but the answer was clear as day. Shane let the silence stretch until Ilya had rinsed another dish and set it in the rack. The clink of ceramic against metal filled the space between them as he went to finish cleaning.

“How much longer till you finish those dishes,” Shane asked, his tongue catching on the word before he forced it out. “Daddy?”

Ilya went completely still. Water dripped from the pasta pot in his hands back into the sink, each drop loud in the sudden quiet. Then he pulled the plug. The gurgle of draining water was the only sound as he grabbed the Montreal Voyageurs branded dish towel, dried his hands in two efficient swipes, and turned around.

His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide.

“Say it again.”

Shane’s heart slammed against his ribs. He tilted his chin up, trying for casual even though his hands had started to shake. “Why? You didn’t say please.”

Ilya crossed the kitchen. Three steps, four, and then he was there, close enough that Shane’s breath caught in his throat. Shane had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Ilya’s hand came up, fingers curling under Shane’s jaw, tilting his face up further.

“You think you are being clever.”

“I think—” Shane’s voice cracked when Ilya’s thumb pressed against his lower lip. “I think you like it when I make you work for it.”

“Mozhet byt’.” Ilya’s thumb dragged across Shane’s mouth, the pressure firm enough to part his lips. “Stand up.”

The command shot straight down Shane’s spine. He pushed his chair back, legs unsteady as he stood, and Ilya immediately backed him against the table. The edge dug into Shane’s lower back. Ilya’s hands settled on his hips, grip firm and possessive, and then he was lifting Shane like he weighed nothing, hoisting him to sit on the freshly cleared table where they’d just eaten. Ilya stepped between his thighs, spreading them wider, and Shane’s hands flew to Ilya’s shoulders for balance. The kitchen lights cast shadows across Ilya’s face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth as he leaned in.

The kiss was not gentle.

Ilya’s tongue swept into Shane’s mouth, demanding and thorough, and Shane made a sound in his throat that might have been embarrassment or need or both. Ilya’s hands slid up his thighs, thumbs pressing into the crease where thigh met hip, and Shane’s entire body lit up with want.

When Ilya pulled back, his gaze dropped and lingered. Shane didn’t need to look down to know what Ilya was seeing—the obvious tent in his jeans, the way his hips had already started rocking forward seeking friction.

“Always so needy, aren’t you, malysh?”

Malysh. Baby. Shane heard the satisfaction threaded through the Russian, and thought he’d heard the words a hundred times, it’d never been with this tone—hungry and rumbling, honey-thick, outright possession threading through every syllable. His fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders as Ilya rolled his hips forward. The pressure against Shane’s cock made him gasp, made him feel the answering hardness pressed against his inner thigh.

“Or maybe you prefer moy mal’chik.” Ilya’s breath was hot against Shane’s ear. “My boy.”

He ground forward again, the friction sparking up Shane’s spine.

“Oh, sh-shit.”

“Because that’s what you’ve always been. Right Shane? Moy mal’chik?”

“Fuck, yes, Ilya—” Shane moaned, because Ilya was right; Shane was Ilya’s. He really was always his, ever since that first day, since the gym, the hotel, that cold wall in December. His hips shifted forward, seeking friction against the table edge, chasing the heat building in his gut from nothing but Ilya’s voice, Ilya’s hands, words that made Shane feel on fire.

“Who?”

“... Daddy. Please.”

“Please what? I can’t give it to you unless you ask for it.”

“I—fuck you—take me to bed already!”

“Mmm. No. Not now.”

Ilya’s hands gripped Shane’s shoulders and pulled, dragging him forward until his ass barely perched on the table’s edge. Then Ilya spun him with one rough hand between his shoulder blades, bending him forward until Shane’s palms slapped against the polished wood. His cheek pressed against the cool surface, and he heard the metallic rasp of his zipper, felt Ilya’s fingers hook into his waistband.

The denim and thin cotton slid down his thighs in one smooth pull, bunching around his ankles. Cool air hit his bare skin. Shane’s cock hung heavy between his legs, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Look at you,” Ilya said, his palm smoothing over Shane’s ass, fingers spreading wide across the muscle. “You’ve always been so easy for me, malysh. Such a good boy for me… usually. But this? ‘Fuck you’?” The hand on his ass squeezed, hard enough to make Shane hiss through his teeth. “Is that how you talk to me now?” Ilya’s other hand joined the first, kneading the flesh, thumbs digging into the crease where ass met thigh. “You think you can be rude and still get what you want?”

“I think you’re all talk,” Shane shot back, even as his thighs trembled.

Ilya hummed, considering. His hands left Shane’s ass, and Shane heard the slide of a belt, the rustle of fabric and for a moment there was terrible prickle of fear, but—no—Ilya was opening his own jeans. Shane tried to look back over his shoulder, but Ilya’s hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pinning him down.

“Stay still, malysh.” The clink of a belt buckle, then Ilya’s breathing changed, went rougher. “Let Daddy look at you.”

Shane’s teeth found his lower lip, worrying the flesh as heat coiled low in his belly. Exposed, aching, already slick with want—he could feel himself leaking, a bead of precome already on his tip and the cool air was a torment against heated skin. Behind him, Ilya’s breath hitched, and Shane realized—Ilya was touching himself. Getting himself off while Shane was bent over the table, exposed and aching.

“You’re such a brat,” Ilya said, his voice strained now. “So mouthy. So disrespectful. Maybe I should teach you better manners.”

Shane’s hips shifted, seeking friction that wasn’t there. “Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I will.” Ilya’s free hand returned to Shane’s ass, and Shane groaned softly as that hand slid down to cup a cheek, fingers digging into the plush of his skin. “Should I spank you? Make this pretty ass red? Would that help you remember how to behave?”

“Try it,” Shane said, even though his whole body had started shaking. “See what happens.”

Ilya laughed, breathless and dark. A shudder licked up Shane’s spine as Ilya’s hand came down on his ass, sharp and stinging. That rough palm against his soft skin, the sound of it, cracking in the quiet kitchen, made him whimper, already making a mess on the table with his cock, precome smearing against the wood as he jerked forward with a gasp.

“Like that?” Ilya’s palm smoothed over the hot skin. “Or harder?”

Shane’s fingers scrabbled against the wood. His cock throbbed where it hung in open air, precome already beading at the tip. Behind him, Ilya’s breathing had gone rough, ragged. The sound of it made Shane’s thighs shake.

“Harder, Daddy,” Shane heard himself say, and Ilya groaned.

The second slap landed on his right cheek, harder, the sound cracking through the kitchen. Shane’s fingers scrabbled against the wood. The third made his vision blur. The fourth had him biting back a whimper.

“There,” Ilya said, satisfaction thick in his voice. His palm rubbed circles over Shane’s burning skin. “Isn’t that better malysh?”

Shane’s cock was leaking steadily now, his hips making small aborted movements. “Please—”

“Please what?”

“Please, Daddy, I’ll—I’ll be good.” The word came easier this time. Daddy. Fuck, please, his Daddy. Shane’s whole body shook with it. He needed Ilya to touch him so badly his vision blurred.

“Will you?” Ilya’s stroking had picked up pace, Shane could hear it in his breathing. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

“I will,” Shane promised desperately. “I’ll be so good, please—”

Ilya’s breathing went ragged and he was shifting again. His hand tightened on Shane’s ass, fingers digging in, and then Shane felt him coming, painting hot, lewd ropes of his spend across his skin, painting the tender flesh there. Ilya groaned as he came all over Shane’s reddened ass, marking him like a dog.

For a moment, the only sound was Ilya catching his breath. Then his hand gentled, smoothing over Shane’s reddened skin, spreading the mess. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Moy mal’chik.”

Shane whimpered. His cock was so hard it hurt, and Ilya hadn’t touched it once.

“Now.” Ilya’s voice had dropped back to that commanding tone. “Are you going to behave for me?”

“Yes, yes,” Shane couldn’t help the way his face burned, and the stammered yes, yes, Daddy yes, that tumbled from his mouth, barely coherent. “Yes, Daddy, please—”

This, Shane thought hazily. This was what he’d needed without knowing, giving Ilya this, being his boy, his baby, Ilya’s hands, Ilya’s mouth, Ilya’s voice shaping him into something new and wanted. This, this, this.

“Good boy.”

From behind, Shane heard movement, fabric rustling, and then Ilya’s hands were on his ass again, spreading him open. Shane’s breath stuttered.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” Ilya said, and Shane heard him drop to his knees. “But first—”

Shane yelped just as he felt teeth sink into the muscle of his right cheek, hard enough to leave another mark. Ilya’s tongue soothed over the bite mark, then his breath ghosted lower, over Shane’s hole, and then the shivers returned, edging on quaking, embarrassing trembles, completely helpless and ruined for the feel of Ilya’s lips on his body, making him keen, making his already flushing cock leak like a faucet.

“Oh—” Shane started, but the word dissolved as the table edge pressed against his cock. The wood was smooth and cool, and Shane rocked forward without thinking, chasing the friction.

Ilya’s hands clamped down on his hips, yanking him back. Air opened up between Shane’s aching cock and the table, three or four horrible inches of nothing.

“No, no,” Ilya tsked. “You don’t get to hump the table like a mutt. When would I ever allow this?” Ilya reached a hand around to stroke Shane instead, humming at the whine above him. “You have terrible manners when you are needy, malysh. You are lucky you are cute when you act so pathetic.”

Shane tried to form words, but they died in his throat in favor of a sinful, needy sound instead as Ilya’s hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking once, twice, then releasing. The loss made him groan.

“Daddy—”

“Shh.” Ilya’s breath was hot against Shane’s skin, trailing lower. “Let me take care of you.”

The first touch of Ilya’s tongue made Shane’s knees buckle. Wet heat circled his rim, teasing, and Shane’s hands scrabbled for purchase on the smooth tabletop. Ilya spread him wider, thumbs pressing into the meat of his ass as his tongue lapped at Shane’s hole in long, broad strokes.

“Fuck,” Shane gasped. His forehead pressed against the wood, his entire body drawn tight as a bowstring. Each indulgent pass of Ilya’s tongue, and those pleased, hummed sounds of yes yes, malysh, yes, against his rim as he ate Shane out made him feel euphoric, desired and kept and devoured. “Fuck, Ilya—”

Ilya pulled back. The loss of contact made Shane whimper.

“Try again,” Ilya said.

“P-Please, fuck. I-Ilya, Daddy,” he gasped, the beginning of overstimulated tears stinging his eyes, face pressed against the table, drool slicking his chin.

“Better.” Ilya’s tongue returned, this time pushing inside. The sensation shot up Shane’s spine, electric and overwhelming. Ilya worked him open with his tongue, thorough and relentless, one hand reaching around to stroke Shane’s cock in time with each thrust.

Shane couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Every nerve ending in his body had narrowed to two points of contact—Ilya’s tongue inside him, Ilya’s hand on his shaft. The pressure built low in his gut, coiling tighter and tighter until Shane couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and another began.

“I’m—” Shane choked out. “I’m gonna—”

Tongue pressing deeper, lapping his rim, Ilya’s hand sped up, and a high-pitched keen tore from Shane’s throat as his orgasm rolled through him, shaking from his core outwards, rattling thoughts from his head. His cock throbbed and pulsed, come spilling over Ilya’s fingers and onto the hardwood floor for them to deal with later. “Oh fuck, fuck, Daddy, Daddy…!”

Ilya worked him through it, tongue and hand gentling but not stopping until Shane was gasping, oversensitive, his legs threatening to give out entirely.

When Ilya finally pulled away, Shane collapsed forward onto the table, boneless. His cheek rested against the cool wood, his breath coming in ragged pants. Behind him, he heard Ilya stand, and heard the rustle of fabric as Ilya tucked himself back into his jeans. Then Ilya’s hands were on him again, gentler now, pulling Shane upright. Shane turned, leaning back against the table edge for support, blinking through the haze, a weak sound leaving his mouth. He found Ilya watching him with an entirely fond, entirely smug expression on his handsome face.

“So,” Ilya said, his spit-slicked lips quirking. “Still think I am all talk? Still ‘gross’?”

Shane’s laugh came out breathless. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to ignore how badly his legs were still shaking. “Okay. Fine. That was—” He stopped and swallowed, still catching his breath and runaway heart. “That was really fucking hot.”

“Yeah?” Ilya stepped closer, his hands settling on Shane’s hips.

“Yeah.” Shane murmured, preening under a soft kiss Ilya laid on his temple. The warmth of Ilya’s hands on his hips grounded him, the skin-to-skin contact even more so. “I might be... into this.”

Ilya’s grin widened. He leaned in, pressing another kiss to Shane’s opposing temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

And then Ilya’s hand came down on his ass with a playful, gentle, swat.

“Good. Now then be a good boy and go to the bedroom,” Ilya said, his voice dropping back into that intoxicating, rumbling lilt. He paused, his thumb rubbing circles over the mark he’d left. “Get on the bed. Use your fingers to open yourself up for Daddy, so I can fuck you properly.”

Shane’s spent cock gave a valiant twitch to his own mortification. Okay, wow, he was definitely into this. Not trusting words, Shane nodded, and Ilya stepped back to let him pass.

Shane walked toward the bedroom on unsteady legs, leaving his jeans in a heap on the kitchen floor. Behind him, he heard Ilya chuckle.

“Tak, khorosho, malysh. Moy khoroshiy mal’chik.” Ilya called after him. “Don’t make Daddy wait.”