Summary:

“Tell me about your dream again,” Ilya says.

It’s two in the fucking morning, and Shane’s body is already worked up from Ilya’s palm kneading his thigh, his lips brushing against Shane’s hipbone. Hasn’t even had his cock touched yet. He’s been hard for half an hour, and Ilya has done absolutely nothing to help him. Wine-tipsy and warm all over, Shane had let Ilya lay him on his back, stripping him slowly: t-shirt pushed to his armpits, Ilya’s mouth chasing the hem, pulling it over his head. Too slow for Shane’s liking, Ilya unzipped Shane’s pants, shimmying them down his thighs, tongue flat against the soft skin on the inside of his left thigh, leaving it wet. Ilya’s breath prickled cold, rippling through the rest of his body.