Summary:

“You looked so fucking pretty tonight, Hollander. In that big jersey, with that backwards hat. Wanted to bend you over in front of all your friends and fuck you untill you cried.” Shane whimpers, hands grasping at the car seat beneath him. “Please, Ilya. Touch me. Need you.” Ilya pulls his own shirt up over his head and then pauses. Has an idea. “Get in the back seat, sweetheart.”