Summary:

Ilya took a long drag. The tip of his cigarette glowed red in the darkness and it stirred something in Shane's belly. A Pavlovian response, maybe, since Ilya was so fond of smoking and Shane was so fond of him. No, no---it was definitely the cigarette. His lips held it so gently, not dissimilar from the way he would kiss down Shane's stomach or against his earlobe. On the inhale, his face was tight, focused, and his chest puffed out. He kept his lips parted with a mouth of smoke, holding it until he was ready to breathe out. When he tried to talk with smoke in his mouth, he always sounded breathless, choked, strained---like when he was trying to stop himself from coming too fast. On the exhale, the thick smoke danced beautifully against his features, even more so in the dimly lit room. Shane found himself holding his breath until the smoke had left Ilya's mouth. This was dizzying. "Something on my face, Hollander?"