Summary:

“Shane,” Ilya sighs, dragging his nose along Shane's collarbone. He sounds as affected as Shane feels. He's mouthing at the first few buttons of his shirt like he wants to pop them open, his breathing growing ragged as he slips his hand under the fabric and digs his fingertips into the soft meat around Shane's hip. He's so close to where Shane's inner omega pitifully wants him. He has to stop the whine building on the back of his throat, willing his body to not move. “Ilya,” He says, barely above a whisper. We should stop, he needs to say. We don’t do this, he has to remind them. “Moy solnyshko” Ilya says, and he sounds reverent in a way that has Shane wanting to know what it means, but before he can even find his voice to ask Ilya’s hand traces a path down to his wrist, just below Shane’s scent gland. Fuck, Rozanov. Or, omega shane and the many ways he comforts alpha ilya in that tampa hotel room.