Summary:

Florida felt illicit. Their hotel had been on the beach, steps from the sand. Hallways had smelled of sunscreen and salt water. The view from their balcony had been sky and ocean, shades of the same blue. Everything had glistened. Everything had pulsed. Ilya had worn the skimpiest pair of swim trunks Shane had ever seen in his life. Neon blue, nearly nonexistent, low on Ilya’s hips, so Shane had spent at least five minutes every hour blinking back the shock. He had tried to read by the pool—he really had. He’d stretched out on a lounge chair, book on his chest, sunglasses on, telling himself he was being relaxed. He’d even gotten in two whole pages before the sun had vanished. “You are ignoring me,” Ilya had announced. Then he’d climbed right into Shane’s lap. Not beside him. Not over him. Straddling him. Shane’s book had sailed off his stomach and onto the pool deck. He’d reached toward it reflexively but halted when Ilya cupped his face, and his thumbs rubbed the edges of Shane’s sunglasses. or hollanov take a lil pre-holiday break in the sun