Summary:

It wasn’t fair, because Shane didn’t even do it on purpose. His ignorance was a product of years of repression. They’ve been together for more than a decade, and they’ve fucked, fought, and everything in between — but somehow Shane was still oblivious to the warning signs of his heat. In the days before it came, Shane would pace about the house in a huff; sweat on his brow, gnawing on a candy bar, complaining about a headache, befuddled as to his own state of dysfunction. He always smelled like absolute fucking sin too. It took all Ilya had not to drop to Shane’s feet, mouth open, tongue at the ready, and offer his enthusiastic services. Ilya tried to do so, early on in their relationship, but Shane kicked him away like he was a nosy terrier, tsked at and scolded for its eagerness to serve. Finicky little omega. Ilya would die for him, truly. (Or, the trials and tribulations of Shane Hollander's heat cycle).