Summary:

The flight home seemed to take forever. So did the drive, even as he broke every speed limit. His hand was shaking when he tried to get the key in the door. Once, twice, he missed. Then it was flung open. Shane was standing there. He was dressed only in the smallest pair of briefs, the black fabric stretched over the curve of his muscular thighs and ass. A fine sheen of sweat covered his skin and his chest was heaving with shallow, panting breaths. His eyes were hazy and dark. He smelled like sweat and sweetness and Shane. Like everything Ilya had ever wanted since he was just a boy of seventeen. Or: Shane's suppressants are failing.