Summary:

Ilya smirks. “What am I doing?” His thumb drags over Shane’s mouth more roughly this time, making his lips part in an unflattering way. There’s something about the way Ilya’s holding him, butter-soft leather digging into his skin. Something about the way Ilya looks in the dim lighting, dark clothes blending into the shadows. Maybe it’s Ilya, tall and imposing, standing in the dark with his gloved hands gripping Shane hard enough to hurt. “Hurting me,” Shane whispers. ——— Shane buys Ilya a pair of leather driving gloves, and then gets so worked up seeing him wear them that he spontaneously invents consensual noncon.