Summary:

Ilya grins, a slow, filthy unraveling of lust spilling across his face. “Moya shlyukha, I would not be able to keep my hands off of you,” he rasps, palming his dick, grinning at the faint squelch, the wet drag of his fingers. Shane bucks into his hand, his jaw dropping open, slack with need. Ilya's whole heart aches as he watches his husband sink into pleasure, hitching whimpers escaping from his throat. “You would be the star of the room, no? Every eye would be on you, thorns in their heart for all they cannot have.”

“You do,” Shane reminds him, as if it's needed, as if Ilya cannot feel it in each clench of his thighs, each wandering drag of his fingers, in the way his hips roll across Ilya's, involuntary, strangled whines rising from his mouth. “You always have.”

OR: Sometimes, simply being married to Shane isn't enough. Sometimes, Ilya wants him in ways he can't explain; caught and collared and safe beneath his hand.