Summary:

The thing about sex with Ilya Rozanov is that Shane can’t chill out about it.

The predator that lurks under his skin is unable to settle, fighting endlessly against his hands, his touch, the feeling of his fingers curling at the nape of his neck. It's always a fight, even when Shane tries to be good, some sharp-tongued creature stirring in his chest, his instincts fired up and honed on the ice.

Ilya, he thinks, enjoys it.

OR: Shane's rut arrives. So does his bloodthirstiness. And, even worse, his honesty.