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Shane ran his hands over Ilya’s back, feeling the heat of his skin, the tension of the muscles under his palms.
“Two hours,” he murmured against his mouth.
Ilya answered by kissing the corner of his chin, the line of his jaw, the exact spot behind his ear where Shane always lost his breath.
“One hundred and twenty minutes,” he corrected, voice muffled against skin. “Tick-tock, Hollander.”
Ilya went down.
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