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    Summary

    Ilya locked his arm around Shane’s throat and drew him up onto his knees. The hold was snug, a real headlock, the kind that would make most men tap out. Shane didn’t tap out, but he stayed very still. His pulse galloped against the juncture of Ilya’s elbow, powerfully enough that Ilya could feel its insistent throbbing. Everything in the room had been pulled taut—the cord of Ilya’s shoulders, the line of Shane’s back, even the air between them had a rigidity to it. Ilya was breathing heavily, panting open-mouthed against Shane’s sweat-damp temple.

    “I could fuck you like this,” Ilya said. “I could fuck you right now, like this, not let you breathe, not let you come.”

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