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Ilya Rozanov was not poor. Not by any means. He hadn’t been in a long time.
Between his nighttime proclivity for stealing and his daytime gig as an art dealer he never longed for much. This meant that he had a perfectly good apartment downtown that he could stay at with a huge and comfortable bed, a kitchen filled with all of the latest appliances and a wardrobe that would turn Rose Landry herself green with envy. What his apartment did lack was a certain Shane Hollander.
He hadn’t meant for it to become a habit. Him breaking in and staying the night. It had started out as a game, really. Could he break into the manor of not only the richest man in the city but also its most infamous vigilante? The one that had access to all of the latest technology, including security systems, and the money to buy it?
Turns out, it wasn’t very hard.
At least not if you were Ilya Rozanov.
After the third break-in Shane had upped the ante quite a bit but it wasn’t anything Ilya couldn’t handle. Somehow, he always managed to find a cat-shaped chink in Shane's armour.
He thinks Shane kind of gave up after the 9th break-in.
Anyway, he hadn’t meant for it to become a habit. It was just a game. Until he found himself slipping in through the window for the 10th time, sliding down the roof the 14th.
Neither of them discussed it.
Neither of them dared.
They just pretended like it wasn’t happening.
That it was out of convenience, really, that Ilya had stayed there three days in a row.
That it was out of convenience, really, when a toothbrush and the shampoo Ilya used showed up in Shane's bathroom.
That it was out of convenience, really, when Shane's butler started setting another plate for breakfast.
Usually when Ilya broke in the room was empty. He made sure to be extra quiet, knowing that the kid was probably sleeping down the hall. It was dark in Shane's room, the only lightsource being the moon shining through the window.
It was well past 3 in the morning and Ilya had already finished working for the night. He’d stolen a diamond that was on loan to the museum and already had a buyer waiting for him. He’d also managed to stop some traffickers that had been using kids from the streets to try out new drugs. He’d taken them out fairly quickly, only really getting hit in the shoulder with the handle of a gun but he’d be damned if anyone lay a finger on those kids.
He’d been a street kid at one point.
Him and Svetlana.
They’d scraped by, barely. But while Ilya had always had Svetlana to cover his back on the streets nobody seemed to care for these poor souls. So Ilya did. For Svetlana. For his younger self. For any street kid because there was loyalty amongst the streets in a way that people who’d never experienced it couldn’t possibly fathom.
His shoulder ached and he was getting tired so he pulled his pants down the minute he got through the window, leaving them in a pile on the floor, before heading towards the bed. He’d had to make a pit stop at his apartment to leave his costume and put on his civilian clothes again. He’d been doing it every night. He was sure Shane would absolutely freak out on him if he ever showed up wearing his nighttime outfit here. Which was understandable. How do you explain to your kinda-kid and your butler what your enemy is doing in your bedroom? In your bed?
Well.
Ilya had the sneaking suspicion that the butler in question already knew.
But.
Robin.
Shane was very sensitive about anything concerning the kid, which was understandable. He wanted to keep his love life separate from his family life. Ilya was fine with that. He wasn’t the family type anyway. He loved his freedom and independence too much to ever entertain the thought of settling down.
Even just the toothbrush had freaked him out.
But Shane never pushed. And Ilya never asked.
Neither of them had the time or the energy for commitment anyway.
And so Ilya would see Shane in the newspapers with a new person every week.
And Shane would watch Ilya draped over the arm of whatever rich man he was swindling that particular night from across a crowded room.
And then they’d play a game of cat and mouse on the rooftops.
Shane seemed to think he was the cat in their game, despite their alter egos. Ilya didn’t bother correcting him. He just let him chase him around the city until he got bored enough to let Shane catch him. And then the real fun began.
He considered slipping his shirt off before crawling into bed but thought better of it. See, the trick was to let Shane think he’d gotten comfortable but not comfortable enough.
The trick was to let Shane let his guard down in the pursuit of convincing Ilya to let his guard down. That was always easier when Shane thought he was halfway there already.
Thus, no pants but still a shirt.
Usually, Shane didn’t come home until much later.
Crime never sleeps and all that jazz.
Most nights Ilya fell asleep by himself. He didn’t mind; he quite enjoyed the freedom of it.
The silk sheets weren’t bad either.
He closed his eyes and before he knew it he had drifted off.
𓆩𓃠𓆪
He woke up a couple of hours later to the sinking weight of a body on the bed and an arm wrapping itself around his waist.
He tried to turn his head around but was quickly stopped by a “shh” and a kiss at the junction where his neck met his shoulder.
“Go back to sleep,” Shane whispered, pulling him closer. Ilya glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
6 am.
“You were out late,” he pointed out.
Usually Shane was home by 5, got 3 hours of sleep and then went to work. Something must’ve happened.
“Busy night,” Shane replied. “Someone made it easier though. Found a bunch of traffickers knocked out and bound together. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Hmm,” Ilya hummed, turning around in his arms so that he could face him full-on.
“No idea,” he said, eyes still closed. He moved his head closer to Shane's and breathed him in.
Mint.
Sharpness.
Shane.
He knew it was gross but he loved the way Shane smelled after a night of fighting. All sweat and blood and grit. So fucking human Ilya wanted to scream. Wanted to bite. Wanted to sink his claws into him, sometimes with the steel claws on his gloves, sometimes with his actual nails. Wanted to leave traces of himself on Shane's skin and spend days with Shane's blood under his own nails; a reminder of the marks he’d left on him.
“Strange,” Shane murmured against his forehead. “They mentioned a man in leather. A lot of them had claw marks all over them as well.”
Ilya opened his eyes, knowing he wasn’t going to be getting back to sleep anytime soon.
“Well,” he said. “Sounds like they had it coming. Whoever did it did you a favour.”
Shane sighed exasperatedly, moving back just enough to look down at him.
“You know you could’ve asked me for help with this. We could’ve—”
“Do you ask me for help on your cases, Hollander?”
Shane made a sound of protest.
“We’re quite literally sharing a bed. You can say my name, you know.”
“Don’t change the subject. Why should I ask you for help when I’m capable of doing it myself?”
Another sigh. Some shuffling to readjust, Shane's hand tightening against his hip bone.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt. There were fifteen of them—”
“Oh, so it’s okay when you do it but it’s not okay for me to do the same?”
“It’s different and you know it.”
“How is it different? Tell me, Shane. How is it different?”
There was a dangerous edge to Ilya's voice now, daring Shane to finish his thought. A cat in the dark ready to pounce.
“All I’m saying,” Shane started carefully. “Is that I have the latest tech and someone in my ear at all times. I have weapons and a car and—”
“Some of us,” Ilya replied bitterly. “Don’t need gadgets. Some of us have been getting by on our talents and hard work since we were kids. I’ve been in this game for way longer than you have, Shane Hollander. You’d do well to remember that. I was fine before you, I’m fine right now and I’ll be fine when you’re gone.”
There was a moment of silence. The heavy kind. The kind that felt stilted and wrong.
“When? Are you planning on leaving, Ilya?”
The again might not have been spoken aloud but it rang loud and clear in Ilya's ears.
Neither of them had ever quite gotten over the time they’d been apart when he’d left. They’d just pretended to move on, which had worked most of the time. Until it was brought up again, like now.
He swallowed, looking down at Shane's chest.
“Not right now, no. But you never know. One of those girls in the pictures with you in the newspapers might just steal you away one of these days. Rose Landry’s name’s been quite attached to yours lately. It’s not just me. It could be you.”
“It will never be me,” Shane said immediately with so much certainty and such a sincerity it surprised Ilya enough to look back up.
“It’s fine, Shane. I don’t mind. I knew what this was when it started,” he tried to reassure him but this only seemed to agitate Shane further.
“And what is this?” he wondered. Ilya bit his lip and looked into those golden brown eyes, shining even now in the dark. Burning Ilya alive.
“This. This is what we get. This right here. And I’m fine with that. I have my freedom and you have yours.”
Shane studied his face for a minute or two, as if he could find the answer to a question he had yet to pose on Ilya's face.
“Right,” he said in the end, slowly. “So you’re not leaving. And I’m not leaving. Guess we’re stuck with this then.”
Shane’s lips quirked. He let out a long breath and kissed Ilya's forehead softly, pulling him closer still. Ilya tangled their legs together and nuzzled into the crook of Shane's neck; inhaling the smell of him and instantly feeling calmer.
“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” Shane murmured against his head.
This was always how fights between them went.
Either they fought it out until they were both broken and bleeding and bruised. Or Shane would say they’d talk in the morning, which they never did.
It wasn’t as easy to bare yourself to someone over a breakfast table or on a living room couch as it was on a rooftop or a darkened bedroom.
“Fine,” Ilya murmured back, pressing closer still to Shane. He never did feel like he could be close enough.
“Good night, Ilya.”
“G’night, Shane.”
𓆩𓃠𓆪
The next time Ilya woke up was to a hand carding through his hair, fingers carefully moving through the locks. His face scrunched up as he groaned before he forced his eyes to open.
Shane was leaning over him from the side of the bed, already dressed for the day. He had an apologetic look on his face the moment his eyes met Ilya's.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“So you were just going to watch me sleep?”
Shane gave a small, private smile. Ilya loved that smile. He loved that he was included in the very small circle of people who were privy to that smile.
The public may have Shane Hollander, billionaire philanthropist. The public may have Shane Hollander, playboy extraordinaire. But Ilya got Shane Hollander, who tucked his kid in every night before going to the galas and the clubs. Shane Hollander, who cared so much about this city that he’d dedicated his whole life to keeping it safe. Shane Hollander, who saved his real smile for him.
“I just wanted to say goodbye before I left,” he said, moving his finger to trace over Ilya's cheekbone and down his jawline until the pad of his thumb was resting just under Ilya's lower lip. A part of Ilya wanted to tell him to not be so delicate, to push harder against his skin until there were imprints that wouldn’t go away for days. Something solid to remember this moment by.
“Hm,” Ilya replied. “What time is it?”
“Just about 8.00. If you want hot coffee with your breakfast I’d hurry, it was already halfway to cooling by the time I was finished.”
Ilya considered that for a moment before ultimately deciding that he wasn’t quite ready to get up. He shook his head and grabbed the hand Shane was resting on his chin in his own, giving the palm a quick peck.
“I think I’m going to get some more beauty sleep,” he ended up saying.
Shane frowned.
“Why?” he wondered.
“Why what?” Ilya shot back.
Shane leaned closer, peering down at him through thick lashes.
Ilya had always admired just how pretty Shane's lashes were, almost as pretty as his freckles. Dark and full and long. He was glad they were usually hidden behind his glasses, a barrier to keep those unworthy of Shane's beauty at bay. Not that the glasses did much to diminish his beauty. In fact, more often than not they had the opposite effect on Ilya. It was quite upsetting, knowing that the rest of the world saw him like that, too.
It wasn’t fair or logical at all but Ilya wanted to keep all of the versions of Shane he knew to himself.
“Why do you need more beauty sleep? You’re already the most beautiful person I know.”
If it was anyone else Ilya would’ve snorted at the comment. Hell, if it was Shane in any other circumstance he might’ve snorted anyway. But Shane had said it with such sincerity, so earnestly, that all Ilya could do was try to hide the way his breath hitched and the way his lips slowly curled upwards at the words. He threw his arms around Shane's neck, interlocking them at the nape of it.
“Cheesy,” he whispered against his lips, not quite touching but almost.
And god, if that almost wasn’t the most enticing thing Ilya had ever experienced.
Shane hummed and pulled a curl behind his ear before cupping his cheek, eyes serious when he said:
“Yes. But true nonetheless.”
Ilya had to kiss him for that.
It didn’t last long; Shane had to go to work and Ilya wasn’t sure how bad his morning breath was, but it was precious and it was sweet and it was enough to make Ilya dream of starry nights on rooftops once his head hit the silk pillows again.
𓆩𓃠𓆪
Ilya didn’t wake up again for many, many hours.
He’d always been more of a night owl and most of his work was done under the cover of darkness and well into the early hours of the morning. He also hadn’t had any appointments for his daytime job that day anyway so he’d allowed himself to sleep, drifting in and out of dreams. Some of golden brown eyes and a warm smile, some of cold, childlike hands trying to warm his own by rubbing and blowing on them, some of the sea that he’d been dreaming of since he was a child. Some of his mother and her laughter and the kindness she had shown him, before everything went bad.
When he finally awoke it was to the smell of warm, sweet meringue and flowers. He smiled and stretched his arms over his head, his legs towards the end of the bed and turned to his side before opening his eyes to find Shane crouching down beside the bed, staring up at him.
“So I didn’t get up,” he greeted him, giving a half-shrug unapologetically. Shane hummed, leaning forward to tuck a stray curl behind his ear.
“Yes, I can tell. You’re looking awfully beautiful, your tactic is working.”
Ilya bit back a smile and glanced down at Shane's hands, holding a tray. On it were a beautiful plate with a gold rim filled to the brim with dessert, a tall glass of what Ilya suspected was coke and a bouquet of flowers in several shades of blue and yellow.
He looked at Shane hopefully, sitting up slightly so that he could lean his back against the headboard
“You got me zefir?” he wondered, voice laced with amazement.
Zefir were one of the very few fond memories Ilya had of his homelife. Before everything had gone to hell, his parents would host the most extravagant galas in the city — ones that would rival even the Hollander's. Ilya and Andrei were never allowed to attend; they were only ever there to greet guests if their father commanded it, to play the part of the perfect family. But then he'd lock them away in their rooms and tell them not to make a sound or else.
He wasn’t sure how it had started but at some point Andrei had learned to pick the lock and before Ilya knew it he was bringing back sweets whenever he managed to sneak down and they would stay up all night, listening to the music floating up from downstairs and eat their tiny treasures. Nothing had ever tasted better than the zefir Andrei would steal for him. It was something that Ilya still remembered because it was one of the few times his brother had shown him any kindness in their childhood.
Ilya had mentioned it once in passing to Shane, not really thinking much about what he was saying. But it must’ve stuck because Shane had managed to track down the only place in the city that made them and he’d buy them every so often, just because. Ilya was just as pleasantly surprised the thirteenth time as he was the first.
Shane nodded and gestured for Ilya to scootch so that he could sit down next to him. Ilya wiggled anway before he looked down at the tray again.
“And coca cola?” he said, a smile breaking out on his face. Shane hated how much junk Ilya ate and drank. This must’ve come at a great cost to his own mental wellbeing.
“Your favourite,” Shane confirmed, only barely surpressing making a face.
Ilya bit his lip again, staring at the tray in contemplation.
“You spoil me,” he said eventually. Shane made a noise of disagreement.
“I think our baseline for “spoil” is very different, babe. I’m just trying to keep you alive. Even if it's through sugar rushes.”
There was an apology somewhere in there that Ilya chose to ignore, not willing to ruin the moment.
He picked up a zefir, popped it into his mouth and then held one out for Shane. When Shane tried to reach for it he held it out of his reach and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Open up.”
Shane opened his mouth and Ilya fed him the zefir, making sure to leave no crumbs on the bed.
They sat like that for a while, eating their sweets and talking until Shane suddenly stilled.
“What?” Ilya wondered, chewing on another zefir.
Shane took a deep breath and moved his hand slowly towards Ilya's shoulder where his shirt had fallen, revealing his collarbone. Ilya followed his gaze, trying to figure out what had caused Shane to act so strange.
Oh.
His shoulder.
The one that had been hit by the gun.
The bruise was ugly — dark and marbled and almost bloody — but luckily pretty small in comparison to what he’d normally experience. It didn’t hurt as bad as it looked but he could already feel the tension building in the room.
Shane was not happy.
He looked back up at him. Shane's mouth was in a thin line, as if he was holding back words he desperately wanted to say. Ilya knew him well enough to know that he probably was.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said, trying to smooth things over before they had a chance to erupt.
Shane gave him an incredulous look.
“Not a big deal?” he exclaimed. “Ilya, how is this not a big deal? Your shoulder looks like someone’s used it for a test run with a meat mallet!”
Ilya rolled his eyes and pulled back, covering his shoulder with his shirt again.
“It just looks bad, I barely feel it. It’s fine.”
“And if it weren’t fine, would you tell me?”
Ilya said nothing at that. They both knew what the answer would be anyway.
Shane nodded his head and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Look,” Ilya tried. “We both decided to do it like this. You knew what I did for a living when you made that decision. If you can’t handle it then let me go.”
He knew it was unfair. A low blow. But Ilya hadn’t survived the streets by playing fair.
Shane regarded him for a long time and as the seconds ticked by worry started to settle in Ilya's bones. Was this it? Would this be the final straw? Would Shane finally leave?
“I know who you are,” Shane said eventually. “I know you are good — the best. I know you can handle yourself. I’m not upset because I’m worried about you being out there. I know you're lethal in a fight, Ilya. I’ve been on both sides of it to know that whoever you’re fighting should fear you.”
Ilya exhaled slowly, not sure where this was going.
“But,” Shane continued. “That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt to see you hurt. Do you understand what I’m saying? I would bet on you in every fight, in every lifetime. But knowing you’ll get back up every time you get knocked down doesn’t make witnessing the fall any less terrifying. I only fear two things in the world. Losing my Robin and losing you.”
Ilya swallowed loudly, moving the tray to the side so that he could move to straddle Shane and wrap his arms around him, intertwining his hands at the nape of his neck. He leaned in close and whispered:
“You’re not going to lose me”
His lips brushed against Shane's as they moved and he was close, close enough to feel the vibrations of Shane's sigh against his mouth. Shane closed his eyes, lifting his hands to trace patterns against Ilya's back.
Up.
Down.
Circle.
Repeat.
Over and over again as if it were a mantra or a prayer as they sat there in silence, breathing each other in.
“Sometimes I feel like that’s all I’m doing,” Shane whispered back eventually, voice breaking at the last word.
Something inside of Ilya roared at that, an ache settling in under his skin and beneath his ribcage.
No, it wanted to scream. No, you could never lose me, it wanted to comfort and reassure. Ilya did his best to ignore it, to suppress it. He wasn’t ready for Shane to see that side of him yet. He wasn’t sure if he ever would be.
“Shane,” lips so close they could taste each other's words. “Shane, I’m right here.”
He put his hand behind his back, reaching for one of Shane's, before pulling them up to his shoulder. His shirt slid down again, revealing the blackened bruise.
“This,” he said, pressing both of their hands hard into the bruise. They both gasped at the same time. Ilya had always had a strange fascination with poking at his bruises. It hurt in the best way possible, a physical reminder that he was here, that he could feel. “This is going to fade. It is not permanent.”
He made sure to keep Shane's eyes trained on his own and refused to let his gaze go. If Shane looked down again his words would do them no good.
He put their hands around his throat, holding them just above his pulse, and leaned forward again until their foreheads touched. They both felt his pulse quicken at the same time.
“This,” he continued, eyes still boring into Shane's. “This is permanent.”
It was as much of a confession as Ilya Rozanov could ever make. It wasn’t nearly enough, he thought. Shane seemed to disagree though, if the way his breath hitched and his fingers tightened around Ilya's own were to be believed.
Not even a second later their lips were moving against each other, neither one of them sure of who had made the first move; neither of them really caring. It was wet and it was hot and it was bruising and Ilya had to refrain from biting too hard on Shane's lower lip. The paparazzi would have a field day if their darling playboy stepped out with marks all over him.
They were both territorial creatures so not leaving marks was hard; Shane loved to bite Ilya’s lips and Ilya loved to suck and bite on his neck but they had learned to compromise. A nip instead of a bite on the lips, teeth marks against a hip bone instead of a collarbone. They made do.
But this time, Ilya realised he didn’t care.
The moan Shane let out when he bit so hard he drew blood was worth it.
Shane didn’t waste any time retaliating and before Ilya knew it he was being pushed back into the headboard with Shane attached to his jugular, kissing and licking his way to his collarbone, teeth grazing against his pale skin. Ilya was sure that Shane would leave bruising love bites and he couldn't help but smile at the idea of wearing Shane's possessiveness like a badge of honour.
Yes, he thought, Leave your fingerprints on my skin. Mark me with your teeth. Let the blood in your mouth colour me in.
He let his hands wander over Shane's upper body, molding themselves around his ribs, making a home at the indents of his hip bones. He let out a frustrated hiss as Shane's white button-up wouldn’t collaborate when he tried to push his hands under it and ended up pulling at the fabric until it ripped and the buttons popped off leaving his hands free to roam the planes of Shane's body freely. Shane pulled back, breathless and grinning and Ilya resisted the urge to fix his crooked glasses.
What would be the point? They were going to get smushed against his face again in just a few moments.
Ilya moved up at Shane's grin; his lips dancing against Shane's. A few drops of blood had settled onto his lower lip and Ilya gave it a gentle kiss, licking the blood as he went.
Shane swallowed harshly.
“We shouldn’t—”
Ilya hummed against him, hands going up to pull at Shane's hair until he let out a groan.
“Ily—” he tried again.
“Yes?” Ilya whispered, leaving kisses against his cheek, along his jawline and slowly making his way towards his ear.
“I—“ he hissed when Ilya put his earlobe between his teeth and pulled slowly.
“What do you want, Shane?”
Shane let out a shaky breath and steadied his hands on Ilya's waist.
“It doesn’t matter what I want. We shouldn’t do this,” he said through gritted teeth as he pulled away and leaned his forehead against Ilya's shoulder, breathing heavily.
“Why not?” Ilya wondered
“Because we were fighting,”
“We’re always fighting.”
“Because I’m still upset with you.”
“You’re always upset with me, what’s your point?”
Shane let out a frustrated growl.
“Because every time I look at that bruise I get angry all over again.”
“As I recall, we’ve done some of our best work whilst being angry with each other.”
Shane was quiet for a beat.
“It’s not you I’m angry with,” he said in the end.
Ilya pulled back at that, forcing Shane to look up at him.
“It’s not?”
“No,” Shane whispered, eyes so serious Ilya couldn’t look away. He rarely got like this outside of their costumes. It was such a rare sight that Ilya selfishly always wanted more of it, even if it meant that it was at the expense of Shane's pride.
“No?” Ilya prompted.
“No,” Shane reiterated. “It’s the people who did it to you. It’s the state of the city. It’s the world we live in. There’s so much suffering and sometimes I just can’t bear it.”
This was a moment.
A big one.
Ilya could sense it.
Ilya wasn’t the only one who had a hard time with letting people in. Shane was just as closed off as him, albeit in a different way. He hid behind a persona, behind roaring laughter and playboy smiles.
A rich man who lost his parents in the most tragic way but didn’t seem to falter for it. Who only cared about having fun and throwing his endless supply of money around like it was nothing. Ilya knew that wasn’t the truth. He had seen the Shane that existed behind closed doors. Hell, he’d even seen Shane every night as they chased each other around the city's skyscrapers and rooftops, which was more than most could say.
But this? This was different.
This was something that was at the core of Shane's being. Something that had to be dug up, dusted off and pried open not with a crowbar but with gentle hands who could prove themselves worthy to cradle what was inside. The thought of Ilya being the one who Shane deemed worthy was terrifying.
He swallowed loudly as he took Shane's face into his hands. He could only hope they were as gentle as they were meant to be. Shane was too precious to be handled in any other way.
“Shane,” he started. “You are not responsible for the weight of the world.”
Shane opened his mouth to protest but Ilya beat him to it.
“You are not Atlas, holding up the world. You are only a man. A great man — the best man — but a man nonetheless. And you do more than anyone I know for the world. For this city. For Robin. For me.”
He looked Shane right in the eyes as he said the next thing, needing him to know that he really meant every word he was saying.
“When you can’t bear it, give it to me. I will carry it for you, my love, okay? You’re not alone in this. It’s okay to ask for help.”
Eyes gleaming with unshed tears Shane gave a snort and rolled his eyes.
“You’re one to talk about asking for help,” he said lightheartedly despite his voice being thick with emotion.
Ilya's lip quirked.
“Yeah well, we’re not talking about me right now.”
Shane closed his eyes, nodding. Trying to take everything in.
Ilya hoped he’d done the right thing. Said the right words. He never really knew with Shane. Everyone else he could play like a fiddle but Shane… Shane was different. Shane had as many different faces and masks as he did.
They were well matched in that aspect.
“Sorry,” Shane muttered after a while, abashedly.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” Ilya replied instantly.
“Sorry for the blood,” he added after a second.
Shane smiled at him lazily, moving up so that he could be at eye level with Ilya.
“Never apologise for that,” he murmured against Ilya’s lips. “In fact, I’d like you to do it again.”
Ilya smiled back and bit his lower lip, looking at Shane through his lashes the way he knew that he liked. Shane’s eyes instantly fell to his lips.
“What’s the magic word?” Ilya asked, moving closer.
“Please,” Shane breathed against his lips, eyes never leaving the space where his teeth were biting into the flesh of his lower lip.
“Hmm,” Ilya's humm vibrated between them. “It was actually “zefir” but I’m feeling generous today.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” Shane deadpanned.
“Yeah?”
“From you? I’ll take anything.”
And well.
Ilya had to reward that, didn’t he?