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    Summary

    Ilya couldn't help it; he groaned. It felt so good to have Shane's hands in his hair, scratching at his scalp, that he had no real reply. He was sure if he opened his mouth his tongue would loll out. His only response was the clumsy fumbling of his hands at Shane's hips, like they were scrambling for purchase while the room tilted a little bit from how dizzy he was beginning to feel.

    "You like being pet, hmm?"

    Ilya groaned again, but this one was more from embarrassment than from being turned on.

    Or maybe it was embarrassment from how turned on he was. Because fuck, there was no denying it; he was, incredibly so, just from straddling Shane, from feeling him warm and sturdy and perfect. Ilya knew he was easy for Shane, but it felt like it shouldn't be possible to be this keyed up from Shane's eyes on him and his hands threading through Ilya's curls.   

    Shane chuckled at the sound Ilya made and then asked, quiet and domineering, "So we agree? You wanna be my dog?"

    or: Ilya is a little restless and off-kilter. Shane helps him settle down, boy.

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