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“Can I —?” Ilya asked. His meaning was clear as he stared at Shane's nipple.
“Of course,” Shane said, automatically; his body — his entire being — was as much Ilya’s as it was his own. There was a certain absurdity in Ilya even feeling the need to ask.
Shane felt unsteady, like he didn’t quite grasp something, because the way Ilya began to mouth at his nipple was too shallow, rhythmic, and slow to really be erotic. Well, it was erotic, of course; in the way that any touch from Ilya was, inherently, to Shane. But there seemed to be no particular purpose. He just — sucked. Or, perhaps more aptly, Shane realised, with a bolt of hot, twisting confusion, suckled.
“That’s good,” Shane said, voice cracking. It wasn’t what he meant to say, because he hadn’t meant to say anything, too worried the only thing that would come out would be a what the fuck. But Ilya moaned, leaning more heavily against Shane, hands fisting the hem of Shane’s shirt, as he applied a little more pressure.OR: Ilya’s fixation with Shane’s pecs turns into something unexpected.