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Summary
As he shifts to mirror Hollander’s position—he’s not going to give him the chance to straddle him, not when Ilya cannot trust himself—the movement sends the Canadian’s hand careening toward Ilya’s waist, a landing point, a natural furrow in Ilya’s figure. Hollander wastes no time in grabbing on, fingers emplacing just above the jut of his hipbone. He squeezes, careful not to press in too hard. His skin is soft, calluses shed. And still, he is someone Ilya cannot cede himself to. “You already have me, Hollander,” he reminds, like they’re at a bar and Hollander’s trying to leave with him. They’re past that. They’re naked in Hollander’s hotel room. There isn’t much left for them to tiptoe around.
“I know.” Hollander nearly snaps the words, his body tightening, annoyed and sparking and snuffed out a second later. He swallows. Quieter, he repeats, “I know. I’m just… I haven’t…”
“This is new,” Ilya guesses.
OR
Ilya fights vulnerability for eight years.