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Shane unlocked his door on autopilot. It was going on midnight, and while he had been fine in the car on the drive from Montreal, as soon as he had turned off the car and stepped out into the bracing January air, his body swayed. He was home, and suddenly he was so tired he felt almost drunk.
The house was dark, but Shane knew where everything was. He toed his shoes off on the mat by the door, then headed toward the bedroom with his wheeled suitcase behind him.
Low light showed beneath the bedroom door, and he wondered, in the syrupy recesses of his brain, if Ilya had fallen asleep with the light on, trying to wait up for him.
He stopped outside the door, hand on the knob, when he heard the voice.
“So good for me, aren’t you?”
Ilya’s tone was low and sultry, the same way he purred in Shane’s ear when he was pressed to his back.
Shane froze.
“Look how delicious…” Ilya purred and then, honest to God, moaned.
Shane swallowed, two impulses warring within him. On one hand, he was wide awake now, and he wanted to run. He didn’t know who Ilya was talking like that to, and he didn’t want to.
On the other hand, who the fuck did Ilya have in there? When he knew Shane would be home!
“Ебать,” Ilya said, and Shane heard rustling. Had he looked at the time, realized whoever was in there needed to leave, and was panicking?
Shane squared his shoulders and pushed the door open.
Ilya gaped. “Shane,” he said stupidly, and Shane scanned the room quickly.
He was alone. The bathroom and closet doors both stood open, and Ilya was fully dressed, or at least as fully dressed as he ever was at home.
Ilya swept his hand over the bed, gathering small, gold foil wrappers. “You are–” he began, quickly balling them between his hands.
“What the fuck were you doing? Who were you moaning at?” Shane asked.
Ilya’s furtive glance would have chilled Shane’s blood, had it not been directed at the tree-shaped plastic container on the nightstand.
The Ferrero Rocher gift box his father had given Ilya for Christmas.
“Shane,” Ilya said, and it was then that Shane realized he sounded… tipsy.
His boyfriend was tipsy and moaning over hazelnut candies in their bed.
“Oh my god,” Shane said.
Ilya looked stricken. “I can explain, I promise. Was not cheating. Was only…” he stopped, his grasp of English always a bit looser when he was intoxicated.
Shane laughed lowly. “You were cheating,” he said, pitching his voice rougher, the way he knew made Ilya crazy. “With slutty chocolate truffles. Moaning like you moan for me. How are you going to make that up, Rozanov?”
Ilya’s mind was spinning, it was obvious from across the bedroom. He looked at the wrappers again, reached over and stuffed them quickly into the trash next to the bed, and slid out of bed. His knees hit the carpet in front of Shane, and he looked up through his lashes. “Any way you wish, моя любовь,” he promised.