Chapter Text
The second time the word slips out, Shane’s lips are swollen from a kiss Ilya refuses to break, and his back is pressed to a different hotel room headboard, this one in St. Louis with ugly beige wallpaper that somehow makes their flushed skin look decadent. The sky outside flashes lightning in the near distance, maybe a storm rolling in off the Mississippi, but inside it’s hotter than any summer, sheets tangled around their knees, sweat making the cheap cotton stick to their legs. The blinds are half-closed, letting thin slashes of city light stripe across their bodies like claw marks.
Shane already knows this is a mistake. He knew it the second Ilya texted an address with no other explanation and the moment he opened the door to find the man leaning against the windowsill in nothing but low-slung joggers, eyes like sharpened ice. He didn’t even manage a hello before Ilya crossed the room in two strides, palms catching Shane’s waist, mouth crushing his until his knees gave.
Now Shane straddles Ilya’s lap, thighs split wide, the thick length of Ilya’s cock buried deep inside and hitting every nerve with devastating accuracy. Ilya’s broad hands knead the meat of Shane’s ass, thumbs spreading him open to swallow every inch. A low rumble of approval vibrates from his chest, brushing against the bruises he sucked down the bridge of Shane’s neck earlier. The bed creaks, Ilya’s knees bent, keeping them upright, their sweat mixing, leaving a slick shine across their skin.
Shane tries to maintain a rhythm, rolling his hips down and up, but his thighs tremble, already shaking from holding their weight. He braces one hand on Ilya’s shoulder and the other against the headboard, nails scratching at the cheap varnish. He breathes through parted lips, panting, locks plastered to his forehead, eyes half-lidded and hazy. Ilya, infuriatingly composed, uses his grip on Shane’s ass to guide him down, then up, slow enough to make Shane whine.
“Little captain is shy tonight,” Ilya says like he’s scoring a goal on an empty net, smug calm. “Why is that, hm?”
Shane glares, cheeks flushed. “Screw you,” he pants. “I’m not shy.”
“You are shaking,” Ilya notes, triumphant, squeezing Shane’s backside hard enough to leave fingerprints. “And you keep hiding those pretty eyes from me. Look at me while you ride me, baby.”
The endearment hits like a punch to the gut, and Shane’s hips stutter. He tries to fight it, tries to roll his eyes or drop some snarky comment, but only a ragged “Ilya—” slips out. His voice cracks as if he’s nineteen again.
“Exactly,” Ilya breathes, watching him closely. “Say my name like that again.”
Shane does, helplessly, whispering it with a quiver, head falling back so the tendons of his throat stand out. Sweat beads there, sliding down to vanish in the dip of his collarbone. Ilya surges forward, mouths that spot, sucks until the skin blooms red-purple. Shane moans, soft and high, writhing above him, every movement pulling a slick gasp from his mouth. He can feel every heartbeat inside him, every pulse of heat, every slide of Ilya’s cock dragging against that sweet spot that makes his vision flicker.
“You look so perfect when you are messy like this,” Ilya murmurs against his throat. “Eyes fluttering. Mouth open. Arching for me without thinking. You cannot hide it.”
A helpless whimper slips out of Shane, low and embarrassingly needy. He hates it, but the sound ripples through Ilya, drawing a pleased groan in response. Ilya slides one hand up Shane’s spine, palm flattening between his shoulder blades, then skating up to trace the delicate slope of his neck. He wraps thick fingers around Shane’s throat lightly, nothing more than a reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted to, that Shane is thoroughly in his grip. Shane sucks in a sharp breath, hips jerking down involuntarily, burying Ilya to the hilt. The stretch is perfect, agonizing, dizzying.
“G-god,” Shane gasps, eyes fluttering. He tries to tamp down the frantic edge in his voice, fails. “You plan to make me fall off the bed?”
“Never,” Ilya says smoothly. He eases up, supporting Shane with more care than his tone reveals. “I plan to make you break apart so beautifully. I want to watch you fall apart. Right here,” he murmurs, sliding his hand down to rest on Shane’s trembling abdomen. “Every twitch. Every drop of you begging.”
Shane should headbutt him. Instead, he shivers, gripping Ilya’s shoulders, nails digging crescents into his biceps. He starts riding again, each downward thrust a shaky, desperate push. His cock bobs against Ilya’s stomach, leaking, painting a slippery trail. He slams down harder to chase that blinding jolt inside him, the one that makes his back arch so far his chest juts forward like an offering. Ilya just watches, eyes dilated, lips parted, letting out a low, approving hum every time Shane’s face scrunches up with pleasure.
“Say it,” Ilya drawls as Shane grinds down, sweaty hair falling in his eyes. “Say what I am to you when you ride me.”
Shane freezes for a beat, brain shorting out. He knows what Ilya wants, what he discovered weeks ago. The word tastes like honey and humiliation. He tries to force himself to stay silent. Instead, his mouth moves, voice trembling.
“Daddy,” he breathes softly, then louder, emboldened by the sensation of Ilya’s cock throbbing against his walls. “Daddy.”
Ilya groans, gripping Shane’s ass harder, guiding his hips. “Good boy,” he praises, voice roughening. “You get sweeter every time you say it. You feel how tight you are right now? How you milk me when you admit it?”
“Shut up,” Shane mumbles, even though his body betrays him with another eager roll of his hips. He’s soaked, sweat dripping down his back, his thighs slick against Ilya’s. He grabs the headboard again, eyes squeezed shut. He tilts his head to the side, exposing his throat, necking down on delirious moans.
Ilya doesn’t stop with the dirty talk. He leans up, kissing a line from Shane’s clavicle to the underside of his jaw, wording against him. “Tell me who you bounce for. Tell me who you come for like this.”
Shane can’t swallow his pride fast enough. He spills it raw. “You,” he gasps, losing any pretense of defiance. He rides faster, frantic, chasing his high. “You. Only you. Daddy, fuck, make me—” His voice dissolves into a shuddering sob.
“Ilya chuckles, dark satisfaction humming from his chest right into Shane’s bones. “Look at you, shaking so pretty. So needy for me.” He emphasizes each word with a rising thrust that meets Shane halfway. “No media. No interviews. Only me. Only you on my lap moaning into my mouth.”
Shane grinds down harder, whimpering. His thighs burn, but he doesn’t dare slow. He tosses his head back, lips parted. His eyes roll, lashes fluttering. Ilya catches his face, smooths a thumb over his cheekbone, then pushes two fingers into his mouth, pressing down on the tongue.
“Suck,” Ilya commands. Shane obeys instantly, swirling his tongue around the fingers, humming around them. Drool escapes, streaking down his chin. Ilya groans, low and visceral. “So pretty like this,” he mutters. “My little captain taking me so well. Milking me so greedily. You were made to ride me.”
Shane whimpers around the fingers, hips moving on autopilot, fucking himself on Ilya’s cock, each slam accompanied by a wet slap of skin. The bed frame splinters a protest. The room smells thickly of sex and sweat. Another roll of thunder shakes the glass, like the sky is echoing the pounding rhythm of their bodies. Shane’s free hand clutches at Ilya’s hair, tugging, grounding himself. He’s close, unbearably close, so turned inside out he’s not sure where his body ends and Ilya begins.
Ilya withdraws his fingers from Shane’s mouth, slides them down to circle his tight, swollen nipple. He pinches, twists. Shane yelps, then moans, the sound shooting straight through Ilya’s spine. Ilya’s other hand grips the base of Shane’s neck again, pulling him down for a bruising kiss, tongues clashing. “Come on me,” Ilya growls into his mouth. “Show me how you fall apart.”
“Ilya—fuck—Daddy, please,” Shane begs, eyes finally meeting Ilya’s, pupils blown wide. He doesn’t care how filthy he sounds. Needed words spill unchecked. “W-Wanna cum. Please?”
“Take it,” Ilya snarls, biting Shane’s lower lip until it reddens, then releasing. “Come for me, baby. Show me how much you crave me.”
Shane’s entire body bows as the orgasm rips through him. He cries out, loud and choked, voice cracking into high, breathless sobs. The climax hits like an electric current, shooting heat from his spine down to his toes, and his cock spasms against Ilya’s stomach, painting both their chests with hot spurts. He trembles violently, fingers clamping down on Ilya’s shoulders, as if he’ll levitate without that anchor. His vision whites out. The pleasure floods every nerve, unstoppable.
Ilya keeps thrusting, riding through it, groaning, head thrown back. “That’s it, baby. Milk my cock,” he snarls. “Squeeze me just like that. You feel that? How desperate you are to keep me inside?” His control frays. He grips Shane’s hips hard and slams up, chasing his own release. His cock pulses inside Shane, hot and thick, and he empties with a ragged shout, nails digging into skin. He doesn’t hold back, filling Shane until there’s nothing left, muttering Russian endearments against his mouth.
They collapse in a sweaty heap. Shane slumps against Ilya’s chest, trembling, riding the aftershocks. His breath comes in shuddering gasps; his heart hammers so loudly he hears it in his ears. Ilya wraps strong arms around his back, keeping him in place, letting their breathing sync.
“That was—” Shane tries, then stops, words failing.
“Perfect,” Ilya supplies, thumb rubbing circles over the tremor still shaking Shane’s spine. “Like always.”
Shane snorts weakly, hiding his face against Ilya’s neck. “One of these days I’m going to figure out how to shut you up,” he mutters, though there’s no real bite, only a swamped sort of affection.
“You tried. You moaned instead,” Ilya teases, kissing the top of his head.
Shane feels heat flood his cheeks again, the kind that has nothing to do with exertion. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting the shame and satisfaction mingle into a potent cocktail that leaves him dizzy and warm. He smiles where Ilya can’t see it. “Screw you, Rozanov,” he whispers.
“You just did,” Ilya murmurs, tone wicked, and his laugh rumbles through Shane’s chest. Then he softens it, voice dropping to a rare whispered promise, “Rest now. I’ve got you.”