@scunthotter ohhhh you get it…
Shane has his legs up to his chest, Ilya in between them and fucking into him hard and deep. Ilya’s propping himself up on one elbow, his other hand in Shane’s hair, on his cheek, caging him in.
It started out with the usual flirty banter and dirty talk, but no-one’s talking now. Neither of them know how long it’s been, but the only sound that fills the air is their desperate panting and filthy wet smack of skin on skin.
Ilya’s staring in open awe, and Shane is holding his gaze, unflinching. The exquisite drag of Ilya’s cock against his prostate and filling him up is electrifying, all consuming. Every time he clenches down, Ilya feels it, squeezing his cock until he’s sure he’s going to pass out.
Nothing compares to this. No one night stand, no bump of coke, no pay check.
They don’t usually face each other. That’s what makes this different- but neither of them want to acknowledge it. An active denial is happening with every passing moment.
It’s just the sex. They’re really good at it, and that’s why it feels like this. It has nothing to do with the way Ilya’s eyebrows pinch up like he’s in shock, like he can’t believe this is real, or how his hand comes to lay gently around Shane’s throat, possessive but also guarding- he’s holding Shane everywhere. Protecting him.
Ilya’s thrusts pick up speed and they both know it’s coming. They know each other’s tells- a silent language developed over years of scrutiny.
Shane’s so hard it hurts, and Ilya’s driving into him at the perfect angle, and he’s looking at him like he- like this means something- and before he knows it… blinding pleasure. Like nothing he’s ever felt before.
Not even the first time he came hands free.
Ilya is right there with him. the movement of his hips is stunted, his toned stomach tensing and his mouth dropping open in a sigh that turns into a drawn out moan- and he’s cumming with Shane.
They’re breathing each other’s air, swallowing each other’s moans, never breaking eye contact. It’s soul rending, and it feels like it crests and lasts forever.
Ilya collapses on top of Shane, both of them utterly spent and speechless. They lay there longer than they normally might, but Ilya has an early flight, and Shane has a brand lunch, and the bubble has to burst.
Both of them are a little unsure and awkward as Ilya leaves. Both of them performing a self lobotomy with a hot poker to cauterise the wound left by whatever that was.
They don’t text for two months.
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