Shane and ilya kneeling shirtless in front of each other. Ilya's hands holding Shane's head, moving it this and that way as he kisses his face, his neck, his shoulders.
Feather light kisses, heavy wet kisses, a long lick over his skin, an insistent lapping on the spot of a sharp nipping of teeth, neck stretched back as his throat is marked, head bent forward as his hairline is traced with kisses...
All the while avoiding Shane's mouth. Shane's skin running hot, cock straining in his briefs, Ilya's body pressed against his, pleas and whines and moans spilling from Shane's lips. All he wants is for Ilya to take his mouth.
Ilya keeps getting so close, then pulling away, letting Shane chase his lips for a split second, before holding his face and hair to still him. The more he does it, the louder Shane's frustration gets.
Please
Ilya, please, kiss me
I need it, I need it, Sir
Yes, I want it so much
Yes, I am pathetic
Yes, I will do anything
Yes, it's up to you, I am yours
No, no, please, oh please, Sir, Ilya, please, kiss me, kiss me, please...
Ilya, keeps going, and Shane can't do anything but take it, wet spot growing on his briefs, flush all the way down to his chest, waiting for the moment Ilya will decide to bring their lips together.
The tension is building deep in his belly and he know it longs for more than orgasm. It longs for the tongue that always slides confidently into his mouth, for the lips that cover his and leave them wet with spit, for the messy but still strangely in tune movement against each other.
Ilya chuckes, low and self-satisfied. For now Shane will keep getting denied, kneeling at Ilya's mercy, even for the simplest of wishes.