Words flying away to the edges of Shane's mind. Arching up under Ilya's hands and mouth, thighs flexing tight around his hips, under the grip of Ilya's hand. His mouth opens, gasps for breath. Distant awareness of the sounds he's making, but no ability to curb them.

Ilya asks a question and Shane's mind stutters over it.

A stray thought: He likes so much when Ilya calls him affectionate little names. He likes it, like he likes how easy they trade I love you back and forth. It had been impossible for such a long time, and now it is so simple.

"Please," falls out of Shane's mouth. "Please."

If Ilya touches him, Shane will come. Begs please like Ilya would stop again, ease them back off the ledge again. Keep Shane here for another round. It sounds terrible. It sounds perfect.

Begs, "Just fuck me. Please," without full certainty that Shane could come this way. Just that he wants—

He just wants. Endlessly. Desperately. Certain that Ilya is enough, always.