Consider Shane just going soft and buzzy and pliant as Ilya moves a hand over the bulge in his jeans, a brief and tender touch, and then draws his fingers up to Shane's stomach, which jumps as he laughs and moans.

"Don't you wanna fuck me, baby?" Shane finally mumbles when this has gone on for a while.

"Always," Ilya replies, like he's making a vow, and Shane shivers. "Let me turn you on, sweetheart."

"I am," Shane whines.

Ilya doesn't quite know how to explain to Shane that there are levels of arousal that can come from long moments, hours even, of touch. Arousal that builds from wandering hands and curious lips and whispered secrets. Sex that feels like summiting a mountain together rather than a race to the top. He thinks that Shane, with his yoga and his careful self-discipline would find it absolutely enthralling to discover that they can build something like that inside his body together.

Ilya doesn't have the words to explain these things, because some of them are desires so deep inside himself that he's only just uncovering them. So he kisses under Shane's ear, and lets him wiggle and whine, and draws his hands over his thighs again, over his clothes, keeping him warm and happy and tingling and floaty.

HOLLANDER V ROSANOV