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Summary
Shane answers him with a question, voice rough and thoroughly fucked out. “How many fingers do you have inside of me?”
Smirking, Ilya offers Shane just one brush over his prostate. “Four.”
“Jesus,” Shane groans, eyes rolling to the back of his skull.
“Do you think you could take more?”
Surprise dances behind dark pupils, Ilya can see a fire ignite within Shane’s irises. His freckled face, which is red and splotchy and ruined with pleasure, twists with uncertainty. The intrigue behind them is too captivating to ignore.
Finally, after getting a chance to breathe, Shane asks, “What, like your fist?”