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Ilya looks up at him, glowing. The sunset through the gauzy curtains reflects orange on his tanned skin, soft sound of waves from the beach beyond.
Ilya says, “Keep eating if you want to cum.”
On the table by Shane's right hand is the basque cheesecake he’d watched Ilya bake earlier, the creamy, caramelized face of it laughing at Shane's aching stomach. Fuck, he’d been so grateful for the ice and acidity of that cup of lemon sorbet post-dinner, so much salty-sweet crab sopped in melted butter, mind a little blown for the thousandth time how good it felt to have dinner and dessert, to eat as much as he wanted, past what he thought he should have, and whatever had happened to thinking about progress in the gym, lost somewhere along the way in the high of progress through another ambitious meal, progress in the comfortable heaviness of his own body, in more of him to be caressed by and to compete with Ilya in bed…
He hadn’t left any appetite, because he doesn’t anymore.
And now the fucking cheesecake.
“I’m full…” he whines, his voice all pettish and pliable to his own ears. Full and all stupid sensitive in his briefs walking back to the rental, really feeling his size and needing a release so bad, except— Ilya shoots him a look as he noses his clit, just enough of a tease to make Shane clench. Shane’s fullness is his own problem.
Ilya is kneeling on the floor before the kitchen chair, shoulders supporting Shane’s big, plush thighs and his arms wrapped around them, slowly kneading the meat of his hips, thumbs in the fold between thigh and belly, fingers sinking deep into his sides like they’re the best thing he’s ever felt, and they are. Shane can feel his pussy starting to leak down towards his ass cheeks, warm and slick. It’s not getting better if he doesn’t. He takes a piece of cheesecake in his hand, and fills his sorry mouth.
As he goes down on the cake, so Ilya leans in, the tip of his tongue licking slow from Shane's taint, up his inner labia, and around, dips silky and hot into his sweet insides, and out again, the sensation pushing, pulling… The cake melts in Shane's mouth, and still he has to force it down. He tries to take smaller bites, willing himself to make room, his free hand on his stomach which, he thinks, barely looks full, just fat. He should still have an appetite. He needs to be touched harder. Ilya’s mouth paints his inner thighs shiny and wet and ignores his clit.
“Big bites,” Ilya says, his fingers seamlessly taking over work on Shane's hole while he moves up to kiss and caress his lower belly, where the soft skin tingles under his touch. A shiver runs down Shane’s spine. “I know you want more,” Ilya murmurs, “So taste it… No— Mmh... No fucking around like you do not want it…”
So Shane swallows what’s left of the cake in his hand with his eyes shut, feeling his stomach fight it, more sugar and cream down his throat, and moans softly as Ilya sinks down to cradle his clit between tongue and lip, sucks and strokes the head, circles it, and pauses, the tension so close but so far, so… Fuck. Shane takes another piece, and Ilya resumes again.
He does want more. Fuck the fullness, he needs more. He wants to consume and be consumed, head back, chair biting red marks into his supple skin. Ilya pants as he laps at him, hands squeezing him like he too can’t get enough. Shane is so wound up, so wet and half-drunk with dessert, but starting to cross over. The next piece has nothing on him. He isn’t some weak, restricted baby anymore. He's getting big for a reason. He can take anything… everything... and as soon as that thought comes, so the feeling inside him surges and sends him gasping, electric and blind.
When he opens his eyes again, chills still coursing through him, Ilya is smiling up at him from between his thighs. His cheeks are pink, and his face is wet with Shane's arousal. “That was fast,” he says, planting another kiss on Shane’s lower belly. There’s half a cheesecake still on the table, and a new hunger pulsing in Shane's groin.
“Fuck, don’t stop,” Shane says, breathless. “I’m not done…"