Chapter Text
“So do you like basketball?”
“Not really, but is fun to sit courtside. They are like, wow, so tall up close.”
Shane nodded and looked out the window. He wondered if he did this often. Took dates to NBA games. Maybe Boston women liked this kind of thing.
“Do you?” Ilya snuck a glance.
“Sure. It’s fine.”
He laughed, the words of course you don’t all over his face.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Do you like any sport besides hockey?”
“I like tennis, in the summer. Sometimes I play with my dad. And I'll watch soccer if it's the World Cup.”
Ilya smiled, a private little thing that Shane figured was probably at his expense.
“What? Those are normal answers!”
“‘Soccer.’” Ilya put on a teasing tone. “So American.”
“Hey, take that back.” Shane pointed a finger in his face. “I’m not the one who lives here.”
“Okay, okay, so Canadian.” He made a turn, then added, “Are you hungry? We have some time.”
“Ah, no, I’m good.” Shane stiffened, just slightly, but of course, Ilya noticed.
“You are sure? There is food at the arena, but, is maybe not the food you want.”
“It’s fine, really. I don’t want to eat before—” He stopped himself just in time. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Before?”
Shane gave him a meaningful look. “I just don’t want to eat… before.”
A slow grin spread across Ilya’s face as recognition set in. “Before what, Shane?”
“Don’t make me say this,” Shane whined.
“No, I want to know.” Ilya looked far too delighted. “Before what?”
Shane let out a long-suffering sigh and gritted his teeth. “Before we fuck. I don't want to eat before we fuck. Okay?”
“Okay. No problem.” Smug satisfaction covered his face.
“God, you're a dick.” Shane’s eyes crinkled.
“Mm. Yes. A dick you are skipping lunch for.”
“Fuck off.”
Ilya chuckled, and then, so low Shane almost missed it, muttered, “So cute.”
***
In lieu of food, Ilya took them to the arena early, and Shane did his best not to be impressed by the ease with which he navigated pulling into the players’ entrance and saying hello to various security guards.
He shouldn’t be impressed. He wasn’t impressed. He did this all the time, in his own arena, with his own player badge and his own car and his own security staff. He wasn’t impressed.
Rozanov just did it all so easily. Authority and familiarity informed his every interaction. It was a window into Ilya’s daily life that he hadn’t been expecting when he’d signed up for this. He didn’t care what the date was; he just wanted to win Ilya.
It hadn’t occurred to him that of course the Celtics game would be at TD Garden. Of course Rozanov would have special clearances, and know his way around, and exchange friendly hellos with employees.
He led them through a maze of private, back hallways until they reached the much-less-occupied part of the arena devoted to the Bears.
“Whoa.” Shane stopped abruptly. “I can’t go in there.”
Rozanov shot him a look, pausing at the door handle.
“What? I can’t! They’ll fucking kill you if they find out I was here!”
“Hollander. No one is here right now. We are just stopping for something I forgot.”
“Something you forgot.” Shane gave him a flat stare.
“Yes. Is in the shower. You like showers, yes?”
Shane glared, and Rozanov softened at the sight.
“Shane. Is the only room without cameras.” He tilted his head towards the closest one. “You are coming in with me because I would not let you wander around without supervision, okay?”
Shane bit his lip, chewing on the idea. “Fine. But make it quick.”
***
As soon as the locker door swung shut, Ilya had him pinned back against it. It was, as promised, completely empty.
“Oh,” was the only word Shane got out before Ilya’s mouth was on his, kissing him ravenously. Relief flooded him, and Shane’s hands made their way into Ilya’s hair, squeezing tight as he forgot every reason he’d resisted this idea. After so many hours of keeping his hands to himself, just the simple act of touching him felt like taking his first breath of clean air since they’d left the hotel.
“You understand now, yes?” Big hands stroked at his back, soothing his nervous system.
“Yeah,” Shane’s lips parted. “Sorry.”
“Good.” Ilya kissed him more chastely, pure punctuation, and Shane leaned in to chase it, already putty in his hands.
He let himself get lost in the feeling of Ilya’s hand on his jaw, following the gentle guidance of Ilya moving his head wherever he needed it. Ilya’s kisses grew softer and longer, and he melted into the touch, losing urgency as they slowed their pace.
“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” Shane murmured, eyes closed as he leaned back, granting Ilya access to his neck.
“Doing what?” Ilya’s teeth grazed an earlobe.
Shane swayed on his feet, weak protests forgotten as the tension he’d been carrying drained out of him. It always felt like this when they were together. Like he was nothing more than an animal subject to his own impulses. Sometimes he felt like one of the dogs they’d seen earlier, like Ilya knew exactly how to grasp the back of his neck to quiet his mind and turn off his defenses.
His breathing slowed, and the alarm bells that lived inside his head went mute in response to Ilya’s mouth, warm and insistent, against his. It felt indulgent, stealing precious minutes just to make out, but also oddly calming. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this — a moment alone, away from prying eyes, between the two of them.
Eventually, terribly, Ilya pulled back, even as Shane drifted forward to chase more.
“Okay?” Something serious lingered in his eyes as he thumbed at Shane’s cheek.
All Shane could do was nod. “Okay.”
***
Shane had never sat courtside at a basketball game, so he wasn't sure what to expect. He couldn't even remember the last time he’d been to a basketball game. High school, probably? He'd never liked it much; basketball sounds weren't nearly as satisfying as hockey sounds. It was bad ASMR. But, it was exciting to be this close to the court, and more exciting still to be out with Rozanov like this so publicly — just two bros watching sports.
Rozanov got stopped a lot. This was an arena of twenty thousand Boston sports fans, and Shane wondered if that had been part of why he’d chosen this specific event. If the goal had been to wow his date, or charm them with his importance.
He was just so good at being a celebrity, in a way that Shane had never gotten the hang of. He lit up when talking to fans, somehow striking the perfect balance between dropping enough of his persona to put them at ease, and still owning the fact that he really was Ilya Fucking Rozanov — the showboat that had won their hearts in the first place.
Over the course of two hours, Shane watched fan after fan leave with shy smiles and selfies, most of whom ignored Shane. Some had choice words for him. Sometimes they stared at him with the same awe they gave Rozanov, leaving Shane embarrassed and Ilya absolutely delighted.
He’d fallen into a little routine of wrapping his arm around Shane as he teased, “You’ve actually heard of this man? Really? My good friend Shane Hollander? Wow. Usually I have to introduce him.”
They’d laugh as he added things like, “Is okay if you’ve never heard of him. He is not very famous, but, today, we are on a big date.”
Shane played the part well, graciously embracing his role as the butt of the joke as he explained their charity work. But, sometimes he worried that he sounded a little too fond in his responses. He’d call Rozanov a dick, an asshole, a jerk if it was a younger audience. But he wasn’t a good actor, and if he could hear the endearment in his own voice, then it wouldn’t be long before Rozanov caught on, too.
He felt like he was losing his mind. Ilya just kept touching him. He’d tuck him under his arm in mock displays of camaraderie. Ruffle his hair. Squeeze his jaw and cheeks like he was a child. Shane was sure that, to an outsider, it came off as derision. To him, it was maddening.
Ilya watched the game physically, his whole body following the movement of the ball, engaged and focused, while Shane paid no attention to what was happening in front of them. All of his mental energy was already occupied by the feeling of Ilya pressed to his side.
He did his best not to cave to the pressure of the two-hundred-something pound hockey player practically on top of him, not wanting to overstep into the space of the alarmingly attractive man sitting next to him — a Black guy whose face looked familiar, but he couldn’t place. But, forming a wall with his body only left him absorbing Ilya’s every lean.
He repeatedly shoved Rozanov away, making a show of his annoyance, until… he didn’t. Something about the jostling just made him a little too happy. The way their thighs were glued together. How casually Rozanov moved in and out of his space. After so many years of experience with each other’s bodies, it felt like proof of how comfortable they were with each other, and the realization had Shane feeling glowy and special.
The chairs were small. It didn’t mean anything. But he still felt like he was getting away with something.
***
“They sell a hot dog here that is, like, a foot long.” Ilya mused midway through the game.
“Okay?”
“How far do you think you could get down it in one bite?”
“Oh my God, shut up.”
“Come on. How far?”
“I already told you. I’m not hungry.”
“I know, I know, but. One bite.”
Shane pressed his lips together at the look on Ilya’s face. “I think I could do that in zero bites.”
“Oh my God, Hollander, you are so boring.”
“I don’t know.” He smirked. “I just think I’m pretty good at not using my teeth.”
For a moment, Ilya only stared at him, eyes widening in shock as he burst out laughing. “Holy fuck, Hollander!”
Shane tried to bury his smile, all too pleased with himself, but it didn’t work. “Well, am I wrong?”
“No.” Ilya’s gaze turned predatory, sending a thrill through Shane. “You are not.”
***
“You are sure you don’t want to come?” Ilya said as he stood from his seat at halftime. “This is very bad date behavior for me to leave you like this.”
“It’s fine.” Shane rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, I can handle myself for one bathroom break.”
“Okay. Text if you want anything.”
Shane scrolled on his phone in the meantime, suddenly alone between two empty seats, until he heard a woman’s voice say, “Didn’t peg you for a Celtics guy.”
He looked up to see if he was actually the person being addressed, and was shocked to find a stunning woman only two chairs away. How the hell had he not noticed Rose Landry before this?
“Oh, um, hi.” He stuttered, trying not to sound like a starstruck fan. “I’m not. I'm here for a charity thing. Are you? Shouldn't you be at a Lakers game or something?”
“Probably.” She shrugged. “I’m just here filming, but my costar Miles is from here originally, so he really wanted to go. He’s a big fan, and I’m a good sport, so.”
“Right. Cool.” Shane nodded.
She leaned in across the empty seat, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“I’m actually much more of a hockey person.”
He couldn't tell if she meant it. Women had said this to him before, and they'd been flirting. So, that's what this had to be, right? Still, he was a fan of her work, and this felt like a rare opportunity.
“Really?”
“Mhmm. I might be the only person in this whole arena who likes you better than him.” She smiled, gesturing to the 6’9” superstar hovering only a few feet away from them. “But I still think you're gonna lose to Detroit next week.”
Shane laughed that. “No chance.”
“I’m Rose, by the way.” She stuck out a perfectly manicured hand, and after spending all day with Ilya’s paws all over him, it felt tiny in his.
“Shane.”
“Oh, I know.” She grinned. “So are you going to be in Boston for a while, then?”
“Just the weekend.”
“Well, that’s too bad. My brothers would be very impressed if I got to hang out with Shane Hollander.”
He blushed at the implication, but he felt a little itchy without Ilya there.
“Well, if you ever find yourself in Montreal, I’ll get you tickets. Or your brothers, or whatever. Just let me know.”
“Maybe I will.” She smiled.
“Making friends, sweetheart?” A Russian accent sounded from behind him, and Ilya squeezed his shoulder as he sat down. Reflexively, Shane leaned into the touch, then overcorrected as he straightened out, immediately self-conscious.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Um, Rose, this is Ilya Rozanov.”
“Hi, Ilya,” Rose held out her hand, and this time, Shane could definitely tell it was flirting.
“Nice to meet you, Rose Landry.” Ilya’s voice came out low and seductive.
“Nice to meet you, too.” She raised her eyebrows, mouth twisting. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you two supposed to hate each other?”
“Usually, yes.” Rozanov didn’t break eye contact with her as he answered. “But, today, he is my hot date.”
“For charity,” Shane added flatly, already feeling like he’d been forgotten as the third party of this conversation. He cleared his throat as he added, “So you really do know your hockey.”
“Told you.” She winked.
“I leave you alone for ten minutes and you find the hotties.” Shane’s beautiful seat neighbor returned, a chastising look on his face as he addressed Rose from where he stood.
“Well, duh,” She smirked. “Can you blame me?”
“No, I can’t,” he said, giving Shane a heated up-down look that had him averting his eyes. “Hi. I’m Miles, by the way.”
They both returned the hello, but Miles’ attention quickly returned to Rose.
“Unfortunately for you, they want to interview us, so you’ll have to say bye for now to your cute new friends.”
”Fine,” she whined, before returning his sights to the two of them. “Find me on Instagram, okay? I’m taking you up on those tickets.”
“For sure.”
“Nice to meet you two.”
As they walked away, Miles muttered, “I can’t take you anywhere.”
When he turned back to Ilya, he found that he’d already pulled out his phone, mouth pulled into a tight line. Probably already sliding into Rose’s DMs for all he knew.
He didn’t notice the ginger ale in his cup holder until the halftime show was already over.
***
During a break in play, they ended up on the big screen as the camera made its way around the arena, profiling fans. The title said, “Make some noise!”, and Rozanov didn’t miss a beat before he covered Shane’s face with a wide palm, using the other to wave to the crowd, a beaming smile on his face.
Shane batted his hand away, but when he looked up to see the display, there was a slight delay on the stream, and helplessly, he watched himself laugh at Rozanov’s antics in 4K as the arena applauded their hometown hero.
He hoped that was all the audience noticed. He hoped that was all Ilya noticed.
***
Shane had never been in Ilya’s garage, but he wasn't surprised to find that it held four other Crayola-colored death traps. He looked at them through the window while Ilya exited the car.
It took a second for him to notice that Shane wasn’t following, and then he raised his eyebrows, keys still in hand. “Did you want me to fuck you in here?”
Shane shook his head, but stayed in his seat, folding his arms.
“Hollander?”
He waited until Ilya walked to the passenger side, staring down at him in confusion, before he pushed it slightly ajar.
“Sorry, it’s just, I’ve got this date who’s supposed to do things like this for me.” Shane grinned, then slammed the door shut in his face.
Ilya’s mouth hung open, and the surprise on his face gave Shane a little thrill.
“Brat!”
Immediately, he ripped the door open and hauled Shane from his seat, slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“Put me down, caveman!” Shane shrieked in laughter. “What happened to the Prince Charming act?!”
“One date, and already, you are such a little brat,” he huffed as he attempted to unlock his place with a wriggling man wrapped around his neck.
“You’re the one who said you were going to open all my doors!”
“Okay! Door is open, fuck!” Ilya exclaimed, ducking through the threshold, mindful of Shane’s head. Carefully, he set him to his feet, a wild look in his eyes.
“That was dramatic.” Shane’s chest heaved as he beamed, all too pleased with himself.
“You…” Ilya chuckled, “are a pain in the ass.”
“Thought that was your job too.”
“I think you need to be reminded,” Ilya stalked forward, “that this is my date, ah? I make the rules.”
“I still think it’s my date. And I don’t think you’re ready to drop your perfect gentleman bit.”
“Oh, Shane, this is where you’re wrong. I am still being perfect gentleman. You have heard of the Golden Rule, yes?”
“You’re not peeing on me.”
That started a laugh out of him. “You would probably like that. But no. Golden rule is that you have to treat people like they want to be treated, pervert.”
“Hey!”
Ilya’s voice went low. “You know what I think would really piss you off right now?”
“What?” His lips parted.
Ilya took him by the jaw, and Shane was sure he was going to kiss him. But instead, he did the most surprising thing he could have; he angled his face to the right, leaving him with the softest, most chaste kiss on the on the cheek he’d ever received.
Then, he leaned in close, letting his lips brush over Shane’s ear as he said, “Good night, Hollander. Thank you for a wonderful evening. Can I give you a ride home?”
Shane shuddered. The kiss was so gentle, he was left in a daze. He shouldn't be fucking hard at so little physical contact. He shouldn’t be panting.
“You’re not serious.” He rasped.
“Why? Did you want something?” Ilya’s lip drew up in challenge, and for a moment, Shane was so frustrated, he thought he might scream. But then, Ilya came closer, pressing their hips flush.
Again, Shane thought he might kiss him. But instead, he held his mouth only a breath away from Shane’s as he murmured, “You do not want me to be nice to you. I think you like me mean.”
I think I like you all the time.
Shane lunged, chasing his mouth, and Ilya met him in a long, deep kiss so distracting that he wasn't prepared to be once again airborne. This time, Shane didn't bother to protest.
Ilya carried him away from the garage entryway and gingerly placed him on the couch, and Shane ripped his shirt off, assuming Ilya was joining him. Instead, he grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it on the floor.
For a moment, Shane stared at him, confused. But then, Ilya began working at his belt.
“For your knees.”
Shane scrambled to the floor faster than was probably dignified. He didn't let Ilya finish the task, incapable of waiting even a second longer. He yanked at his briefs, desperate to wrap his hand around him.
When he looked up, he found Ilya looming above him, something dark in his half-lidded eyes. Aside from the hard dick hand in Shane’s hand, he was completely clothed, and it only turned Shane on more.
“What are you waiting for, Hollander? Suck.”
The words went straight to Shane's dick, and he happily obliged. He didn't tease, swallowing half of Ilya’s cock down in one mouthful, and reveling in the gut-punched mmm he received in return.
He lost himself in it, moaning at the sound of Ilya’s heavy exhales and the wet noises coming from his own mouth.
“Thought you could take a foot in one go. Zero bites, ah?”
Shane glared up at him, but he couldn't resist the challenge. He licked and sucked Ilya deeper and deeper, letting his tongue slide ahead of him as he bobbed.
Ilya slid a hand into his hair. “Is this all you can take? Or do you want more?”
The implication was obvious, and Shane was so turned on, he couldn't think. He pulled back, and his voice came out raw. “More. Please.”
His head drifted back down, more than happy to rise to the occasion, and Ilya sighed.
“So fucking good, Hollander. You love it.”
And God, he did. He really did.
“Do you think you can take it all? I think you can. I think your mouth was fucking made for this. Made to suck my cock.”
The dare sent a thrill down his spine. He didn’t actually know. The last few years had made him one of the world’s leading experts at sucking Ilya Rozanov’s dick, but he’d learned by now that he didn’t need to deep throat him to get him off. Now though, the idea was intoxicating.
“Christ, Hollander.” Ilya groaned. “You’re going to make me come like this. I need to fuck you. You want me to fuck you?”
He had about three quarters of it in his mouth now, but he was determined to make it all the way down before Ilya came, and he could hear the signs that he was running out of time.
Shane pulled back and looked him directly in this eyes, letting the spit drip down his face. “Mouth first.”
Ilya took in a sharp breath. “You are sure?”
But Shane already had his lips back on him. He dropped his grip from the base of Ilya’s dick, taking Ilya’s hand and moving it from the side to the back of his head.
Ilya didn’t hesitate. He slammed his cock into the back of Shane’s throat, setting a punishing pace, and Shane lost himself in it.
His eyes watered, and he could barely breathe, but he loved this. He felt accomplished and powerful as Ilya’s full length drilled past his lips. His nose was absolutely buried in it, fully deepthroating him now, and the sounds Ilya was making had his own cock dripping between his thighs. He drifted into a fuzzy space, mind quiet as he focused all of his attention on the feeling of Ilya on his tongue.
“Fuck, stop. You have to stop.”
But now he wanted proof. He’d mastered this. He had drool leaking all over his face, and the salty taste of Ilya’s precome was addictive. He sucked harder, and Ilya swore.
“No. No. I have to fuck you. Do you want to get fucked or not? Up. Up, now.”
Ilya yanked him to his feet on wobbly legs, and Shane leaned into him. His limbs were completely useless as Ilya kissed him, hard and hungry, leaving him clinging to Ilya’s shoulders. They both panted for air, foreheads smashed together as they caught their breaths.
“Holy fuck, Hollander. You should be in jail for this.”
Shane laughed, startled, and looked up to find what could only be described as amazement in his eyes.
Ilya wiped a thumb over the spit that had dripped down Shane’s face, pushing it back into his mouth, and Shane wrapped his tongue around it, already missing Ilya’s cock.
“Jesus Christ, Shane. You are trying to kill me. Evil Canadian assassin with perfect mouth.”
“Wow,” Shane grinned. “What happened to being mean?”
“Give me a minute. I am recovering from murder attempt.”
“Really? That good?” Shane’s eyes crinkled, still trying to get his breathing back to normal, and he wiped his ruined face with the back of his hand.
“Perfect. Fucking perfect.” Ilya huffed. “We need to make a sex tape.”
“Ha. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. Very much.” Ilya nodded, winded. For once, he didn’t have the energy for snark. “You need to see what you look like. Is fucking unreal.”
Shane lit up with the praise, a warm glow in his chest as Ilya pressed urgent kisses to his face and muttered something in Russian.
“Okay,” Ilya rubbed at his shoulders. “You, bed. I will get us water. And take off your pants. I am checking you for spy devices.”
Shane chuckled as he watched him walk into the kitchen.
“And no touching yourself. I will know.”
“Alright, alright!”
***
Ilya got his revenge with three rounds of torturous edging — one painfully slow blow job, and two more close encounters spent fingering him and eating him out. By the time he entered him, his entire body felt like Jell-O. By the time he let him come, Shane thought he would pass out.
“So? Perfect gentleman?”
”Fuck you.”
Ilya chuckled and flopped onto Shane's chest. “I told you. You like that I'm an asshole.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathed. “I do.”
He didn’t have the energy to disagree. In all of their years of hooking up, they’d only ever had an hour or two. Quick, punched out orgasms that felt like maintenance. Tonight, they’d been given the luxury of time, and Shane didn’t know how he’d ever go back.
His hand drifted to Ilya's hair, scratching light circles into it until he remembered something.
“You're wrong about the Golden Rule, by the way.”
“What, you want me to pee on you now too?”
“No, dick.” He laughed. “It’s not treat others how they want to be treated. It’s treat others how you want to be treated.”
“No. This does not sound correct.”
“It is! Google it!”
“Shane. We have a great sex life. Do not punish yourself by trying to top.”
His eyes drifted shut, completely spent, until the sticky feeling between his legs became distracting. “I should shower.”
“Yes. We both should. Come.”
He let himself be dragged into Ilya’s massive bathroom, too tired to overthink the tender way Ilya massaged body wash into his back, or how much he liked that Ilya had a towel warmer.
Reality only settled back in when he went to get dressed, the air suddenly cold outside of the hot shower. He found his clothes, folded on a chair.
“I should probably get back.”
“What?”
“To my hotel.”
“Ah.” Ilya walked towards him, towel slung low around his hips. “Mr. Marriott. Mr. Hotel Room.”
“Shut up.”
“Stay.” Ilya shrugged. “A little longer. I can drive you back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Prince Charming, remember? Not now though. I’m hungry. You probably are too, Mr. Skipped Lunch For Dick.”
He punctuated the thought with a quick kiss, moving towards his dresser as though it was already settled. And well. It was past ten now. They’d been fucking for hours, and Shane was hungry.
“Okay.”
Ilya dropped his towel as he dug through a drawer, and while Shane was distracted by his ass, he tossed a shirt at him. He had one arm in before he noticed the Boston logo.
“Oh, fuck off, I’m not wearing that.” He threw it back.
“Eh, worth a shot.” Ilya grinned, and tossed another. “I want pasta.”
***
An hour later, Shane leaned back into Ilya’s couch, completely satiated in every sense, and yawned. Ilya pulled his head onto his lap, and his eyes drooped.
“I think I’m gonna fall asleep in your car.”
“Hmm.” Ilya stroked his fingers through Shane’s hair.
“We should head out.” He didn’t want to impose, but it had been a long day and sleep was calling to him.
“What time is your flight tomorrow?”
“Around noon, I think.”
“You should crash here.”
“Can’t.” Shane yawned. “What if someone sees me coming back early in the morning? They're gonna think I had a one night stand.”
“Okay, so we fuck again in the morning. Two night stand, no problem.”
In lieu of a response, Shane nuzzled further into Ilya’s stomach.
“Come on. We can leave here early in the morning. Or you can call a car, whatever you want. No one is going to remember your boring clothes enough to notice.”
“Such a dick to me.”
Ilya kissed the top of his head. “Bed?”
Shane’s eyes were closed as he nodded, and the last thing he remembered for the night was being cradled into Ilya’s bedroom like a child.
***
It took a moment for Shane to realize why he felt so warm. He was completely cocooned, his entire body ensconced by six feet of hockey player draped around him like a blanket. He didn't think he'd ever felt so cozy. Instinctively, he burrowed closer.
Opening his eyes was a mistake. He squinted, adjusting to the brightness, and it took a beat to recognize his surroundings for what they were.
Rozanov’s bedside table. Rozanov’s wall art. Rozanov’s million lamps. Rozanov’s blinding natural light. And behind him, Rozanov’s tan, freckled arm. His sharp chin tucked into Shane's neck. His third leg tucked between Shane's legs.
Rozanov everywhere, and warm, warm, warm.
The events of last night came rushing back as he realized his grave error. They didn't do this. They didn't have sleepovers, or wake up in each other's arms.
Rozanov had offered to drive him back to his hotel last night, but he’d just… fallen asleep. And wasn't that embarrassing. He’d overstayed his welcome, because he couldn't bring himself to leave Rozanov’s arms. And they were really fucking great arms, but nothing would be worth hearing what the man they were attached to had to say about it when he woke up.
Just couldn’t get enough of me, could you, Hollander?
Shane didn’t think he could bear that right now. Not when it was so thoroughly, factually, obviously true.
He had to get out of here. As delicately as he could, he toed out of the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping man behind him, found the clothes he came in, and called a cab.
***
Five hours later, he touched down in Montreal and tried not to be disappointed that his only new message was from Hayden.
Hayden: So did you survive your weekend with Rozanov 😂
He wasn’t sure that he had.