Chapter Thirteen #3
Shane wasn’t sure why he was letting Rozanov drive anyway.
He flipped himself around and kissed Rozanov hard.
At this angle, Shane was taller than him, and he could thread his fingers through Rozanov’s hair, tug his head back, and attack his mouth with as much force as he wanted.
His sudden aggression drew a satisfying moan out of Rozanov, and Shane wanted more; he wanted to see how many moans and hisses he could wring from him.
He wedged his knee into the tight space between the back of the couch and Rozanov’s hip, and pressed himself down onto Rozanov’s lap. He squeezed him with his thighs, holding Rozanov in place as he ground his cock against Rozanov’s stomach.
“Why do I need this so much?” Shane muttered the words against Rozanov’s lips, and hoped the other man hadn’t heard them.
“Need what?” Rozanov asked, as if he didn’t know.
Shane didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hips so he could haul down Rozanov’s waistband and pull his cock out.
“Fuck, Hollander.”
Rozanov’s head fell back on the arm of the couch, and Shane took the opportunity to kiss and lick and bite his neck. Then he took both of their cocks in his hand and started stroking them.
“Yes. Do that,” Rozanov moaned.
It was dry, and a little rough, but it was exactly what Shane wanted. Rozanov bucked up into his hand, and Shane knew it was what he wanted too. He brought their mouths back together and kissed Rozanov wildly.
“Wait.” Rozanov grabbed Shane’s wrist and stopped his furious stroking. He pulled Shane’s hand to his face and spit in his hand. Which was gross. But instead of making a face or bitching at him about it, Shane found it absurdly arousing.
The saliva didn’t add a ton of lubrication, but by then Shane’s cock was leaking enough to make up for it. He stroked faster, with his forehead resting on Rozanov’s shoulder. Shane was very close, and judging by the way Rozanov was thrusting his hips and babbling in Russian, he wasn’t far behind.
“You like that?” he growled. “You gonna come for me, Rozanov?”
“Fucking make me, Hollander.”
Shane gasped, and his stroking became frantic and sloppy and he was so close...
“Come on,” he gritted out.
Then Rozanov went very still and said, “Oh god. Shane...” and he came in hot bursts, coating Shane’s hand and allowing Shane to use the slickness to bring himself off almost immediately, with the sound of his first name being spoken in a breathless Russian accent still ringing in his ears.
They held each other, both breathing heavily as they waited for their hearts to stop racing. But Shane didn’t think his heart would ever stop racing.
Shane. He called me Shane.
He pulled back so he could see Rozanov’s face, and was shocked to see him staring at him with the same wide-eyed terror that Shane felt.
“Ilya,” he said, barely more than a whisper.
Ilya didn’t answer. Instead, he crushed their mouths together and kissed Shane in a raw, uncontrolled way that felt like an apology.
Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh no.
When they broke apart, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s and they just breathed together. Shane held Ilya’s face in his hands, and Ilya was stroking his back.
Was Shane supposed to say something? Nothing had actually been admitted here. No grand declarations. No questions asked.
Shane untangled himself from Ilya and stood. “I should go.”
It was an understatement. Shane needed to get the fuck out of there. Immediately. He clumsily tucked himself back into his jeans as he staggered backward, away from Ilya. Shit, where did I leave my underwear?
“Go?”
“Yeah... I...uh, I shouldn’t stay. I can’t. We can’t. This is...”
Ilya shifted on the couch, stretching one arm across the back and resting his ankle on his knee, casual as anything. “This is nothing, Hollander.”
Hollander. You called me Shane. “I know. I just...team meeting in the morning. I forgot.”
That made Ilya laugh. It wasn’t warm. “You forgot about a team meeting? Sure.”
Shane was already at the door, shoving his feet into his sneakers. Fuck the underwear; he needed to leave. “Thanks for the tuna melt. Um...”
Ilya sighed loudly and raised himself off the couch. Shane was frozen in place, staring in terror as Ilya slowly walked toward him. When he reached him, he tugged down on the hem of Shane’s T-shirt, straightening it for him. “Good night, then.”
Shane met Ilya’s intense gaze. His eyes were daring him to stay, and, god, Shane wanted to take that dare.
“Good night,” Shane said, barely above a whisper. He bent and grabbed his coat from where it was still lying on the floor, then stood and put his hand on the doorknob. He turned to look at Ilya one last time.
Ilya’s eyes lost their heat, and his brow furrowed, as if he’d just realized that Shane was really leaving. Then, just as quickly, he schooled his face to its default expression of cool indifference.
Shane wanted to kiss him, but he opened the door instead, and darted into the hallway.
He strode past the elevators, straight to the stairwell, not wanting to linger outside Ilya’s door.
He jogged down the sixteen flights of stairs, trying to put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible.
When he reached the bottom, he leaned back against the wall of the stairwell for a moment.
What is happening?
This was bad. This was really fucking bad. Shane’s heart was racing, and it wasn’t from taking the stairs. Every fiber of him wanted to run right back up those stairs and into Ilya’s arms. To wrap himself around him and go to bed with him and wake up with him.
And that was why Shane marched straight out of Ilya’s building, and didn’t stop walking until he was safely back in his hotel room.
In his panic, he wasn’t careful enough about not waking Hayden. He wasn’t in the room for ten seconds before the bedside lamp was turned on.
“How’d it go?” Hayden asked, grinning sleepily. “You in love?”
“No!” No! Jesus. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Why? To wash off the sex you weren’t having?”
“Go fuck yourself, Hayden.”
“Oh, I did. Couple of times. Thanks for the empty room.”
Gross.
Shane went into the bathroom to take a shower and freak the hell out in private.