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Shane steps out of the shower, grasping for the starched towel hanging on the rack. It’s a fancy hotel, so the fabric is thick. Shane buries his face in it, lets it blot out the bright lights reflecting off the tile.
He’s in Rozanov’s hotel room, came over at the crack of dawn to sneak in a quickie before the flight out. They’d been a little more reckless than usual this morning. Now Shane’s shirt is sitting on Rozanov’s floor, with a five inch long tear starting from the centre of the collar. Shane had rushed over, strung out and horny, in nothing but a long-sleeve so getting home now involves hiding his face and his fucking nipple. The towel smothers the sound of his frustrated groan.
“Have a shower, Hollander, relax,” Rozanov had shooed him out of the room, “I will fix it. It’s no stress.”
“Hollander,” Rozanov’s voice travels from the bedroom, “Bring little scissors with you. Big grey bag.”
With one last pass of the towel over his still-damp hair, Shane watches the reflection of his eyebrows knit together in disgust.
“You’re cutting your nails in your bed?” his voice comes out dripping with judgement even as he automatically moves over to the bag as asked, “That’s fucking disgusting, dude.”
“When my dick was just inside you, I am not dude,” Rozanov scoffs.
Shane ignores him, tucking his towel around his waist and rummaging around in the toiletries bag. His fingers trace over curl creams, spare razors, a string of condoms, a pack of cotton ear buds and eventually snag on the cool metal blades of the scissors. He knots the towel low on his waist and heads back out to the bedroom, prize in hand.
Rozanov’s over near his suitcase. His jeans are on, dark denim clinging tightly to his thighs but they aren’t done up properly. Dark curls spill out of the open fly in a way that makes Shane’s throat dry. Rozanov turns to Shane as he reenters the room. He’s got a plain, black t-shirt clutched in his hand. Totally nondescript. Nothing that anyone could trace back to Rozanov, but Shane will know. His hand shakes a little as he reaches across Rozanov’s body to snatch at the shirt.
“No.” Rozanov says, his accent twisting the syllable to a harsh stop. “Scissors.”
Shane rolls his eyes heavenwards, to the empty spot that Rozanov’s cross is meant to symbolise and prays to a god neither of them believes in for strength.
He hands the scissors over obediently. As soon as they’re in Rozanov’s hands, Shane flops down onto the bed on his back. For once, he doesn’t give a shit about the sheets. Let the towel soak them through. He settles himself up on his elbows, and sees Rozanov neatly trimming the tag from the shirt collar.
Shane blinks.
Strong, square fingers trace along the side seams on the inside of the shirt, searching for that pesky second tag that everyone always forgets but drives Shane’s skin crazy.
“What are you doing?” Shane asks.
Rozanov doesn’t even bother to look over at him.
“Removing tags. You don’t like them,” Rozanov answers absently, “Aha!”
With a deft snip, he separates the offending material and bundles it up in his fist with the first one.
“How did you even notice something like that?” Shane asks.
Rozanov dumps the tags on the nightstand as he walks across to stand between Shane’s legs.
“This may come as a shock, but I have undressed you many times now, Hollander,” a wry smile twists at the corner of Rozanov’s lips, “Arms up.”
Shane sits up straight and lifts them as ordered while Rozanov slips the soft cotton over his head. The fabric is well-loved and loose even on Rozanov. It drapes over Shane, clinging to the patches of damp still lingering on his skin. Rozanov’s pretty much the same height as him but he towers over him like this. Shane’s eyes roam the seemingly impossible length of him. Tracing the dip between his collarbones, his pecs, his abs. He lets his gaze trail all the way down to where the root of Rozanov’s cock is still visible through his barely-pulled-up jeans.
“I normally do it myself,” the protest sounds weak even to Shane’s own ears.
Rozanov raises an eyebrow and smoothes his thumb along the wide neckline. His blue eyes are locked on the movement, fixed with intent on Shane’s skin as his thumb loops into the middle and yanks down to expose his pecs. Almost exactly how Shane lost his first shirt this morning.
“Fine, there is another reason,” Rozanov sighs with a shrug that says caught me.
“When I touch you, back when this was starting… your body is incredible, obviously,” strong fingers grasp the meat of his pec to underline the point, “But I think to myself, so is his shirt?”
Shane’s eyebrows raise even as he arches into the touch.
“Beautiful fabrics,” Rozanov continues, “Excellent… sews?”
“Seams.”
“Seams,” he repeats, dragging the vowel out long and languid, “Well-made. So I’m thinking I will buy some for myself, but when I check there is no tag. I don’t know where I can get these beautiful shirts.”
Shane can feel the hot flush spread across his face, down his neck.
“You could have asked. And you didn’t have to hack up your shirt just to get me home.”
Rozanov exhales sharply through his nose and draws his hand away from Shane’s chest.
“I wanted to,” he says sharply.
His eyes bore into Shane’s.
“When I am doing something nice for you, you don’t always have to say Rozanov, why are you being like this. I can be nice. Just fucking take it and say thank you,” Rozanov spits, “Fuck.”
And the thing is, it’s true. Rozanov can be nice. Shane thinks about room service ginger ale. He thinks about careful, agonisingly thorough prep. The soft look Rozanov gets sometimes when he thinks Shane isn't looking at his face. A fluttering, breathless feeling starts kicking around in Shane's stomach.
Shane swallows it down and Rozanov’s eyes fix on the movement of his throat.
More confidently than he feels, Shane reaches out to let his hands splay on Rozanov’s hipbones, thumbs dragging across the cut of his Adonis belt and palms pushing those stupid jean flaps even further down. Shane leans forward and runs his tongue down the middle of Rozanov’s abs.
“Thank you,” he mumbles against Rozanov’s skin.
It still tastes slightly salty. There’s something ridiculously hot about knowing that he’s sitting there all squeaky clean while Rozanov still tastes and smells like their fuck.
Rozanov sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. It’s an expression Shane always loves. It makes his heart-shaped top lip look even more pronounced than usual.
Shane’s tongue traces over the curves of Rozanov’s chest, from mole to mole like he’s creating new constellations. It leaves a damp trail behind that glints in the dim light, blocked out by the curtains.
“Thank you,” he breathes again.
“Take the towel off,” Rozanov orders.
A shiver runs down Shane’s spine at that tone. It always sets him hot to burning, but not even that is enough to fully quiet his brain. His gaze darts over to the clock on the nightstand.
Rozanov’s hand comes to his cheek and turns his face away, forces his chin up so Shane’s looking at nothing but him.
“We can make time. Trust me.”
“Okay,” Shane relents.
“Trust me and take the towel off.”
Shane untucks his hasty knot, letting the towel fall to his sides. Rozanov’s eyes trace lazily across his body. It’s should feel weird, lying in Rozanov’s shirt and nothing at all on his legs, but it doesn’t. Shane wonders when he lost count of the times they’ve done this. The curve of his half-hard cock, the freckles across his collarbones are all old news for Rozanov. Boring, Rozanov says. His body says differently. His cock is starting to strain against tight denim.
“Touch yourself,” Rozanov’s voice is husky with want but his hands stay firmly at his sides.
There’s a flash of panic as Shane thinks about Vegas. About being sent home unkissed.
Rozanov must see something in his eyes, the suddenly stiff line of his shoulders, because he reaches down to grip around Shane’s knee. His touch is firm as he extends Shane’s leg up and long, until his ankle is sitting on Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov kisses the bone.
It’s all the prompting Shane needs. He puts all his weight into his left arm and lets the fingers of his right hand slide across his neck. His touch is firm, grounding as he smooths his palm down between his pecs.
“Like I would,” Rozanov instructs.
Shane gropes at his chest through the cotton of Rozanov’s shirt, massaging the meat of his pec and letting his thumb trace around his nipple as it hardens to a sensitive peak. Once it’s stiff, he pinches it hard between his fingers. His breath leaves him in a soft exhale. Rozanov’s obsessed with his chest, so Shane takes his sweet time there. He’s never this thorough when he’s alone. Under Rozanov’s piercing gaze, Shane goes back and forth, smoothing, grasping, twisting until both of his nipples feel raw and aching. Rozanov’s breathing through his mouth and Shane watches the pink of his tongue, thinking how nice it would feel to have something soft and wet against his chest.
“You wax, yes?” Rozanov asks.
“Huh?” Shane blinks as he processes, “Oh, my chest, yeah.”
“You like the feeling? Being smooth?”
Shane’s fingers run away from him, underneath the shirt now to trace against the hairless skin there. The first skin-to-skin touch against his nipple has him shuddering. He lets his nail catch, mouth falling open on a moan.
“Yeah, it’s good.”
“Maybe I should do mine—”
“No,” Shane interrupts.
Rozanov’s eyebrows fly up and his gaze snaps from Shane’s hand up to his burning face.
“I mean do what you want, obviously,” he stumbles to recover.
Rozanov’s grin is curved and wicked. He drags a line down his own happy trail, fingers running through the curls there.
“Is nice to know you like my hair.”
“Fuck off.” The words tumble out like a reflex, but the breathy tone betrays him.
“I noticed that, too,” Rozanov continues, “That you like it.”
It’s about sex, which is about the only thing that feels safe between them, but the statement makes something twist up in Shane’s gut. He swallows.
Rozanov beckons him to sit up closer. Like a puppet pulled on strings, Shane shifts himself fully upright, both feet on the floor. His forehead comes to rest in the centre of Rozanov’s chest. Rozanov’s fingers thread themselves in Shane’s short hair, cradling him surprisingly tenderly as Shane nuzzles into his skin. Then, his grip tightens and he pushes Shane’s head downwards. Pulled into a slouched curve, Shane pants open-mouthed against Rozanov’s crotch.
“Some people say smell sticks to the hair and this is a bad thing,” Rozanov continues, “But I think it’s good. You can smell it there, huh, Hollander? Yourself. Me.”
And the fucked up thing is that he can. Rozanov smells musky and rich. It smells like sweat, like sex, like Shane. It should be disgusting but it has Shane moaning against Rozanov’s skin. He drags his tongue down the line of Rozanov’s happy trail, following the grain of the hair. Salt bursts on his tongue, then a touch of something earthier and primal, and then the faint chemical aftertaste of leftover lube.
“Get these off.”
Shane tugs at Rozanov’s jeans, fingers scrabbling in his haste.
It shouldn’t be like this, some distant, rational part of his brain suggests. They had sex less than forty minutes ago. It makes no sense that Shane’s this desperate for it, already hard and aching against his stomach just from drooling over Rozanov’s chest. Sometimes, there’s a part of him that wishes they saw each other more, but overall it’s probably a good thing that they can only ever manage a few hours at a time. Anything longer and they’d fuck themselves to death.
Rozanov enjoys watching Shane struggle with his stupidly tight, European jeans before he deigns to help. He kicks off the pants. Shane doesn’t see the way they crumple in a heap on the floor, he’s too busy diving face first into Rozanov’s crotch. He nuzzles up against Rozanov’s cock. Doesn’t even lick it, just lets his lips run along the soft skin as he rubs it against his cheek. It’s hot like a brand against his face. Shane’s eyelashes flutter closed and he breathes in deep. It smells even stronger here. Something pungent and masculine that has the animal part of Shane’s brain lighting up like a floodlight. His breath leaves him in a long, satisfied sigh.
“Always so pretty for me, Hollander,” Rozanov groans.
It takes a few beats for Shane to blink up at him.
Rozanov’s brow is twisted up like he’s in pain. Shane can feel the pulsing of his cock against his cheek, burning and twitching. Shane takes pity on him. He licks a long stripe across the underside of Rozanov’s cock and then lets the very tip of his cock rest on his bottom lip. He keeps his eyes on Rozanov as he carefully presses a kiss to Rozanov’s head. It’s close-mouthed, just a tease to see how Rozanov responds. His hand grips Shane’s face, thumb stroking along his cheekbone but not making any effort to force Shane down onto his cock.
Vaguely, Shane remembers being worried about the time. In this split-second, he decides he’s going to take as long as he damn well pleases.
He pulls Rozanov’s foreskin back and this time, he kisses with an open mouth. It’s shallow but messy, so when he pulls away there’s a string of spit connecting his lips to Rozanov’s cock. Shane doesn’t pull back far enough for it to break before he goes in again. He lets the point of his tongue drag along Rozanov’s slit, light at first, and then deeper until he can feel the bitter burst of precum on his tongue. He spreads the fluid around over the smooth skin of the head, just enjoying the feel, the weight, the smell of Rozanov in his mouth.
He stops to spit some of the mess into his hand. Lets his fingers wrap around the thick length of Rozanov’s shaft. He keeps his grip loose. Just slicking up the skin, fingers tracing across the prominent veins like he can memorise the pulse of each one. He doesn’t give a shit if this is getting Rozanov off. Little droplets of spit catch in Rozanov’s pubes. Everything is shiny and wet.
This time, Shane goes down further. Lets the shape of Rozanov’s cock rest on his tongue. It shouldn’t be a surprise to him anymore, but the weight of Rozanov’s cock is a revelation every time. He drags himself backwards, then slowly moves again. He’s not taking Rozanov deep, has no interest in checking his gag reflex. This is for Shane to enjoy. He sets a lazy pace back and forth. Every so often, his bottom lip goes loose so that he can get more spit to where he’s gently stroking the base of Rozanov’s cock. Shane hums softly, a happy little pleasured noise he can’t quite hold back.
“Your fucking mouth, Hollander” Rozanov pants above him.
His thumb rubs up against Shane’s cheek again. Shane uses his tongue to push Rozanov’s cock until it’s bumping up against his thumb, only separated by the thin skin of Shane’s cheek. Rozanov curses in Russian. Something guttural and drawn out. He rubs circles into the head of his cock, but the caress feels like it’s for Shane, too.
“Want to fuck you,” Rozanov groans.
Shane pulls off his cock. His hand continues as he weighs up his options.
“I just showered.”
“Yes and now you are covered in spit,” Rozanov points out, “You will shower again anyway.”
Rozanov’s face is red from holding himself back. The flush is working its way down his neck, across the top of his pecs. Shane realises in a flash that Rozanov, maybe, wants this even more than Shane does. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, running his teeth across the swollen skin as he pretends to consider it.
“But I’m having fun here,” Shane protests.
“Don’t worry, you will have more fun with my cock in your ass.”
Shane ducks his head down so Rozanov can’t see the stupid grin on his face. When he’s schooled his expression again, he looks back up through his eyelashes.
“I dunno,” Shane shrugs.
“Yes, you know,” Rozanov pushes, “You love it.”
“Get your ass on the bed and maybe I’ll think about it.”
Rozanov grabs under Shane’s armpits and hauls him up. He kisses him hard enough to bruise, licking the taste of his own dick out of Shane’s mouth. Before he can fall into it, Shane shoves at Rozanov’s shoulders. He stumbles back a step, catches himself, and then rolls his eyes and gets onto the bed. The lube is still on the nightstand from before, but Shane has to duck into the bathroom to grab an extra condom.
When he steps back into the room, Rozanov has one arm thrown over his face, the other hand curled around the base of his dick. His hips are making jerky, tiny thrusts like he’s fighting to hold himself back. Heat flares in Shane’s gut, sudden and raging like wildfire. He strips Rozanov’s shirt off of himself, giving it the most half-assed fold of all time and leaving it on the desk. He tosses the condom to the side of the bed, grinning when Rozanov misses the catch. Rozanov’s face twists up into an exaggerated frown, but the expression drops pretty quickly as Shane clambers over Rozanov’s body, letting his cock drag against the slick mess that is Rozanov’s groin.
“Fuck, that feels—” Shane groans.
“Yeah,” Rozanov echoes.
They grind like that against each other for a while. Both too caught up in the feeling to remember the plan to fuck for real. Shane noses along Rozanov’s hairline, where the sweat is starting to burst across his forehead. Rozanov’s mouth is on his neck. He’s careful not to leave it in any one place for too long, just licking and kissing and running his teeth anywhere he can reach. Shane can feel his cock dripping.
“The lube,” Shane manages, “Give me the lube.”
Rozanov stretches out his arm and grabs it from the side. He goes to pour it onto his own hand but Shane gets his in the way first. The sticky wetness coats his fingers. Reaching behind himself, Shane smears the lube over his hole. He’s not gaping, but it’s definitely still loose from before. The skin feels smooth and puffy under his finger. The first knuckle slips in like nothing, as easy as breathing. His body is so, so eager for this. He doesn’t bother with thrusting, just circles his finger around, testing the give of his rim.
“Look at your face,” Rozanov murmurs, “so fucking needy for it.”
When Shane isn’t half out of his mind with how horny he’s feeling, he’s sure he’ll be embarrassed by that comment. As it stands, all he can do is nod and slip a second finger in alongside the first. He sighs in relief as the pressure builds inside of him, rubbing his fingertips against the smooth, silky walls. He can’t get the angle right to hit his prostate this way but the feeling of fullness is almost as good. Or it will be, once he’s full properly.
“Put the condom on,” Shane orders.
Rozanov grasps around in the sheets to where Shane had carelessly tossed it earlier. He hears the tell-tale crinkle of foil as Rozanov finds it and tears it open. Rozanov’s hands bump up underneath him as he rolls the condom over his cock. Once it’s done, he palms at Shane’s ass. Squeezes the meat of him and groans into Shane’s shoulder.
“Can I fuck you now?” he begs.
“No,” Shane says, “I wanna ride you.”
Rozanov lets out a slow, breathy Russian curse. It sounds filthy to Shane’s ears. Rozanov brings the lube over and starts pouring it right where Shane’s fingers are buried in his hole. It’s bracingly cold, making goosebumps rise on Shane’s arms as he pushes it into himself. The noise of it is filthy in the best way. He sounds as wet as a fucking girl.
“Okay,” Shane gasps, “Okay, fuck. That’s it. Let me—”
Rozanov holds the base of his dick so that Shane can line himself up. He slides his fingers out, bracing them on the sheet by Rozanov’s hip as the blunt pressure of Rozanov’s cock nudges up against his hole. Shane bears down. He loves this. The split second of his body’s hesitancy. As though it’s asking him will it really fit as though it hasn’t a hundred times before. Shane angles his hips back and— there. The head of Rozanov’s cock notches up inside him, spreading him open wide and wanting. Shane lets the weight of his head drop forwards, heavy onto Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov turns his head to kiss at the side of Shane’s face and everything is so, impossibly good.
Then, Shane lets his hips drop and it’s better. He takes his sweet time, letting himself feel every single inch as he works his way over Rozanov’s cock. Rozanov is purring away at him in Russian, but Shane can barely pay attention. He bounces on those first few inches, never getting high enough to risk the head slipping out, but nowhere near as deep as he needs it. He’s focusing on that immaculate thickness, the insane girth of Rozanov.
Normally when they fuck, Shane feels breathless. It’s like Rozanov is carving up a space for himself inside. Making it fit, making Shane take it. But they’ve already fucked once today, so it’s different. Shane’s body is open and willing. The stretch feels gentler somehow. Less creating new space and more coming back home. It makes Shane a little smug. Shane’s confident in his own dick but Rozanov is undeniably a beast. He’s said before that he’s had hookups that can’t take him. But Shane can. Every. Single. Time. He rolls his hips, letting them drop a little further with each movement. Rozanov’s hands brace against Shane’s straining thighs, gripping the thick muscle as he works his way down.
When Shane’s ass meet’s Rozanov’s groin they both moan. Shane drags his hands along the planes of Rozanov’s chest until he’s sitting upright, Rozanov balls fucking deep in his guts. He feels like a fucking king right now. Rozanov is looking at him through hooded eyes, mouth open and panting like a dog. Shane grins at him and starts a slow circle with his hips. He’s not bouncing, just grinding in slow movements, luxuriating in the feeling of being filled to the brim.
“Hollander,” Rozanov sounds like he’s been punched.
“Yeah?” Shane answers with another roll of his hips.
“Come on.”
“You were the one who said we had time,” Shane reminds him with a grin.
A smile breaks over Rozanov’s face in response. There’s a second where they’re frozen. Shane’s chest feels light and tight all at once. He beams down at Ilya like the sun is shining out from his ribs. Blue eyes soften at the edges.
Then Rozanov ends the moment.
His arms wrap around Shane’s hips in a powerful, unbreakable grip. Before Shane can react, he hauls Shane’s ass down onto him and thrusts up at the same time.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane’s breath leaves him in a gasp.
All the need comes rushing back until he swears he can feel it down to his toes, in his fingertips where they’re wrapped in Rozanov’s curls. Shane gets to bouncing in earnest now, no more playing. The sounds of skin slapping together echo the frantic tempo of the blood rushing in Shane’s ears as they move together. It’s almost as if they’re one body, moving in perfect unison as the pace and the force ramps up. Shane untangles one hand from Rozanov’s hair to brace on the headboard, using the leverage to shove himself back onto Rozanov’s cock even harder.
“Yes, Hollander, fuck,” Rozanov moans against Shane’s armpit.
He breathes open mouthed against the sweaty skin there, Shane can feel the line of his nose pressed flush against him, the hot flash of his tongue as he licks and sucks. Rozanov’s cock is driving up inside him like it’s his fucking job and Shane’s whole body is lit up like one big nerve ending. His skin feels raw in the air.
“I need,” Shane gasps.
“What?” Rozanov pants, “Anything. Anything.”
“Need you on top of me.”
They’re both so desperate that they fumble to move, sliding on the sheets as they readjust their position. Rozanov shoves a pillow under Shane’s hips then pins Shane’s knees up by his ears. The stretch burns Shane’s hamstrings in the best way. Up on his knees, Rozanov stares down between Shane’s legs like he’s starved. The sudden rush of cold air makes Shane aware of the sticky flood of lube that’s been leaking out of him, where he’s not quite shut tight anymore.
“How—” Shane bites his lip to stop the question spilling out.
“What?” Rozanov’s gaze flicks up to his face, “Finish your question.”
Shane could fight back, or ignore it, or lie. Instead, he catches his breath, feels embarrassment burn across his cheeks as he asks,
“How does it look?”
Rozanov’s mouth drops open and his grip flexes around Shane’s legs, strong fingers driving into even stronger tendons.
“Fucking wrecked,” Rozanov manages. Then, he gazes back down and spits onto Shane’s gaping hole.
“God,” Shane gasps.
Rozanov leans down further, his face still too far away for a kiss.
“No, Hollander,” he corrects, “Just me.”
Then, he spits directly into Shane’s open mouth.
Shane almost chokes from the shock, but as soon as he recovers he swallows it down eagerly.
“Get in me,” Shane begs, “Put your fucking dick in me or I’ll die.”
Rozanov punches his cock right back in, letting his whole body weight drop onto Shane. Like this, Shane is completely covered. Rozanov’s forehead is pressed against his, Shane’s dick is shoved up against Rozanov’s abs and his ankles are locked around Rozanov’s neck. Shane imagines being wrapped up in a 230 pound duvet. This is exactly what he needed.
They start up again slow. Slow enough that they can kiss, hot and messy. There’s no concept of Shane’s spit anymore, or Rozanov’s. It’s all just theirs. Each thrust of Rozanov’s hips drives in deep, making Shane moan into his throat. The angle is better this way. Rozanov hammers into his prostate with every purposeful thrust, sending sparks shooting up his spine. The brief interlude of sanity falls away, and the animal need rears its head, ugly and desperate, refusing to be cast away again. Shane’s ankles are so sweaty they slide off of each other, toes curling against Rozanov’s back as he’s jackhammered into the mattress. His cock is rutting against skin and moles and hair. Everything is hot and fast and wonderful except that Shane can’t even breathe. Pulling away from Rozanov’s perfect mouth for air, Shane tucks his nose under Rozanov’s jaw. He pants open mouthed against Rozanov’s skin. He smells fucking ripe but it’s working, oh god it’s working.
“Rozanov, I’m gonna come,” Shane warns.
“That’s it Hollander,” Rozanov grunts, “Come on my cock.”
Permission granted is all it takes.
Shane’s spine goes rigid as his body seizes and comes all up both of their chests. Rozanov hisses at the extra tightness, hips slowing down so he can let Shane ride out the high without shoving him into overstimulation. That perfect tension eases and Shane goes boneless. One breath, then two. Eyes still closed, Shane drives his heel into Rozanov’s shoulder blade.
“Keep going,” he breathes.
“Sure?” Rozanov asks.
He’s trying to play it cool but his voice breaks. Shane grins against his neck, lets Rozanov feel his teeth.
“No one can take it like me, right?”
“Fuck, Hollander,” it comes out of Rozanov’s mouth like the prayer of the dying.
He does one more slow, half-aborted thrust before he brings the pace back up to what it was before. Each stroke feels like lightning, hot and painful, just on the edge of too much. Shane covers his softening dick with his hand, trying to reduce some of the sensation where he’s so oversensitive. The other hand goes to Rozanov’s flank, feeling the heaving, rolling muscle below. Rozanov is panting in his ear like a workhorse, half-baked syllables gasped out between breaths.
“So fucking good,” Shane says into his skin, “You’re so fucking good to me.”
Rozanov’s thrusts get shallow and erratic, choppy like a churning sea as he chases his peak. He knows the tells of Rozanov’s body so well at this point, Shane can pinpoint the exact second to run his nose along Rozanov’s jawline, up to his ear.
“Come in me,” he moans.
Rozanov slams into him and groans as his orgasm hits. His head drops down onto Shane’s shoulder, burrowing in as his hips buck mindlessly, each one slower and shallower than the next. Shane strokes over Rozanov’s hair, lets his left leg slide off his wide shoulder and down to the side as he gets comfortable. Rozanov lets out a deep shudder as he pulls out of Shane entirely. He sucks in a deep breath and blows it out again before he turns his face up to meet Shane’s.
Shane can’t help the way his lips jerk up into a little smile. Rozanov mirrors him, then leans forward for a chaste kiss. Something about the softness makes him feel raw, so Shane opens his mouth and strokes along Rozanov’s tongue with his own.
When he pulls back, Rozanov’s grin is even wider.
“And you were worried about time,” Rozanov chirps.
Shane really, really should be. The undercurrent of worry he always carries stirs in his gut, but it’s faint. Smothered and soothed by how satiated his body feels.
“Fuck you.”
“We definitely don’t have time for that,” Rozanov says as he rolls himself off of Shane.
“But there is plenty for you to have first shower, put on shirt that has been fixed for you and get to the airport,” Rozanov glances over to the clock on the nightstand, “Is mid-morning so work traffic is gone anyway.”
Rozanov ties up the condom but leaves it sitting lazily on his thigh. He’s melted into the sheets, losse and easy. Shane looks over to where the inoffensive black shirt is sitting on the desk. Tags removed, just for him. There’s something heavy in his gut, something he’s trying not to name. It swells inside of him, blocking his airway from the inside. His gaze tunnels in to the shirt, breath catching when suddenly there’s a warm hand on his thigh.
“Hey,” Rozanov’s voice is softer now, “Really, is no panic.”
Shane can feel it sometimes, when his face moves wrong. His lips quirk up into a tight smile but the rest of his face doesn’t move. Rozanov frowns.
“Sorry for putting pressure—”
“No,” Shane cuts him off, “No, I wanted it. It was worth it.”
He shouldn’t, but he leans it to kiss Rozanov one more time. Lingers for a beat. When he pulls back, he can’t help but lick the taste off his lips.
“I’m gonna shower then be out of your hair.”
Shane slides off the bed before Rozanov can touch him again. He stumbles a little as his hamstring protests being stretched out after so long curled up tight. Shane’s head snaps around at Rozanov’s laugh.
“What, I can’t enjoy the view?” Rozanov grins.
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane rolls his eyes but can’t quite fight his smile.
He walks over to the desk and grabs Rozanov’s shirt on his way to the bathroom. Rubbing the soft cotton between his fingertips, he feels the smile fall off of his face.
The bathroom door snicks closed behind him.