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“Take off your clothes.”
He does.
“Touch yourself. Show off for me.”
He does that too.
Shane likes this game. After six months of silence, having Rozanov’s full attention again lights him up. He wants to play. Wants to learn how.
Rozanov teases him more. About the award, about the cup. Shane calls him an asshole. Nerves aside, this is fun. He can do this. He can play too.
He peels off his boxers, chucks them at Rozanov’s egotistical face.
The fabric pelts Rozanov in the chest with a soft smack. It grazes his drinking glass, sloshes the vodka around.
And the look on his face is—Oh. Shane may have fucked up.
Rozanov is staring at him with an emotion he can’t read. No blinking, no smile. Intense, whatever it is. Shane feels his own grin drop. He scoots back against the headboard, shrinks his shoulders like that will save him.
Slow and controlled, Rozanov stands. His jaw is still set tight, looking pissed. His fingers clench around Shane’s wadded-up boxers in one fist, vodka in the other.
He nods to the edge of the bed.
“Come.”
A vague instruction. Shane crawls.
Eyes up but belly down. Rozanov meets him there. He flicks open the zipper of his trousers inches away from Shane’s face, like throwing raw meat in front of a starving dog. Shane presses his nose straight in. He mouths over Rozanov’s cock through silk, rubs his cheek along the length.
When he tries to pull down Rozanov’s underwear, a harsh snap of fingers stops him.
Gritted teeth, a snarled lip. “Turn. Over.”
Shane flips himself until he’s facing the pillows, on his hands and knees, feet draped over the end of the mattress.
The vodka glass appears in his peripheral. Rozanov taps it against his shoulder.
“Hold.”
Shane shifts to one arm and takes the glass. Vodka is for after, a reward. That’s the rule.
But there is something insane living inside him. Drink the whole thing, it says, see how he reacts. Shane won’t.
Instead, he cranes his neck to watch Rozanov strip off his shirt. His body—fuck.
Let him do whatever he wants to you. Shane will.
Rozanov takes the drink back, then leans over him and wags the wrinkled boxers in front of Shane’s face.
“Bad,” he scolds. “Bad boy. Bad behavior. Cannot have people thinking I let you act like this.”
People. What people. Rozanov knows Shane isn’t seeing anyone else, even though they’ve never talked about it outright. No, he means something different. Blood rushes in Shane’s ears as he imagines it—Rozanov boasting to his teammates, about how well-trained Shane is. He’s so good. Does anything I say. No whining, no tantrums. They’d all look hungry. Jealous.
Maybe they’ve heard about Montreal Jane. Maybe Rozanov will text his friends tomorrow. She doesn’t listen anymore. Too bratty. I might have to trade her in. Shane can’t take it.
“I’m sorry.” It comes out breathy but sincere. Innocent, in the way he knows Rozanov likes on him.
“Who won tonight?”
Shane feels his cheeks heat up. “You did.”
“Yes. That makes you trophy.”
He can’t help it. He moans.
Rozanov isn’t done. “Good trophies don’t throw. Good trophies don’t talk.”
He shoves the boxers into Shane’s mouth.
Shane gags. It’s degrading. Disgusting. It’s the hottest thing Rozanov has done to him since the first time he told Shane to get on his knees.
He loves it. Could cry from how much he loves it. Shane bites down on the fabric and moans again even louder. Humiliated, and drunk off it. His dick leaks precome onto the sheets.
Behind him, he hears the clink and slide of a belt. Thank god, Rozanov is going to fuck him now. Shane peeks over his shoulder, stares in a daze as Rozanov pulls his belt from the last loop and takes a lazy sip of vodka.
“Hold again.” He places the glass back in Shane’s shaky, obedient palm. “Do not spill.”
Then, Rozanov does something strange. He folds the belt in half.
No alarm bells. Nothing. Not for Shane. He wonders why Rozanov is taking so long to undress.
(Days later, Rozanov will tease him about this. How Shane didn’t see it coming. Shane doesn’t watch adventurous porn. Doesn’t even really watch movies other than the family-friendly shit they show on planes. And he had a good childhood, not his fault. Rozanov takes longer to reply, after Shane points that out.)
He blinks at Rozanov with cloudy eyes, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth where he’s still stuffed full. Rozanov stares back.
“You are mad, about six months. That I did not text you.”
Shane huffs weakly. He doesn’t want to think about that anymore. He rolls his eyes, turns back to face the headboard. A new sensation makes him jolt, when Rozanov drags the curve of the belt over one bare hip, feather-light.
“How long did you make me wait?”
Shane grunts, not understanding.
But then, he gets it, crystal-fucking-clear when Rozanov ghosts a dry finger over his hole.
“For this. How. Long. Did you make me wait?”
Shane’s skin sweats and prickles, burning up and frozen at the same time. He can’t think of anything to say. Good trophies don’t talk.
“Two years,” Rozanov answers for him. “Twenty-four months. Long time. Six is nothing.”
The fingertip disappears, but his voice stays heavy. “Twenty-four will be the number.”
Number of what?
Still no alarm bells.
No warning, either.
Just complete and utter shock when Rozanov swings the belt down hard across Shane’s ass.
It cracks through the room like a gunshot. The pain blooms instantly. Shane sucks in air through his nose and lurches forward.
Holy shit. And then there’s the fucking headrush, as his cock springs from halfway hard to fully erect so fast that it leaves him dizzy and faint.
Enough of his brain stays online to remember the vodka, the command. Don’t spill. He doesn’t, narrowly.
There’s a beat, then. A heavy pause, the heat of Rozanov behind him and the mixed sounds of their breathing, strained and wet.
Shane sees it for what it is. A chance to tap out. Spit the boxers from his mouth and jump off the bed, tell Rozanov he’s fucking crazy and flee back to his own room.
He doesn’t. He arches deeper. He bites down harder.
The next strike lands higher than the first. Then another, closer to his upper thighs. Rozanov keeps it random, with just enough time between each hit for Shane to really feel it.
Shane manages to keep quiet for a while, but the burn grows. Before long, he’s moaning and whining after every blow at an embarrassing volume.
It’s agony. It’s perfect. Every collision of the belt against his ass throws colors across Shane’s vision like splattered paint, shades he’s never seen before. He tries experimenting with how to best chase the pain. Tense up, or go loose? Both are good, a new rainbow exploding behind his eyelids every time.
He keeps count in his head. By the tenth hit, Shane falls to his elbows, forehead pressed against the mattress and gripping the vodka glass tight enough to shatter.
He’s not the only one effected. He can feel Rozanov’s eyes on him as much as he can feel the belt, watching the way Shane’s body receives each impact. He curses under his breath between hits, drowned out by Shane’s moans. Some in English, some in Russian. “Fuck, Hollander,” after the twelfth blow. “Chert, ty prosto neveroyaten,” after the twentieth. Shit, you’re unreal.
Shane doesn’t know if Rozanov is keeping track the same way he is, but after number twenty-three, he pauses again, runs his free hand over the maroon skin of Shane’s ass. The touch burns like an iron. He presses back into it.
Rozanov pulls the underwear out of Shane’s mouth.
“Tell me how it feels.”
Words are hard to find. Is he crying? Maybe. It takes several heaving gasps before Shane can answer.
“God…fucking incredible.”
The hand on his ass digs in harder. Rozanov squeezes.
“Hurts?”
Shane nods, cheek rubbing against the bed. “Yes—hurts. Fuck. So fucking good.”
When Rozanov brushes up against him, Shane can feel his erection. Still clothed but painfully hard, all nine inches of it wide-awake and wanting.
Shane has wondered. He never let himself think on it for too long, after their previous encounters, about whether Ilya’s love of bossing him around in bed could signal other things he might enjoy doing to Shane. Rougher things.
His cock pokes Shane’s hip again, where Rozanov is drawing soft circles with his fingernails across the raw flesh of one ass cheek. Now, Shane lets himself think on it. Every fantasy he was too scared and ashamed to hope for.
He likes to hurt. Punish. Own. Rozanov’s dick gets hard from beating Shane’s ass black and blue. Shane is so turned on that he might actually vomit.
He forces his eyes open, blurry through tears, and turns to look at Rozanov for the first time since this started. He’s smiling, a flash of sharp teeth. So beautiful and so fucking mean.
Then he presses a single kiss to the dip of Shane’s lower back and whispers, “One more.”
Shane braces himself. Rozanov swings the belt with more force than any of the previous blows, lands the hit dead-center. Without the underwear gagging him, Shane smothers his cry into the sheets. He cries again when Rozanov reaches between his legs to check if his cock is still hard. Of course it is.
The vodka is plucked from Shane’s sweaty grip, set aside on the floor somewhere. “Didn’t spill. Khoroshiy mal'chik. Good boy. Almost time for reward.”
He grinds against Shane’s throbbing ass, right arm reaching out to drop the belt onto the bed.
Shane shakes his head frantically. “It was twenty-six.”
Rozanov goes very still behind him.
“Months,” Shane clarifies. “That I made you wait. Not twenty-four.”
Twenty-six months and five days, spent dodging Rozanov’s attempts to fuck him. Not the neat and tidy two years Rozanov rounded off to.
Twenty-six months and five days of trying to convince himself he didn’t want or need this. Laughable, considering they still met up to jack each other off and exchange blowjobs when convenient. Twenty-six months and five days of choosing to believe it’s less gay to have Rozanov’s cock in his mouth than up his ass.
Time they’ll never get back, and they both know it.
“Did not think that you could handle twenty-six.”
“I can,” Shane blurts out, desperate.
Rozanov considers it. “Did not think you could even handle twenty-four.” He drags a finger down the bumps of Shane’s spine, slow and hot. “Thought you would cry pretty, beg me to stop after one or two…”
The weight of him disappears. The belt disappears too.
This time, Shane unclenches. Forces his body to relax and just take it. When the belt snaps down twice more, he soaks up every needle-stab of pain.
Twenty-five makes him scream. Twenty-six makes him forget his own name.
Rozanov drops the belt.
Hands yank him down by the hips until he’s bent over the bed at his waist. With his face painted in tears and drool, Shane turns, watches Rozanov strip his pants and boxers off as he digs lube and a condom from one pocket.
Getting fucked after taking a belt to the ass is an out-of-body experience.
The fingers feel good, opening him up, soothing from the inside out. Rozanov ate him out last time, kicking off the loss of Shane’s virginity in truly mind-blowing fashion. But they’re both so on-edge already. He shortcuts with a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to Shane’s hole, before pressing in with the head of his cock.
They reach joyride speed in no time. Every thrust sends Rozanov’s groin slapping hard against Shane’s battered ass and thighs. And Rozanov can’t resist being cruel, groping and squeezing where Shane is spanked raw.
(Later, Shane will have no memory of choking out “Thank you. Fuck, thank you.” Rozanov will remember. Will wonder if he imagined it.)
The vodka tastes like shit.
But it shoots reality back into his bloodstream. Jesus christ, his ass. The marks. He hasn’t looked at it yet, but there must be layers upon layers of red stripes. Somehow, he didn’t think about the consequences at all while they were in the heat of it. Shane knows he’ll have bruises; that’s a guarantee. What if someone sees—
Propped up against the headboard next to him, but not close enough to touch, Rozanov reads his mind, his panic.
“Season is over. You don’t have to worry about hiding it.”
They both know that’s not entirely true. He doesn’t have any photoshoots until next month, but players still train in the offseason. Shane will have to be careful about what he wears to the gym for a while, no shorts. No showering in the men’s locker room. No swimming in the lake behind his parents’ house, at least not while they’re home. And though he wasn’t exactly planning on hooking up with any girls soon, that’s definitely off the table for now. Strangely, that doesn’t bother him.
“Did not break skin…” Rozanov adds, quietly. “Did not make you bleed.”
“I know.”
And that…does bother him. Shane doesn’t know why.
A dull knife has been fishing around in his guts from the moment Rozanov took off the condom. He hasn’t touched Shane since the second they both finished. The space between them on the bed feels like a concrete wall.
It’s time for him to go. Early flight, need sleep, Russia soon. Goodnight, Hollander.
When Shane drags himself into the elevator, he takes out his phone, opens the messages to Lily.
We didn’t even kiss, he types.
He deletes it.
In the bathroom of his own suite, he finally looks at his ass in the vanity mirror, assessing the damage. It could be worse. Redder. He could’ve taken more. It looks like it’s fading already, and the bruises probably won’t even show up until tomorrow.
He showers. When the hot water meets his welts, it hurts, but not enough. He steps out without a towel, types on his phone again with wet hands.
Next time, you can make me bleed.
He hits send.