Chapter Text
December 7th 2015
The bartender is hot. Model hot. Warm skin, tight beard, a jaw that could cut glass. Shane wonders if he's JJ's friend who owns the bar. Then he wonders if that's racist. He picks up the drinks menu, looks at it instead of at the bartender's jawline. He gets so horny in the days before he gets to see Rozanov—like a Pavlovian response. He tries not to jack off too much, tries to keep his energy for the game, keep the arousal inside, building up so that when it explodes it's enough to tide him over until the next time.
It has the unfortunate side effect of turning the little twinges of attraction he sometimes feels at seeing an attractive man into an almost stomach-clenching need.
He wants to be on his knees. Wants to smell the bartender's arousal and swallow his dick.
He doesn't look up from the menu right away when the bartender comes over, tries to make sure his face is doing something normal. When he looks up, the bartender's face goes from friendly to shocked in the space of a second.
"Shane Hollander. Wow. Sorry I kept you waiting, what can I get for you?" Being recognized usually dampens any interest Shane might have had in social interaction, but the bartender recovers fast, and something in the way he asks the question feels like a challenge, like he's expecting an asshole celebrity answer.
"Do you have ginger ale?" Shane asks.
"I mean, we do," the bartender says, with a skeptical lift of his eyebrow. "But that doesn't give me a chance to show off." He winks. And as oblivious as Shane sometimes feels, at this point in his career he does understand the difference between friendly and suggestive. The twist in his stomach tightens.
"I don't drink during the season," he says.
The bartender purses his lips, tilts his head, and then nods. Whether to himself or to Shane, Shane isn't sure. "We just got in a new nonalcoholic spirit. Let me make you something. If you don't like it, we can go with ginger ale."
He looks at Shane, and there wasn't a question, but Shane understands that the bartender thinks there was. "Okay," he says.
"I'm Justin, by the way," the bartender says, and gently tugs the menu from Shane's hand.
"Shane," Shane says. Then, "…but you knew that."
Justin smiles and reaches under the counter, "Nice to get it from the source, though." He pulls out a bottle of something, a glass, a shaker, several unidentifiable implements, and talks to Shane as he pours and clinks and…spritzes? His bicep bulges as he juices a lime, and Shane loses track of whatever it was he was saying.
He grabs a straw from a container on the bar and dips it into the drink, pulls it out and tilts his head back before letting a stream of fluid flow into his mouth. The long line of his throat clenching momentarily as he swallows.
Shane is half-hard in his pants and probably being very obvious.
Then Justin gently crushes something in his hand before carefully placing it on top of the drink, and sliding it across the bar to Shane.
Shane takes a sip.
It's good. Spicy and sour and unexpected.
"Wow," Shane says. "This is good."
Justin flourishes his arms in a showy micro-bow. "I'm here all week."
"Oh," Shane says.
"Well, I'm here Wednesday through Sunday." He grins with a slight shrug.
Shane tilts his head. "It's Monday."
Justin shrugs. "Special event. Downsides of being one of the owners."
"Oh, are you JJ's friend?"
"JJ?" Justin asks, and that answers the question of whether Shane was being racist with a definite 'yes.'
"Dagenais," Shane clarifies.
"Ah, okay. That might be Chelle?" He gestures somewhere into the bar, and Shane turns to look, sees JJ in one of the two small-ish groups of people talking. "She's our finance. François and I are technically the owners, and Chelle is an investor, but…like, she put in eighty percent of our startup. So." Justin shrugs. "…and you don't care about that. Can I get you some food?"
"I have a pretty strict…performance diet, thing. So."
"So, burger? French fries? Ice cream sundae?"
Shane laughs. "Fish and whole grains and vegetables, mostly."
"Trust me?" Justin asks, turning to face his computer screen and looking over his shoulder at Shane. His neck is beautiful: long, dark and smooth.
"Sure," Shane says.
Shane doesn't let himself look at men. Ever. He doesn't let his eyes trace the curve of their necks or the shape of their lips. He doesn't let himself think about how their shoulders fill out their shirts or how their waists crease when they're leaning against something. Doesn't ever ever let himself look at their asses.
But, sometimes he can't help it.
Tonight, he can't help it.
He wants to lick up Justin's neck. He wants to tuck his hand into Justin's waistband and press it further down. He wants and he wants.
"You won't regret it," Justin says.
Shane is pretty sure he will.
Shane has long since finished his drink when Justin sets a knife and fork on the bar and then places a plate in front of him with a flourish.
The salmon is cooked perfectly. Steamed with fennel, some kind of olive oil mousse. Shane was almost sure that was what Justin had said—because that was the last thing he'd said that Shane had more or less understood. There's a stack of thinly sliced vegetables. They're crunchy and sour and they dissolve on his tongue like cotton candy.
"This is amazing."
The quinoa is deeply savory, just this side of underdone, with layers of flavor that hit him anew with every bite. At some point Shane takes a bite of quinoa, salmon and mousse all together, and he can't keep himself from groaning.
"François is a genius," Justin says, his lips creasing with a shadow of a smirk.
There aren't a lot of other people in the bar, and Justin deals with them efficiently when they approach. Mostly he stays and talks to Shane.
Justin follows hockey. The Metros and The Victoire. "I used to work in a sports bar," he says, and slides another drink towards Shane. "This one will compliment the meal."
Shane takes a sip. It's herby, he thinks. A bit salty. Fizzy but flat tasting in a way that's a bit disconcerting.
"What is this?" he asks.
"Celery tonic water," Justin says.
"Celery," Shane says, so surprised he can't keep track of what his voice is doing.
Justin grins. "It's good, right?"
"It is. I just—celery?"
"I know," Justin says with a real intensity. "It's unexpected, isn't it? That's part of what I like about cocktails." He reaches for the straw in Shane's drink, pinches it between his thumb and ring finger, settles his first finger over the lip, and lifts it out. He holds it above his mouth and lets the liquid flow between his lips. He doesn't break eye contact with Shane until he glances down at the drink to drop the straw back in. Then he looks at Shane and winks. "They surprise you."
Shane can't quite breathe. He can feel the promise of Justin's finger on his lips where the straw fits. He wants to slide his hand into the line of Justin's jaw, just beneath his ear, feel the pulse there, the life. He wants Justin's throat to push back against him as he swallows, wants to draw him in, devour him.
Shane doesn't do this. He doesn't. He doesn't ever do this, because he doesn't have to do this. Because he doesn't want to do this. Because he gets what he needs from Rozanov. Or gets—something. Something he likes. Something he wants. Not something he needs. He doesn't need it.
He wants to leave, but he knows he can't leave his drink half drunk, meal half finished, conversation half had. He reaches for the drink, takes a sip from the straw, tells himself he's not sucking against the ghost of Justin's finger. Sucks harder for no reason, licks his bottom lip once he's done.
Justin turns away to help someone else, and Shane breathes again. He sucks down the rest of the drink and shovels as much of the food into his mouth as he can reasonably swallow, and it is good. It's all fucking good, and he can't indulge like this, can't set himself up to be underwhelmed by the perfectly good food and drinks and sex that he does get to have. Regularly! As much as he needs. Or, no. As much as he likes.
There are four more bites on the plate, and Shane knows he should finish it. Vitamins. Minerals. Protein. Carbs. Fiber. Omega threes. All the things he knows are good for him.
He usually eats plain rice. Steamed vegetables. Baked fish. Ginger ale.
Not this. Not something tasted and seasoned and pored over. Not a conversation he couldn't trace back if he had to. Not sliding a joke across the bar to see how it lands. Not a tall glass with a spherical ice cube. Not the tightness of wanting more crawling up his chest and into his throat.
"Can I make you one more?" Justin asks.
"Not tonight," Shane says, tries to give it a slant of regret he doesn't feel. He dips the tines of his fork into the olive oil mousse. He shoves some quinoa onto the side of the fork and then spears the last bite of Salmon.
He brings it to his lips, covers his mouth as he slips the food inside. This time, as he chews, he holds the groan inside. Now that he knows what to expect, it punches him in the gut a little bit less, but the interplay of flavors on his tongue, and the sharp, earthy scent still shape it all into something he wants and wants.
"I have a dessert I think you'll like," Justin says, leaning over the bar, bare forearm inches from Shane's fingers, shirt falling away from his chest, exposing an expanse of skin, the fuzz of hair. "Off menu."
Shane's mouth opens just a bit before he snaps it closed, and his stomach is tight and hot and he's seeing Rozanov in two days. He's going to get fucked in two days. He doesn't need this now—doesn't need it at all.
But he wants it. He wants something carefully crafted. He wants to be touched. He wants.
He looks across the bar, meets Justin's eyes and says, "Okay."
Shane stands up, and Justin is around the bar before Shane's taken two steps, before he realizes that he has no idea what he's doing, and then Justin is walking towards a door set in the wall and Shane is following. Justin is unlocking the door and walking through and Shane is following. Shane is closing the door behind him and Justin is backing Shane up against the door and flicking the lock closed and his lips are on Shane's and his tongue is warm and spiced and gentle and Shane is following. Justin's hand is at Shane's waist, thumb circling the button on Shane's jeans, and Shane is bucking up into his thigh, whimpering into Justin's mouth, chasing something.
"What do you want?" Justin asks between licking and sucking at Shane's lips.
He doesn't know. Anything. He wants to be touched, he wants to feel. He wants the smell and the taste and the all-over-everything-nothing-this-here-now of sex, he wants that. He wants it but he doesn't know how to say that or what he needs to get it.
His hands are hanging at his sides, and that seems like a place to start. What had he wanted? A hand on Justin's neck. He reaches up. A hand on his waist. Reaches down. He can't coordinate them. The hand on Justin's neck stays still, the hand on his waistband shifts as Justin shifts, thumb tucking under the fabric. Justin's skin is warm. It's soft, it's nice. He wants more of it under his hands, so he pulls Justin's shirt out of his waistband, slides his fingertips underneath.
"Can I blow you?" Justin asks. He's moved on to Shane's ear, the skin there wet and a little cold, and, well.
"Yeah," Shane says, and Justin pulls back enough that Shane sees him smiling, watches him undo Shane's flies and sink to his knees.
Shane's hard already, of course he is, and Justin shoves Shane's jeans down and tugs his boxers down to free his cock. It's wet and warm and Shane doesn't know the rules here, this time. Doesn't know if what Rozanov does is normal or if what he's done with Rozanov is the right way. Doesn't want to get it wrong, doesn't want Justin to know that Shane's only really done this with one other person before, that he doesn't know the rules.
He slides his hand to Justin's jaw where it meets his neck, feels the shift of bone and muscle there. He wants skin, but he can't reach Justin's chest, can't figure out what to say to get Justin to slide his hand up Shane's shirt. So he does it himself, moves his other hand to his stomach, slides it up his chest, groans as Justin's lips wrap around the head of his cock, squeezes, whines, lets his fingers dig into Justin's hair, lets himself press his hips forward.
Justin lets him do it, doesn't object to Shane's shallow thrusts. If anything, he responds positively—speeds up, takes more, grunts in a way that tells Shane he's doing it right.
Shane has more stamina than he expects. More than the first time with Rozanov, definitely, and maybe even more than he usually has when Rozanov's mouth is on him. Justin takes him down all the way a couple of times—eyes tearing up, drool dripping down his chin—and it's so fucking hot. But it isn't desperate, Shane isn't desperate for it. He lets himself enjoy it, but that's what it is. Letting himself. He isn't losing himself in it, he's focusing on the way it makes him feel—he's stepping into the wet and heat and soft and good of it. He pinches his nipple, squeezes his pec, leans his head against the door, breathes in the pleasure of it as it builds.
Eventually, "I'm…" Shane says, and , "Fuck, I'm gonna—" and Justin doesn't stop. So that's good to know. He doesn't stop and Shane comes in his mouth and he swallows, tucks Shane's dick back into his boxers and stands up. When Shane goes in to kiss him again, he moves his head so Shane's mouth is on his jaw, and it's not what he wanted, but he can do that. He kisses along Justin's neck, scrapes his teeth along the muscle between his shoulder and his neck.
Shane knows reciprocity down to his bones, so he doesn't have any questions about what to do next. He reaches for Justin's dick and presses, brings steady fingers to his fly, peels him out of his tight jeans, strokes.
He can't help the comparisons. Similar length to Rozanov. Thicker. Cut. Justin's a little shorter and the angle is a little more awkward. Shane's about to go to his knees when Justin's hands on his shoulders push at him, turn them around. Justin against the door now, Shane in the open. His stomach clenches again, and it's not as instinctual to go to his knees, but the need still pulls at him, gravity urging him to surrender.
He does. On his knees, lips on Justin's cock, smell earthy and sweet, no tint of the bitterness that laces the core of Rozanov's musk. Opening his lips, tilting his head back, taking him down.
"Holy shit. Holy fuck. Wow," Justin says, and his hand slides into Shane's hair, grips, but doesn't press or tug or move, just rests there, follows Shane's movements, letting Shane control the pace, the depth, the rhythm.
It's good. It's courteous, it's what Shane did, but it's not what he likes. Not what he wants. He pulls off. "You can be…a little more…" he can't think of how to say it. Enthusiastic? Rough? Intense? "Pushy."
"Okay," Justin says, "Yeah. Sure." His hands go a little tighter, but he waits for Shane's mouth to open again before he pulls him in. And. Yeah, that's what he needs. Just a little bit more, a little bit harder. He relaxes his throat and settles into it, lets himself go in the rhythm, in adapting to the ways that Justin's grip shifts, the ways he nudges Shane's head closer in, further away, a little to the side. The shifts of his hips, the shallow thrusts. It's enough. It's just enough.
"Fuck, you're so…" Justin says, and then he pushes Shane's shoulder back, and Shane lets go, pulls away, settles onto his shins. Justin is jerking himself, grunting and finishing neatly in his hand, and Shane wants to take hold of his wrist and suck the cum from between his fingers, but Justin reaches for something on a shelf next to him, and wipes his hand clean.
Shane stands, but he doesn't know what to do with any part of himself. He buttons his fly and zips it up, straightens his shirt, tucks his thumbs into his pockets as he watches Justin do the same. This is when Shane would usually give in to kissing Rozanov again for a bit, ease himself away from Rozanov's lips to linger on his shoulder, the ledge where his jaw meets his neck, wean himself off of Rozanov's scent after one long breath of it.
He doesn't get any of that. Doesn't do any of it.
Justin pulls him in for a quick, closed-mouth kiss. "That was so good. Wow. Shane Hollander, you're a real surprise."
His full name, the reminder of it, that that's who he is to this man—that this person who was friendly and flirty and beautiful knows more about him than what Shane has said—trickles down his spine like the split-second knowledge he should have passed instead of shooting, like knowing that the clock will run out before he's pulled off a sorely-needed goal: dull and heavy through his legs. A weight of dread and responsibility.
"You can't tell anyone," he says, and he knows his voice is stiff. Knows it and can't change it, can't fix it, can't do anything but try to keep his panic caught behind his jaw, swallow it down, sort out what he's done and what he needs to do about it now.
"Obviously," Justin says, maneuvering around Shane to throw the towel he's holding into a laundry bin.
"I mean. No one knows I. And they can't." He looks up from where his eyes have glued themselves to the floor, to his hands. Justin is frowning a little bit.
"Okay. That's okay. I won't tell anyone." He reaches out, snags Shane's hand, squeezes. "It's fine. I'm not going to out you."
"Would you—fuck, would you sign something? I have—just saying you won't talk to any newspapers or anything?" He's looking at the floor again. His hand in Justin's hand joining them over the concrete. His fly still peeled open even though he tugged his pants back up. Boxers rumpled underneath his jeans, bulging strangely.
He looks up, and Justin's frown is deeper. "It's. It's pretty normal. My cleaning lady and my grocery guy, and my housesitter have all signed it. Not that you're—I'm not trying to say this is—"
"I can sign something," Justin interrupts. "If it'll make you more comfortable." He lets go of Shane's hand and reaches out to Shane's fly, brings the button to the hole and fastens it, slides his fingers past the zipper to ease the bunch of fabric away from the zipper's teeth, tugs the zipper up. "But you have to come back here to give it to me, and I'm going to mix you another drink and make you eat something." He smiles and smooths a hand over Shane's shirt.
Shane isn't sure he's as put together as he'd like to be, but the slide of Justin's hand on the fabric calms him, and the…does it count as flirting if it's just a suggestion he comes to visit him at work? It seems like flirting.
The flirting makes him think, maybe, it will be okay.
"Okay," he says with a small smile, and Justin smiles back.
It's…Shane still feels a little bit uncomfortable, but he doesn't feel like he's about to have a panic attack anymore. He feels pulled taut under his skin, nothing like the deep muscle calm he feels in the hours after he's met up with Rozanov. But behind the abating fear, the itchy, needy feeling in his belly has quieted.
"I have to head back out," Justin says. "If you want to hang in here for a while, you can. And we're just next door to the exit. Á la droit. So you can just leave from here."
"Oh, but—" Shane reaches into his pocket, "I owe you for dinner, right?"
"Nah, man. Friends and family event. You're good."
"Oh, well shouldn't I…" he's got his hand on his wallet, trying to find a bill, but Justin puts his hand over Shane's.
"Not unless you do want me to feel like your housekeeper or your…masseuse or whatever."
Which would be a lot for Shane for one night. "No! That's—no."
"Okay," Justin says, and lets go of Shane's hand and leans in for another closed-mouth kiss. "I'm here Wednesday through Sunday."
Shane tucks his wallet back into his pocket and nods. Justin opens the door six inches and slides through.
Shane isn't sure how he makes it home, but he's pretty sure no one saw him leaving the closet. He barely talked to JJ, and he has no idea what he'll say when JJ asks him about it the next day, but that doesn't matter now.
He grabs his laptop and pours himself a glass of water, finds the email from his lawyer with the nondisclosure agreement attached. He prints it out and reads it, thinks about whether he should ask for something that's specific to…friends? The idea makes something itch in the back of his throat, so he folds the paper up, sticks it in an envelope, writes "Le Tambour" on the outside, and then wanders around the apartment for three or four minutes trying to figure out where he can put it that his housekeeper won't think it should be mailed, and where it won't get crumpled up, and where he won't forget it. He ends up using a souvenir Olympics magnet to stick it to his fridge.
Rozanov's text just says 10 minutes, so Shane responds with a thumbs up emoji.
Ten minutes later, the chime of Rozanov's here echoes in the stairwell, and Shane shoves the door open. He doesn't let himself watch Rozanov walk in, doesn't let himself reach for him. He's two stairs up by the time the door slams shut, and Rozanov takes the stairs at a loping sprint to catch up, elbows past Shane, and is leaning against the doorway to Shane's apartment by the time Shane gets there.
"I win," Rozanov says with a smirk, and Shane rolls his eyes, turns the handle of his apartment door and walks through.
"It wasn't locked," he says over his shoulder, pulling off his hoodie and climbing the stairs to his bedroom.
By the time Rozanov realizes what's happening, Shane's naked, up against the headboard, and slowly working his hand over his cock.
Rozanov scowls.
"I win," Shane says, and Rozanov launches himself at Shane, mouth landing on his pec for a quick, teasing bite before he slides up to Shane's lips and devours him.
Rozanov's taste is overwhelmingly mint, but underneath, there's a hint of stale smoke. Beneath that, the deep, mineral flavor of his saliva, his breath, the way the air of a continent of cities buries itself in a player's lungs, the thousands of beds and hundreds of skylines and ice, crisp, melting in the air as it flies from an edge, breathed in and absorbed and integrated.
He tastes like the Centre Bell, the TD Garden, Lenovo Center, a lake in midwinter. Shane gets lost in the kiss, moans when Rozanov pulls Shane's lip into his mouth, scrapes it with his teeth, sucks. Shane's hands are on Rozanov's waistband, shoving down, reaching down, bringing his cock out and angling his hips to slide his own cock against Rozanov's. He's panting. He's winded. He doesn't resist when Rozanov insinuates his thigh in between Shane's leg and whispers, "Needy tonight, Hollander," with a guttural rasp to his voice that Shane lets burn down his throat like liquor.
"Fuck, yes," Shane says, and lets his hips press his cock into the hard muscle of Rozanov's thigh, doesn't even try to angle himself to give Rozanov a complimentary pressure, can't think about that. Can't think about anything until he's coming all over Rozanov's hip as Rozanov coaches him through his orgasm like a PT working out an injury.
"Always so needy for me, dorogoy," Rozanov says, and Shane whimpers as Rozanov pulls away, grabs a towel from Shane's bedside and swipes it over the smear of Shane's cum before it can even drip, before it can make any move towards drying them together, sticky and flaking.
Shane reaches for Rozanov's cock then, as he shifts to his hip, folds the cloth in half so nothing smears. Wraps both hands around it, gently, tugs, gently, slides his left hand to cradle Rozanov's balls, flexes his knuckles just enough to heighten the friction, to feel the firm, smooth texture of the treasures they hold, to lavish attention on every part of Rozanov that he gets to have.
"I'm going to fuck your face," Rozanov says, but he doesn't dislodge Shane's hands as he climbs over him, doesn't take hold of himself as he settles in above Shane's face, doesn't guide himself in between Shane's lips as he looks down.
The angle makes it impossible to see Rozanov's face, but from the way his voice sounds when he says, "Go ahead," Shane thinks it's probably a smirk, or a smile, or the kind of dropped-jaw, closed-mouth, shrouded need look Rozanov gets when nothing but bravado can carry him through.
Shane opens his mouth and guides Rozanov's cock over his tongue, lets his hand slide up and up the shaft as it meets his lips until Rozanov is fully seated in his throat and Shane's hand is steadying himself on Rozanov's thigh, the other hand still firmly cradling Rozanov's sack, a breath ripping its way through the tight canyon of his throat, the tip of Rozanov's cock catching what should be a moan in a grunt, in a failed gasp, in gratitude for his athlete's lungs and the work he's put into being able to do this.
Rozanov pulls back, slowly, and Shane breathes out in a moan, then sucks in a quick breath before relaxing to lets his lungs fill the rest the way more gradually before Ilya's hips slide forward again, slowly. Shane's nose is running, his eyes are watering, his mouth is slack and full of saliva and cock.
There's a series of words in Russian, and then Rozanov's hand grips his head, and he's done being gentle.
The rhythm of thrusts is steady and smooth and persistent. Every coach Shane has ever had is echoing in his head. Stay loose. Stay alert. Be ready for it. Trust yourself. Rozanov's cock is insistent in Shane's throat—now and now and now. Chasing a breath and catching—holding. Shane's getting hard again, the swelling of his cock a little too tender, a little too raw to entertain the idea of being touched, but he wants it anyway, wants the too much, too real, too good of it.
Shane's grip on Rozanov's thigh shifts as Rozanov's thrusts become more erratic, as his balls tighten up, telegraphing how close he is to coming, and Shane pushes back against Rozanov's thigh just a bit, just enough that he knows, he has to know, what Shane wants, when it's time.
Two, three, four more thrusts and he's shuddering around Shane's head—thighs and hips and ass shaking, twitching as his cum spills into Shane's mouth, across his lips, over his chin. Rozanov shifts to settle his weight onto Shane's chest for just a moment before he lets his weight fall onto his hip. The weight of him is absurdly rich: the full, overwhelming density of it over Shane's sternum, where he can barely withstand it. Shane's breath halts even more than when Rozanov's cock was halfway down his throat.
"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov says, looking down at him. "Look at you." His hand slides up Shane's chest, over his throat, up to his chin. His fingers just slipping into the wet mess on Shane's face. Shane dips his chin down, pulls Rozanov's fingers, cum and all, into his mouth, and sucks, swallows.
"You want more?" Rozanov asks, and Shane nods, seeks out the touch of Rozanov's fingers as he cleans up Shane's face.
Shane's fully hard now, and the oversensitivity has shifted into a pulsing kind of need. His hips twitching up, thrusting into the chill air in a way that does nothing but emphasize his neediness, his desperation.
He sucks the last of Rozanov's cum off of his fingers, and takes hold of Rozanov's wrist, urges his hand down. "Fuck me," he whines, "Please."
"So needy," Rozanov says, sliding his hand down Shane's dick, then letting go to caress his balls, and then lower, pressing his finger over Shane's perineum with a steady weight before teasing that same heavy pressure against Shane's hole, over the edge, still outside, just barely.
He kneels up to reach for the bottle of lube Shane set out on his nightstand, flicks the cap with one hand and squeezes a generous stream over Shane's dick, watches it drip down the path his hand took.
"This is going to be such a mess," Shane moans, the chill of the lube tightening his stomach with a half-startled pleasure.
"Oh," Rozanov says, his finger gathering some of the lube before pressing in. "You want me to stop?"
Shane's whole body lets go. He reaches down to gather up one of his knees, slings his arm underneath to hold it, to give Rozanov more space, to open himself up.
Rozanov finger-fucks him for a while. Long enough for him to get hard again, long enough that it turns from a tease into a performance, a test. Shane opens up—not slowly, that's never his problem—but too much, too fast. He's too ready for Rozanov to fuck him, too eager.
"Fuck, Hollander," he says "So needy, your hole. You think my cock will be enough? Or we should try something else?"
Shane can barely see Rozanov: the damp curls at the back of his head, the curve of his shoulder, the slope where his ass rises from his back.
"It'll be enough," he says, panting. Rozanov has at least three fingers in him, maybe four. He shifts his hips towards Rozanov, tries to get more of him inside. "Please."
Rozanov makes a contemplative sound, "I think you want more. My whole hand, maybe?"
The moan that elicits doesn't come from Shane. It can't have. It comes from somewhere else. The earth, the ocean, the black hole that has opened inside of him to hold the sudden and endlessly expanding shape of his need. He feels lightheaded, feels desperate. He scrambles at the sheets, tries to tuck his toes into Rozanov's body in some way that will let Shane pull him closer. He needs to be on his stomach, needs to be able to take him, take more.
"Yes?" Rozanov asks, a little rough.
"Yes," Shane replies, "Yes. Fuck. Yes, yes."
"Mmm," Rozanov says, "Maybe I will fuck you to start, hmm? Stretch you out on my cock."
He eases his fingers out, the lube and Shane's hole squelching as the tips of his fingers slip free.
Shane can't help the needy whimper he makes at the emptiness.
"On your stomach," Rozanov says, "Gimme those pillows."
Shane obeys, takes the pillows that were under his shoulders and limply shoves them towards Rozanov, under his hips.
The sound of the condom packet opening is quiet, Rozanov's bitten-back moan as he rolls the rubber over his dick only a little louder. He lifts Shane's ass gently, positions a few more pillows under him, sliding his hand over Shane's dick to trap it between his belly and the pillows.
Then, he positions his cock against Shane's hole and presses. It's steady, firm, not slow, not gentle, not teasing or testing or uncertain. It's what Shane needs, completely. Confident and sure and a little impatient. And it keeps on that way as Shane's shoulders hold him back from the headboard, as he pants warm air into his sheets, as his cock leaks on his pillow.
An unimaginable amount of time later, Rozanov says, "I think you are ready for more, yes?"
Shane moans, and Rozanov must understand, because Shane feels something pressing in alongside Rozanov's cock. The stretch is different from fingers on their own, Rozanov's cock alongside them more yielding, more insistent.
He's doing nothing but moaning now, moaning and pressing his hips back, and moaning and trying to swallow Rozanov whole. His own cock is forgotten, it's nothing, it doesn't matter. He is only the space where Rozanov is filling him, the direct line where his spine strings that feeling up between his shoulder blades, into his skull, and then down again through the rest of him, soaked and soft and boiling hot, wrung out and gaping open.
There's another press, another stretch, more heavy, loose pleasure clawing through him. The sounds he's making are animal, blatant, all the air he can catch being raked over the jagged edges of his throat. He can't hear or see or feel anything but the voids Rozanov leaves as he pulls out, and then fills Shane again just as insistently.
Shane comes. He thinks. Or maybe he goes. He's gone somewhere, anyway, where the only thing that can reach him are the champagne bubbles of pleasure lighting up every cell of his body, the velvet darkness of being held, and the deep warmth of Rozanov's skin against his.
He stays there. He wishes he could stay forever.
Forever ends about forty-six minutes later, when Shane lets Rozanov out the back stairs of his building. After Shane surfaced from being fucked within an inch of his life, Rozanov brought him some water and chirped him about how he hadn't thought that two times in an hour was such a hard limit, and then sucked Shane off in the shower.
Shane reciprocated with a handjob, his tongue too busy licking his own flavor from Rozanov's mouth for him to consider putting it to another use. He's almost too tired to set the security system and turn off the lights before he falls into bed. He brushes his teeth lazily as he closes down the apartment, but he doesn't strip off his hoodie or his sweats before crawling into bed.
The sheets are dirty. He'll take them off tomorrow.