Chapter Text
The thing about Rose, Shane is discovering, is that she’s much more fun to be around when he’s not trying to pretend that he’s interested in fucking her.
The process to finding that out had been beyond awkward and painful, but he figures that there are more traumatic ways to figuring our you’re gay than your literal movie star girlfriend telling you.
He can relax around her now, doesn’t have to be concerned if she thinks he’s masculine enough or cool enough or straight enough or anything else, he can just be himself, and casually flip through the veritable rolodex of gay friends she has in her phone and dismiss them all summarily.
He’s been with men, clandestine meetings in bathrooms and poorly lit clubs and on occasion a hotel room when he’s on vacation somewhere that isn’t into hockey, but now he’s several months into acceptance of his sexuality and he’s finding that he thinks he’d like a boyfriend.
Scott Hunter gets to have a boyfriend and a center ice coming out and a Stanley Cup and Shane wants….
Fuck he wants to just be himself, this desperate clawing in his chest, the pulsing pounding thought of walking down the street holding someone’s hand, have someone sitting in the stands with his parents at his games, have someone he can introduce to his parents.
He wants to find someone special enough to take to the cottage in the summers.
He wants, wants, wants, and he knows that he’ll only get to have that if he can admit the truth, be open and honest with who he is and what he wants.
So, he tells his mom to set up the interview that she’s been chomping at the bit to book him.
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.
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The woman conducting the interview is attractive, petite and blonde, charming smile and manicured hands that offer a firm handshake.
“Mr. Hollander, so nice to meet you, we’re very excited to be the first to talk about this with you.”
He offers his media trained smile, nerves lighting up his spine, “Shane is fine, and I’m happy to talk about this with someone who is excited to hear about it.”
She laughs, polite but real, and they settle into their chairs.
He’s not being filmed, it’s a print interview only, but he’ll have a photo shoot later in the week to pair with it, and though he absolutely refused to be the cover, he still knows that his article will be the only one discussed.
“So, let’s start from the very top, you have something you’d like to tell the world?”
He doesn’t really know about the world, in fact, he’d rather the world minded their business, but he also knows that he isn’t willing to stay in the closet any longer.
If Scott Hunter can do it, then so can he.
“Uh, yes, I….” clears his throat, takes a deep breath, “I wanted to say that Scott Hunter coming out last year changed things. For the league, for the sport, for the thousands of queer fans, and for me personally. He was…. He was very brave to come out and tell the truth, and it’s made me feel brave as well. I’m gay.”
She smiles, and he knew she would be kind, knew that his mom wouldn’t toss him to the wolves, but the relief hits him in the chest anyway.
“Well, can I just say, as a fan of the sport, and of you in particular, thank you for being brave and telling us who you are.”
“It’s a relief.”
She asks a few more typical questions, when did he know, how did he figure it out, how does he think the league will handle it, is he dating….
“So, Shane Hollander, we all know that you dated Rose Landry last year….”
“Ah,” he interrupts wherever that question is going, “Yeah, Rose is the one who actually helped me comes to terms with my sexuality, she is beautiful and funny and smart and a wonderful friend. She was perfect on paper, but unfortunately we just weren’t compatible.”
“Can I ask, then, what you’re looking for in a man?”
“Well, a Stanley Cup ring is non-negotiable.”
She laughs, bright and warm, and he feels the last bit of tension leak out of his shoulders.
“I want someone who can make me laugh, someone handsome, tall, enthusiastic about hockey is a must.”
She’s nodding along like he’s offering the wisdom of the universe.
“Any other non-negotiable beyond the ring?”
“He should be able to bench-press me, I’m a professional athlete, I like my men strong.”
It’s too much, too honest, she’s going to make fun of him, say something that implies he’s weak or a woman or…..
“Don’t we all?”
They laugh together and the rest of the interview passes by in a blur.
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The photoshoot is tasteful, soft yellow sweater and pale neutral shorts, and he hasn’t forgotten about the article, per se, it’s just not on the forefront of his mind, because coming out to his team first hadn’t gone well.
Hayden has been supportive, JJ too, some of the rookies had just shrugged, but a large handful of the team had gone silent, awkward, not outright homophobic, but the energy has certainly changed.
He’s trying not to panic about it, and by the time he thinks that maybe he should retract that article, it’s too late, it’s published and the entire world knows.
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The first week is sort of quiet, his mom and Farah have steered him away from the darker corners of the internet and his team is still stiff and awkward and JJ is being overly friendly in trying to set him up with men, and sure, he’d mostly been joking about wanting a Stanley Cup winner who could bench press him (he doesn’t have someone in mind, he doesn’t) but there’s something about it that had been closer to the truth than he’d realized.
He does want someone who loves hockey the way he does, or who can at least understand it, he does want someone tall and built who can toss him around and pin him down and….
He wants, wants, wants, and that was always the problem wasn’t it? His desires are too much, he’s too much, and now he’s made this big move and it’s out there and he can’t take it back, and he’s really expecting it all to go sideways, to blow up in his face, he’s not perfect white Scott Hunter, he doesn’t get a Stanley Cup kiss.
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Another awkward practice, another uncomfortable wait time for a shower, because he’s just not willing to push when it’s so obvious that if he showered with the team someone, multiple someones, wouldn’t like it.
So, he does something that he absolutely never does, and he leaves the arena without showering, heads home, sweaty and smelly and uncomfortable, but he can at least shower in privacy, and if he cries, then there’s no one to see.
He’s dreading the next two days, a game with Boston, which means…. well, it means his gay awakening on the ice, knowing that he’s gay, and fuck but Shane feels sick over it.
He’s regretting coming out to publicly, wishes he’d come out to his team first, because he never would have…well, that’s a lie, he still would have, but he’d have had a better idea of the reaction from other players.
Wonders if Scott is as uncomfortable in his locker room.
This is why Shane does plans, spreadsheets, and expert opinions, because he shouldn’t be trusted to make decisions for himself beyond hockey, because look what happens, his sexuality is becoming a liability in the locker room, and he’s being looked at like he’s some sort of deviant, a predator, and his stupid flippant joke about preferring a Stanley Cup champion has come back to bite him.
The knock on his door comes mid-bite and he almost ignores it.
He just wants to eat his meal prep and go curl up in bed in misery, but his phone hasn’t gone off and no one ever comes over unless it’s his parents or Hayden, and he doesn’t want company, he doesn’t, but he gets up from the kitchen stool anyway, trudges over to the door like he’s going to his own execution.
He’ll send whoever it is on their way and go to bed, the idea of finishing his meal suddenly sour in his mouth.
Another knock and a flurry of obnoxious rings to his doorbell, and he doesn’t understand why the universe has to punish him any time he reaches out for something he wants, but he’s certainly in no mood for whatever this is going to be.
Wrenches open the door to find Ilya Rozanov on his front steps.
He’s tall and gorgeous and in a black button up and jacket that just emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his chest, his gold cross glinting in his chest hair, and fuck but Shane wants to eat him.
“Rozanov?”
He’s stunned, did he hit his head in the shower? He’s hallucinating Ilya Rozanov at his door.
“Hollander,” a big wide grin and Ilya holds up his right hand, a big Cup ring glinting on his ring finger, “I brought Cup ring just in case that was non-negotiable.”
Shane slams the door.
That…that…that absolute fucking asshole.
Coming to his house to mock him, to, to, to what? Insinuate that Shane had been describing him in that interview?!
What….who….he’s so angry he can’t even have a coherent thought and then the doorbell rings again, and again, and again.
“I can do this all night, Hollander, my stamina is legendary.”
Shane flushes at that, snarls under his breath and wrenches the door back open.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
That makes Rozanov pause, his brow furrows, “I…I meet criteria, I am here to audition for boyfriend position, unless I am too late?”
He looks….sad? Big eyes and floppy curls and he’s the biggest saddest puppy that Shane’s ever seen, and something twists under his sternum and he reaches out without thinking, grabs Rozanov’s frankly ridiculous bicep and hauls him forward.
“Get in here, I have neighbors.”
Rozanov doesn’t need told twice, darts in the door like the hounds of hell are on his heels, and Shane shuts the door behind him.
“If you’re here to be some sort of homophobic asshole I don’t have time for it.”
Crosses his arms, squares his shoulders, Rozanov is a big guy, but Shane’s no slouch, if he’s here for a fight, Shane will give him one.
But Rozanov is looking around, genuine interest on his face, and Shane takes a moment to study him.
He doesn’t look aggressive, the line of his shoulders is sloped and soft, and he’ll never look small, but he doesn’t look threatening, and Shane allows himself a selfish few seconds to really look at him.
Fuck but he’s gorgeous.
“Why are you here?”
Rozanov opens his mouth.
“The truth this time,” Shane interrupts and Rozanov’s jaw snaps shut.
He looks wounded, shoulders slumping, “I am here because you say you want Stanley Cup winner who can bench press you, I am both.”
No…no….no…there’s no possible way that Ilya Rozanov is here to….to…what? To date him?
He’s not even gay!
Shane is not a tabloid person, he doesn’t care about player’s personal lives, only cares about their performances on the ice, but even he knows that Rozanov has slept with half the female population on the Eastern seaboard.
He’s infamous for always having a different woman on his arm, there’s no way that he’s into men, and even if he was, he wouldn’t be into Shane.
“You…you couldn’t just chirp me on the ice?”
He wants to cry, can feel the tears gather, but he’ll die before he lets them fall.
Rozanov makes a wounded sort of sound.
“No! No, I would not do this. Not…not this. I am…bisexual.”
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
He knows that he looks stupid, stunned, mouth agape, but Rozanov presses his advantage.
“I like both, have always liked both, women are just…simpler, and with Russia…. but I am American citizen now, so Russia is not so much a threat.”
And Shane had heard that, six months ago Rozanov officially became an American citizen, he’d read the online article about it, had smiled goofily at the picture attached, of Rozanov with his right winger Cliff Marleau, American flag draped over his shoulders, ice coffee in hand.
He’d looked happy.
“That’s…. uh, that’s good, that Russia isn’t…. I mean…. congratulations on the citizenship.”
Rozanov laughs, warm and deep and Shane ignores the clench in his gut.
“Thank you. Is good for me, da? With my father gone there is nothing for me there anymore, America was happy to have me.”
Shane nods, wraps his arms around himself, feels wildly off kilter.
“Hollander…. Shane…. you have always made me…. curious.”
Curious? What the hell does that mean?
It must read on his face, and someday he’ll manage to figure out how to control his facial expressions, but Rozanov is walking toward him, slow and slinking and sexy.
“You shook my hand twice first time we met, and I think, beautiful boy with beautiful freckles, he seems interested.”
And Shane had been, hadn’t he? He’d thought it was professional respect, even maybe a bit of jealousy, but with hindsight and years of learning himself, he can admit that he’d been attracted to Rozanov and had wanted to meet him.
He’d spent his draft night jerking off to thoughts of him, after all.
“I want to see more of him, so I ask them to bring him in for CCM photoshoot, and they say they will, but then I go to shoot and he is not there.”
And fuck, Shane remembers that his grandmother had died and he’d had to cancel, and he’d always assumed they’d settled for Rozanov alone rather than reschedule and he hadn’t really thought about it further than that.
Other than the disappointment that he’d been able to bury under grief.
“So, I think, no big deal, I will see him, we are rivals, we will have other chances, and yet.”
A shrug, studiously casual, and Shane can’t help the way he’s backing up as Rozanov slinks forward, is embarrassed by the little squeak he lets out when his back hits the front door.
“But then, he will not talk to me, will not react when I flirt, so I think, huh, maybe I am wrong, maybe he only likes girls.”
“You’ve never flirted with me!”
Shane would have absolutely noticed if Rozanov had flirted with him.
“Ah, so silly Hollander, I flirt with you all of our first All Stars, and you just blink big brown eyes at me, and I think that I would like to lick your freckles, but not if you don’t want me to.”
“My freckles?”
Rozanov nods, eager, gaze hungrily roving Shane’s face.
“They are so pretty. Pretty freckles on pretty boy and I want….”
Shane can’t breathe. Holy fuck he can’t breathe, every fucking fantasy he’s had since he was seventeen is right in front of him and he doesn’t know what to do.
“What…” licks his lips and watches as Rozanov leans forward, like he can’t help but try to be closer, “What do you want?”
A smile, slow and wicked, sharp canines that Shane wants at his throat.
“I told you, to be boyfriend.”
Shane is stupid, stupid, stupid, because he’s reasonably sure this isn’t a prank but he doesn’t actually know that, and Rozanov isn’t touching him, isn’t reaching out, is just watching, so close Shane can feel the heat of him, and it’s stupid, oh holy fuck it’s so stupid, but he’s right here, everything he’s ever wanted right in front of him and he’s brave.
He can be brave.
He lunges, and Rozanov catches him, strong hands and sturdy body and he kisses like he wants to eat Shane alive.
A wicked tongue and a hand on his ass, and Shane is already panting, little aborted twitches of his hips that he just can’t help.
Rozanov has him pinned to the door, a line of muscle and heat, and Shane wants, wants, wants.
He’s kissing across his cheek, a wet swipe of tongue right over his freckles and he flinches.
“Gross, Rozanov!” but he’s laughing and so is Rozanov.
“Ilya.”
“What?”
Rozanov pulls back so they’re making almost unbearably intimate eye contact, the rest of their bodies still pressed firmly together and Shane wonders if Rozanov is actually as big as he feels.
“I am going to fuck you so good it will ruin you for anyone else, call me Ilya.”
He really ought to argue back against that assumption, consent to a kiss is not consent to anything else, but Ilya Rozanov just offered to fuck him so good that he’ll keep him, so he figures he can be magnanimous.
“Ilya.”
A shudder and a groan, and then there’s strong hands under his thighs and he’s being lifted up like he weighs nothing, and oh holy fuck he wasn’t kidding when he said he needed a man who could bench press him.
“Fuck, Ilya.”
“Bedroom?”
“What?” they’re kissing again and Shane’s brain is leaking out of his ears, his hard cock up against the firm line of Ilya’s abs and he’s rocking forward because he honestly can’t stop himself, the soft fabric of his well-worn sweatpants rubbing mercilessly against the head of his cock.
“Bedroom, Shane, I’m not fucking you for the first time up against your door.”
It’s not actually romantic, it’s practical, but Shane has always been a sucker for practicality, moans and gets his hands in that soft curly hair, sucking Ilya’s tongue into his mouth.
“Up…fuck…up the stairs, end of the hall.”
Ilya carries him up the stairs, and Shane wants to kiss him, wants to suck on his tongue and bite his lower lip and feel his moans vibrate into his mouth, but they’re on the stairs, so he satisfies himself with biting up under Ilya’s ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth.
“Fuck….”
Ilya stumbles, just a little, and Shane tightens his legs.
“If you drop me…”
“I’m not going to drop you!”
“You just almost did!”
Ilya just huffs, squeezes the muscle of his thighs, and Shane is embarrassed at how good it feels.
“I will not drop you, going to ruin you for all other men, da?”
Shane nods, he already feels out of his mind, “Please.”
That earns him a kiss as they cross the threshold to his bedroom and tumble down to the mattress.
Ilya catches himself on his hands, careful not to crush, and Shane wants to find the consideration charming, but it’s mostly just annoying, he wants Ilya close, close, close, squeezes his thighs and pulls the other man down.
Ilya makes a punched-out sound, and then scrambles half to his feet, pulling his shirt over his head.
He’s unfairly gorgeous, muscles dusted in hair, a concentrated trail down into his pants, the cut of his hip and he’s so masculine, so undeniably male and Shane has never been so turned on in his life.
His pants go next, and Shane realizes that he’s stopped moving, is struck dumb, but he can’t help but prop himself up on his elbows, watches Ilya Rozanov get naked….and he’s exactly as big as he felt.
“You are overdressed, Shane.”
Then clever fingers are tugging down his sweatpants and Shane manages to get his t-shirt off, wrestles a bit more than he should, not smooth at all, but Ilya just chuckles, reaches out and helps.
Then they’re kissing, kissing, kissing, and they’re naked, and that’s Ilya’s cock up against his own, and he doesn’t have time to feel embarrassed at how wet he is already, because it makes the slide so good, lets them grind together without the burn of friction.
“You…fuck Shane…. you have been with a man before?”
Shane wants to be offended by the question, but he’s mostly just charmed.
“Yeah, yeah I’ve done this before.”
A nod, curls bouncing, “Do you…fuck like that….do you have preference?”
Preference? Men, men are his preference, they’ve been over this, he’s gay, what….
“Shane?”
Another thrust and he’s mildly concerned he’s going to go off before they get to the good stuff, but then there’s a big hand wrapped around his hip, holding him still.
“Hollander.”
No, why is he Hollander?!
“Shane.”
A smile and a kiss, “Da, yes, Shane, top or bottom?”
Oh, preference.
“Bottom,” he gasps out, “definitely a bottom, kind of like, exclusively.”
He knows most guys are verse, has had the conversation before, but he’s also topped before and yes, it felt good, but he hadn’t really liked it.
Ilya blinks for a moment, looks like all his dreams have come true, “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
Teeth at his throat and Shane groans, collapses into the sheets, so ready for whatever Ilya wants to do to him.
“There’s…. shit more, just like that…. there’s lube and condoms in the side table.”
Ilya reaches over, grabs the supplies and tosses them to the mattress before pouncing right back on top of him.
He kisses like he’s trying to eat him, and Shane grabs at him, pulls him closer, wants him this close always, his mind already going fuzzy and floaty and warm.
Wet, sucking kisses get pressed to his jaw, his throat, his sternum, down over his belly, and Ilya spends some time sucking a spectacular hickey over his hip bone, and Shane’s cock jerks, smearing pre-cum over Ilya’s cheek and fuck it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.
Ilya swipes the liquid off his cheek with his thumb, holds it up like and offering, sliding it in Shane’s mouth, over his teeth and pressing down on his tongue.
“See what I do to you? How wet you get for me?”
Ilya’s voice is all deep rumbles, not quite as deep as he goes when speaking Russian, but it sends sparks up Shane’s spine anyway, and he sucks on Ilya’s thumb.
Whines when its pulled from his mouth, over his lip, a firm press to his chin that has him dropping his mouth open.
Ilya leans up, kisses him, and Shane is going to lose his mind.
“I…I need…” he can’t get air, how the fuck is he ever going to survive Ilya Rozanov fucking him?
“What do you need?”
His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and Shane needs so much he’s drowning in it.
“You…need you inside me…so empty Ilya please.”
That gets him a flurry of Russian that he’s hopeless to understand, and Ilya is fumbling with the lube, squirts out far too much, soaks his fingers and the sheets, but Shane doesn’t care, can’t care, because those same fingers are now at his hole, rubbing and circling and pressing and he needs it so badly.
“Please, please, please, fuck…..”
Widens his legs, pulls then back with his hands tucked under his knees, thankful for yoga in a way he hasn’t ever been as he presses his knees to his chest, watches the way that Ilya goes red and slack jawed.
“So fucking beautiful.”
The praise hits him in the gut, more pre-cum pooling in his navel as Ilya works his hole open.
It’s probably not actually enough when he considers Ilya’s size, but he wants, he needs, he has to have, and he’s not too proud to beg for it.
“Now, now, now, Ilya c’mon, I can take it, promise I can, please….”
Ilya is breathing like he’s run a marathon, red faced and wide eyed and then he’s notching the blunt head of his cock and pushing in, in, in, and he’s huge, he’s so big, and it’s been a while, and he’s going to fucking fly apart.
But Ilya leans down, leans in, is pressing kisses to his face, all over his freckles, his jaw, his mouth, murmuring in Russian as he bullies his cock into Shane’s body.
Once he’s fully seated, he stills, pauses there, hips tight to Shane’s ass, big hand stroking over his side, shoulders tucking up so Shane’s ankles are at his ears, and he’s looking down with an expression that makes Shane feel small and delicate and cared for.
“Okay?”
Shane takes a breath, then another, nods.
“Ah,” a hand gripping his chin, “Words, Shane, tell me.”
“I’m okay, it’s okay, fuck, it’s so fucking good Ilya, please.”
An aborted twitch of his hips, and Ilya is cooing at him in a way that twists deliciously in his gut.
“So pretty on my cock, Shane, so desperate for it, yes? Need me to fuck this pretty hole?”
Shane’s eyes roll back in his head, and his nails scramble desperately over Ilya’s back.
“Need it, need you to fuck me, please, please, please.”
That gets him a punishingly deep rhythm that punches the air from his lungs with every push back inside, and he’s a livewire, rim stretched around Ilya’s big cock, broad shoulders holding his legs up and apart and strong hands on his body, and Shane wants, wants, wants.
“More, fuck, Ilya, please, need more, need….ruin me, you said you’d ruin me….”
He’s desperate, whining and twitching and taking, taking, taking, and then Ilya’s hand is at his throat, and he’s not pressing, not squeezing, but Shane can feel the warm metal pressure of that Stanley Cup ring and he wants more.
“Do it, do it, want you to, please, Ilya….”
“Fuck, okay, okay, be good, be a good boy, you…so fucking tight….you tap me three times if you need to stop.”
He demonstrates on Shane’s own thigh and Shane is nodding, nodding, nodding, he wants it, needs it, has to give it all over to the man on top of him.
“Words, use your words, pretty boy.”
“Please, choke me Ilya, please.”
A groan, deep and guttural, and then Ilya is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing and Shane is instantly light headed, split open and pinned down and owned, owned, owned, a Cup ring at his windpipe.
“Fuck, look at you, look how good you take it, such a pretty slut for me, such a good boy.”
He whines, high and thready and needy, and Ilya is really fucking into him now, the harsh slaps of skin against skin and his headboard against the wall, and he’d be lightheaded even if he wasn’t being choked, and he never wants this to stop.
Ilya releases the pressure on his throat and all the blood rushes back and he’s dizzy, fucked apart, Ilya so deep he can feel him in his abused throat, and then Ilya is squeezing again, and Shane is high, high, high, so fucking high on this, on Ilya owning him in this way.
He wants it forever.
He wants more.
He’ll be good, he’ll be so good, he’ll be whatever Ilya wants him to be, he can do it, he can, whatever Ilya wants, he can do that.
Can earn the praise that’s being growled into his ear, earn the cock splitting him open and the hand on his throat.
“Such a good boy, such a pretty slut.”
Shane cums.
He can’t even let out a warning, because he doesn’t have one himself, he’s not pushed over the edge so much as flung over it, no sense of up or down or where he is in the world, his pulse pounding and his vision blacking out and he’s shooting between them, cock untouched, so much that he can feel it slide down his belly into the cradle of his hips as Ilya keeps pounding into him, rough and deep and he’s just a hole now, just a warm place for Ilya to find his pleasure, and he wants it so much he thinks he might pass out.
Maybe he even does for a moment, because the next thing he’s properly aware of is Ilya’s mouth against his, hips stuttering and thrusting, a groan as his hips twitch forward and press tight.
Then they’re collapsed against the sheets, breathing hard, sweat and cum and spit sticking their skin together where they touch, and Shane can feel the overwhelm press against his chest.
He heaves, focuses on pushing down the tears, embarrassed, breathes and shakes and then there’s hands on him, soft, soothing, stroking.
A murmur in his ear, and he doesn’t know if it’s English or Russian, just knows it’s Ilya, warm and soothing and gentle.
He’s pressing kisses to Shane’s freckles, murmuring about how good he did, how perfect he was, what a pretty boy, a perfect boy, did so well, took it so well.
He shakes and shakes and shakes, but Ilya pets him, cuddles him close, kiss, kiss, kiss, and slowly the adrenaline drop calms and his breathing evens and he’s warm and drowsy, pressed close to his greatest rival.
“There you are.”
He can finally see Ilya, a soft smile on his mouth as he looks down at him, stroking over his hair.
“Hi.”
Winces at how stupid that is, but Ilya just presses a kiss to his brow.
“Hello.”
“We, uh… we just had sex.”
“Yes, we did.”
Shane is waiting for the discomfort to kick in, for the sharp need to scramble away, to pull his clothes back on and get the man out of his bed that signaled the end of all his other hookups, but it doesn’t come.
He doesn’t want Ilya to leave, he wants him to stay, wants to shower and cuddle and maybe even finish his meal prep together.
“So, did I do it?”
Shane blinks, “Do what?”
A laughing kiss between his eyebrows, “Ruin you for other men?”
It’s asked as a joke, but there’s something underneath it, something soft and vulnerable.
“Did you really come over here to audition to be my boyfriend?”
There’s a moment where he thinks Ilya is going to take it back, is going to make it a joke, and he’s already trying to figure out how he’ll get him out of the house without crying when the answer comes.
“Yes. I have wanted you long time, Shane.”
“You have?”
“Yes.”
They just stare at each other for a moment, and Shane can’t help the shiver as the Cup ring skates over his hip.
“Well, I hope you don’t think that sex is going to be enough.”
“Oh?”
“Mmhmm, I expect dates Rozanov, romance, wooing, I’m a damn catch and I expect to see the effort.”
A challenge issued; and Ilya’s entire face lights up.
“I will romance you better than anyone has been romanced before.”
“Shower first, then you can show me what you consider romance.”
Ilya scrambles out of the bed, and then Shane’s being grabbed, tossed up over a broad shoulder, a proprietary hand on his ass.
“Prepare for most romantic boyfriend on the planet, Hollander.”
Shane can’t wait.
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.
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