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Summary
He hadn’t been consistently replying to Rozanov’s texts— partially because Rozanov was a flirty asshole who had probably texted hundreds of people like this throughout his short life as a man built like a Roman god, and partially because Shane was too much of a chicken to even try to flirt back. What the fuck was he supposed to say— yes, I want you inside me so much I can barely stand it and I fuck myself to sleep multiple times a week just thinking about it?
Nope, nope, nope. Embarrassing, desperate, too clingy to fathom. There was no fucking way Shane’s emotions could be set loose like that on Ilya fucking Rozanov.
But fuck— he didn’t want the texts to stop. He had to say something.
—
Or, Shane and Ilya dabble in sexting.