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    Summary

    He should just forget about Rozanov. Forget about Rozanov coming all over his own stomach as Shane watched, transfixed; forget about Rozanov’s hand curving possessively around Shane’s jaw to pull him in for a kiss. Forget about the dizzying, red-hot bolt of shame and anticipation and fear and arousal that had shot through him when Rozanov stroked two fingers down between his ass cheeks and pressed there—a question, an offer. A promise.

    (In which Shane responds to Ilya’s texts between 2011 and 2013.)
     



    “Stop saying dick pic,” Shane hissed. “This is harassment.” He glared at the bulge in his pants. “You are harassing me.”

    “I do not know what this word means.”

    “How fucking convenient for you.”

    “Aw, Hollander,” Rozanov said, but he sounded a little contrite. After a beat, he asked, “Do you want me to stop?”

    “Don’t you dare stop,” Shane said through clenched teeth, surreptitiously palming himself to take the edge off. It didn’t help.

    “So do you want my dick or not?” Rozanov asked after another beat.

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