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Shane schools his face into mild interest when he gets passed the phone, prepared to make himself look at the video for a minimum of thirty (long) seconds, nod and then hand it to the next guy with a passably believing comment about how hot whatever porn of the week it’s this time is. It’s always a variation of the same: some slim woman fucked vigorously in one way or another by a usually faceless, unappealing guy.
He takes the phone as his teammates bemoan the fact their wives, girlfriends and side pieces don’t seem to be into whatever is in the video and fleetingly wonders what that must be like, to not have your sexual desires fulfilled.
On the screen, the usual faceless guy is fucking another slim woman as she lies on a kitchen isle. Shane doesn’t know what’s spectacular enough about this for it to be passed around. Unless kitchen counters became a thing that he wasn’t aware of until now.
Twenty-three seconds to go.
The scene changes. He pulls out of her and turns her over, still on her back, but with her head hanging off the edge of the counter now. Shane feels his eyebrows quirk, something spiking inside him. He ignores it as he watches the guy feed her his dick with one hand around himself and the other holding her face.
The point of view changes to an angle that films her from straight above as he fucks in, and Shane, stupidly, watches the small bulge of his cock move in her throat. Whatever has stirred inside him unfurls into every point of his body, lights up his nerve endings from head to toe, makes heat creep up the back of his neck and into the roots of his hair. His mind flashes with strong hands on his face, the head of a hard cock tapping his lips and a lilting, accented voice speaking in low tones to him; Hungry for it, yes? Need it so much, don't you? Don’t worry, you can have all of it. Open. Easy, ssshh, take it.
Shane squashes the thought and watches the guy smooth a thumb over the length of her neck, undoubtedly feeling his own dick. He blinks, handing the phone over to Stedlund, who’s smirking and saying something about Shane finding a woman to do this with tonight that Shane only half listens to.
He laughs it off, tells Stedlund to shut up and himself that clearly, his taste in porn is highly specific, which is why none of the stuff he’s been shown before interested him. His disinterest doesn’t have to do with the fact that there are women in these videos.
Clearly.
*
Surprisingly, it doesn’t take a lot to find the very video online. He hoped to convince himself it was the porn that sparked his arousal; that watching it in full, alone, imagining watching, feeling, his cock slide into the tight, hot throat of one of the beautiful women who so eagerly threw themselves at him, would get him off.
As it is, he keeps his mind locked tightly on the video, refusing to let it wander, and he’s barely even half hard, despite his best efforts.
There’s a part of him that, annoyingly, predicted that this would happen.
It’s not like the thought of seeing his own dick slide down somebody’s—and to his dismay, somebody’s specific—throat isn’t exciting. It’s just that right now, the idea of taking the very same someone like this thrills him much more. Which is equally regrettable, if not more, because he should not be wanting this.
He doesn’t.
He pretends he doesn’t.
Frustrated, Shane closes the browser and then his laptop before putting it on his bedside table. Sliding his eyes shut with a deep breath, he slowly drags his hand up his cock and lets his thoughts wander to strong hands, a hot, heavy weight on his tongue, and a solid body.
He tries to keep the guy faceless, like in the video.
He doesn’t succeed.
*
Shane doesn’t plan his hookups with Rozanov. Well, not beyond a time or a place they would meet up at. He makes sure he has enough condoms and lube prepared, maybe a bottle or two of Coke, a spare towel, whenever they’re in Montreal. But nothing more than that.
He doesn’t map out a trail to kiss across Rozanov’s body, or think about where he wants to touch him first, or wonder if he can rile Rozanov up quickly enough for them to not even make it to the bedroom before he fucks Shane.
It’s embarrassing enough that he keeps falling into bed with Rozanov. He doesn’t have to utterly humiliate himself by admitting that he’s been thinking about what he wants to do with him. That he’s been thinking about him at all.
So, of course he doesn’t consider bringing up the porn to try it. He doesn’t even want it that bad, really, and it’s not like he doesn’t get to suck Rozanov’s cock either way. It’s fine.
He explains the weird flutter in his stomach with annoyance—because fucking Rozanov is taking his fucking time again—as he uselessly putters around the kitchen.
When his phone buzzes with Rozanov’s arrival, he races down the stairs to let him in.
(He’s considered handing Rozanov a key to let himself in through the backdoor but…that seemed like a step too far; too intimate; too much of something Shane doesn’t want to look closer at.)
“Fucking finally,” he snaps when he opens the door.
Rozanov pockets his phone and smirks lazily. “So impatient, Hollander,” he drawls. “Or just desperate for it?”
Shane considers slamming the door in his face. He doesn’t because, well, he is desperate for it, but Rozanov doesn’t need to know that. So he rolls his eyes instead and steps aside to let him in.
The door is barely shut behind them when Rozanov curls a hand around the back of Shane’s neck and hauls him in for a kiss, drawing a surprised little gasp from him. It’s the kind of kiss he usually greets Shane with for their first meet up after the summer: a kind of urgent, deep, thorough kiss that threatens to make Shane’s knees buckle and melt his bones.
A kind of kiss that, every time it happens, for a second, has Shane believe Rozanov’s missed him.
It’s a ridiculous thought of course, and one that Shane unequivocally purges from his mind as soon as it appears.
They separate with a wet little noise. Shane’s lips tingle pleasantly and Rozanov rubs his thumb along Shane’s hairline, almost absentmindedly. His lips glisten with their shared spit in the harsh light of the stairwell. They’re still close enough that Shane can feel Rozanov’s breaths stir the air between them.
“Who’s desperate for it now?” Shane asks haughtily, stepping back a little, dissolving the weird tension that was beginning to tie his stomach into knots.
Rozanov grins, shit-eating. “Still you.”
Asshole. “Dream on, Rozanov.” Shane shoulders past him to the stairs, taking two at a time.
Behind him, Rozanov chuckles in that obnoxious way of his that makes Shane want to shut him up with his mouth.
Rozanov hooks his fingers into the back pocket of Shane’s pants as soon as they step into the apartment and uses the leverage to pull Shane back against his chest. With his free hand, he moves the collar of his shirt out of the way to trail his lips hotly at Shane’s neck, leaving a string of open-mouthed kisses along the skin, and Shane should be embarrassed, really, at how easily, how quickly Rozanov can turn him into putty.
He knows the embarrassment will come. Later, soon enough.
Now, he tips his chin to his chest and shudders when Rozanov grazes his teeth over the top knob of his spine. Rozanov shifts slightly to bring his hips flush against Shane’s ass, a slow, languid grind that makes Shane’s body flood with heat.
Fuck, Rozanov is hard already. Talk about desperate.
Stupidly, it only makes him think about that porn video; about being on his back with his head hanging off some surface for Rozanov, swallowing his dick like that. The weird flutter in his stomach is back, an anxious twist and turn, ratcheting up his heartbeat while his mind chases its own tail trying to figure out a way to get what he wants without letting Rozanov know how much he’s thought about it.
That he thought about it at all.
He thought he put it out of his mind. He’d played through several options in his mind prior to Rozanov’s arrival; none were eligible without major humiliation. That hasn’t changed between then and now, so why is he thinking about it again?
Shane turns and grabs Rozanov’s face to kiss him. He needs a distraction; he needs something else to focus on but the stupid idea the porn has put in his head. So he kisses Rozanov while starting to walk backwards, pulling him along.
Rozanov crowds him against the counter of his kitchen isle, hands slipping under Shane’s shirt to slide over his stomach and up to his chest. He’s kissing down Shane’s neck, open-mouthed, wet, sucking kisses to his throat, that, unfortunately, only bring Shane’s mind back to the porn.
The edge of the kitchen counter presses into his thighs where Rozanov has pinned him against it: the perfect height to do what Shane has been aching to try. His mind is off running again, desperately seeking ways to get him what he wants. It’s a lost cause. He’s already spent a considerable amount of time thinking about it, and he surely won’t be able to think of something now with Rozanov’s hands and mouth on him.
Except Rozanov has taken his hands off Shane and taken a step back. There’s an odd slant to his mouth and a tiny crinkle between his brows, and his eyes track over Shane’s face as if he’s looking for something.
Finally, he says, “You do not want me tonight?”
Shane stares at him, dumbstruck. “What?”
“Is okay,” Rozanov says easily, shrugging, as if him coming here was a favour to Shane that he didn’t mind skipping. “Just tell me next time. I do not like fucking someone who does not want to fuck me.”
Shane feels like he missed a step going down the stairs. He tries to remember if there was a moment—ever since this thing began—when he truly didn’t want to fuck Rozanov.
Of course, he tried to tell himself that he didn’t want it. Made several attempts, in his mind, to say no, refuse to meet, tell him to fuck off, and never respond to his messages again. He never followed through.
He couldn’t stop. He’s long past the point of thinking he doesn’t want it. He actually wants it to bad it makes him feel sick to his stomach; makes him feel sick of himself, of fucking Rozanov who keeps offering, who keeps taking and giving in equal measure without hesitation, and Shane hates how much he wants this.
He hates that he does. But he does. He wants. He’s never once stopped, since.
Worst of all, he’s pretty sure Rozanov knows, even though, mercifully, he doesn’t bring it up and Shane can live in blissful plausible deniability.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks, prickly, his confusion rubbing at him in ways that set him on edge.
“You are distracted,” Rozanov points out and he shrugs again, the picture of nonchalance. A mean little grin flashes over his face. “Are you thinking about someone else?”
Who else would I be thinking about but you? He bites his tongue just in time to stop the words from rolling off of it.
“I’m not distracted,” he says instead, through gritted teeth. “Definitely not thinking about someone else.”
Rozanov’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “No?” He sounds insufferably smug.
Shane wants to punch him. Shane wants to stick his tongue down his throat. Anything that’ll shut him the fuck up. But before he can do either of those things, Rozanov steps closer again and runs a finger along his collarbone to the hollow of his throat, up his neck, to press the side of his now crooked finger to the underside of Shane’s chin.
“So what were you thinking about?” His eyes are lit up with unbridled curiosity, and Shane realizes, with horror, that he’s not getting out of this. “If not someone, then…something?”
Shane swallows and feels the press of Rozanov’s finger against the movement of it. Something about it is incredibly hot. “No,” Shane says in a last ditch effort to get Rozanov off his back and back on track. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”
Rozanov grins at him. “You are still really bad liar.”
Shane clenches his jaw. Maybe he can outwait Rozanov. Maybe he’ll get bored when Shane doesn’t play along and then they can get back on track.
Rozanov hums. He brings his face close to Shane’s. The grin is gone. And when he says, “If you tell me…I might do it,” like a dare, low and titillating, his lips brush against Shane’s ever so lightly. He’s pressed up close, the long line of his body molded against Shane’s, fitting neatly, like a puzzle piece, and Shane stops this thought right there.
He wants to tell Rozanov to get overhimself, shut up and fuck off. In that order. What he does say is, “I—I want to, uh…to try something.”
Their noses bump because Rozanov is still so close, and Shane can feel his smile against his lips; sees the way his eyes light up with anticipation, with delight, and Shane’s heart lurches.
“Tell me,” Rozanov says, drawing back a little. His hands are back on Shane’s body and he slips his fingers under the hem of his shirt to draw his fingertips over Shane’s abs.
Shane closes his eyes for a moment, licks his lips. “I want to suck your dick—”
“Wow,” Rozanov says flatly. “Again? Have you not had enough?”
Shane shoves him. “Fuck off, you asked. And I wasn’t done.”
Rozanov perks up again. “No?”
When Shane looks at him, Rozanov gazes back with terrifying scrutiny, as if he’s scared to miss a single thing that may cross Shane’s face. It’s mortifying and humiliating, and Shane can’t back out of it now; he’s already started it. He wishes Rozanov would just get it, that he didn’t have to say it out loud.
Shane takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “I want to suck you off upside down.”
“Upside down,” Rozanov repeats and looks as if he’s trying to make sense of it. “You want to, ah, stand on your hands?”
“No! No. Jesus. Fuck.” Oh god, Shane has to elaborate. The flush that shoots up his face is scorching. He squeezes his eyes shut. “No, I mean like this.”
Shane braces his palms on the counter top of the kitchen island Rozanov has trapped him against and hoists himself up, then spins and lies down on his back, shuffling a little until he feels the edge of the counter hit the back of his neck. He looks up at Rozanov towering over him like this, and the zing of arousal that zips through him is so strong it makes his skin tingle and heat pour through his veins, pooling between his legs.
Rozanov stares down at him with something on his face that Shane can’t quite pinpoint. This must not be new to him. Shane is sure he’s done this with other people before. Actually, he’s sure Rozanov has done quite a few things with other people that Shane has not even thought of.
Rozanov curls a hand around the back of Shane’s neck and pushes him back up into a sitting position. Shane twists to look back at him, stomach dropping, when Rozanov reaches over and uses his leg to fully turn Shane towards him again. Easily, he steps between Shane’s legs, sliding his hands up his thighs.
“And how did you get this idea?” Rozanov asks as he hooks his hands around Shane’s knees, wrapping his legs around his waist. Shane follows the easy nudge without a thought to it, hooks his ankles behind Rozanov and hears him make a soft little growling sound under his breath. Shane’s stomach swoops, both at the noise and the question.
“Hm?” Rozanov prompts, squeezing at Shane’s knees, when Shane doesn’t answer.
“I just…had it,” he says. He’d rather take a slap shot to both kneecaps than admit what inspired him. Rozanov would never let him hear the end of it.
Rozanov raises his eyebrows in clear disbelief. “Did you dream about it?” he wonders, an obnoxious grin overtaking his face. “About letting me fuck your throat like that?”
“You fucking wish, Rozanov.” Shane does not feel caught because he did not dream about Rozanov. Doing that to him.
“So then, what, you play hockey and suddenly wow, what if best hockey player in the world, Ilya Rozanov, fucks my throat while my head is hanging off kitchen counter?” Rozanov looks so fucking smug, Shane considers kneeing him in the balls.
“No. You’re not the best hockey player in the world. Fuck off.” Shane’s fucking ears are hot. He hates the way his body always betrays him around Rozanov.
Rozanov hums. He’s out for Shane’s blood, like a fucking shark, dead set on getting his piece. Shane can see it in his eyes. It makes something molten curl through him.
“Someone else you fucked, then?” Rozanov’s voice sounds… different. Teasing enough, sure, but the playful edge is gone. “Who let you do that to them?”
Rozanov really seems to think Shane is fucking other people. Well, why wouldn’t he? Shane is hot and popular and women are constantly throwing themselves at him whenever he’s somewhere they get a chance to do it at. And Shane is in no hurry to correct him and humiliate himself further by confessing that the only person he semi-regularly has sex with is Rozanov himself. His ego is big enough, too, it doesn’t need a push.
“Sure,” Shane says because that seems plausible, and Rozanov offered it up on a silver platter.
Except Rozanov barks out a laugh, clearly not buying it. “You really need to lie better if you want me to believe you.”
Shane feels himself turn a darker shade of red. “What does it fucking matter?” he snaps.
Rozanov tilts his head a little, eyes dragging over Shane slowly, carefully, and then a big, gleeful smile bursts across his face. “You got it from porn.”
Shane, mercifully, keeps himself from burying his face in his hands, but it must show on his face that Rozanov’s found him out, because the asshole is cackling in delight.
“Aw,” he coos. “Was it your first porn? Oh! Was it hockey themed?”
Shane digs his heels into Rozanov’s hamstrings, hard. “Fuck. You.”
“No, Hollander, is okay,” Rozanov says, still laughing. “I know you’re not innocent little boy. If you need inspiration for future, tell me, I can recommend you stuff.”
“Eat shit, Rozanov,” Shane spits, and his face feels entirely too hot. Embarrassment and anger churn in his stomach, and seriously, fuck this guy. As if watching porn was so out of the ordinary.
“How long have you been thinking about this?” Rozanov needles. He looks like he’s having way too much fun with this.
Shane fucking hates him. Or so he tells himself.
“Alright,” Shane says bitchily as he unlocks his legs from around Rozanov’s waist and slides off the counter. “Go and suck your own dick, Rozanov.”
Rozanov shoots his arm out to block Shane’s path. “No! Hollander!” He honest to god whines. “I’ll stop, I promise. We can do it. I want to do it.”
Shane really wishes he wasn’t as easy; that he would follow through and kick Rozanov out and leave him high and dry, and smugly close the door in his face, and enjoy the victory (if it even was one) over this fucking asshole.
But, regrettably, he is easy, and he lets Rozanov hoist him back onto the counter by the backs of his thighs—and doesn’t pay attention to how hard it makes him—and lets him kiss him apologetically.
“You’re a fucking dick,” Shane says for good measure. That kiss was way too tender.
Rozanov grins at him. “Yes. I know. You like it.”
“I put up with it,” Shane lies. He knows Rozanov knows it’s a lie. He doesn’t call him out on it, though.
There’s something very intent in his eyes when he looks at Shane. “You are sure?” Rozanov asks him and raises a hand to brush the backs of his knuckles over Shane’s cheek, just below his eye.
Shane feels something swell inside of him and quickly shoves it down. He makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Yes, I’m fucking sure.”
Rozanov doesn’t immediately spring into action, as Shane assumed. Instead, slow circles are being rubbed into the skin of his hip, right above the waistband of his sweats.
“Okay,” Rozanov finally says with a little shrug of his shoulder, casual as anything.
Giddy excitement hits Shane so hard he feels dizzy with it.
But instead of spinning Shane back around to bring him back into position, Rozanov draws him into a deep, filthy kiss. It’s kind of wet and sloppy, and it makes Shane’s toes curl.
Blindly, he fumbles with the button and zipper of Rozanov’s ridiculous jeans. Why Rozanov doesn’t think to wear pants that are easier to get off will forever be a mystery to Shane. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of Rozanov’s underwear and yanks them down together with his pants, earning a delightful hiss when the fabric drags tightly across his hard cock.
Rozanov draws back to pull his shirt up and over his head, and Shane uses the time to wrap his hand around his flushed dick, circles the pad of his thumb over his slit to spread the precome over the swollen crown. His pulse is pounding in the hollow of his throat, in his temples, wild with anticipation. Rozanov’s cock twitches in his hand when he slowly twists it around the hard length.
He hears Rozanov’s low chuckle. The colour of his eyes is almost entirely drowned out by the black of his pupils when Shane meets his gaze, and fuck, it’s always so heady to see how affected Rozanov is by this, too.
Rozanov steps out of his pants and slides in close between Shane’s spread thighs, completely naked, his cock bobbing as he moves. He strips Shane out of his shirt quickly, gropes his chest, rubs at his nipples, drawing little moans and gasps from Shane in the process.
“Always so eager,” Rozanov croons. He reaches up and pushes the pad of his thumb down on Shane’s bottom lip until Shane opens his mouth, lets it slip inside, closing his lips around the digit to lick and suck at it. “Desperate for it, Hollander? Need something in your mouth?”
Shane’s eyes flutter shut. He hates when Rozanov talks to him like that; hates it because it’s true and Rozanov reads him so well, lays open so easily what Shane tries to hold in so hard. The words coat him in syrupy heat, though, sliding over and through him: a potent mix of humiliation, frustration and pleasure that has Shane moaning around the thumb in his mouth. He nods. There is no point in denying it, when it’s all out on display.
Rozanov’s thumb strokes his tongue firmly. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, leaning close and using his free hand to palm at Shane’s straining dick through his sweatpants. “You can have it. I will give it to you.”
Shane moans, deep and guttural. Maybe he’s not the only one who’s easy here. It’s a comforting thought. An arousing thought. That his own desire, his blatant, rampant need, works up Rozanov so much as well.
He lets go of Rozanov’s thumb with a wet pop and licks his lips. “Fucking give it to me then,” he says impatiently, bitchily, and watches Rozanov’s gaze darken even further.
Rozanov grins at him. His hands wrap around Shane’s ankles and he places Shane’s feet on his thighs before hooking under the waistband of Shane’s sweats and underwear. “Up,” he says, and then pulls them off when Shane braces on his palms and lifts his ass off the counter.
Once Shane is naked, too, Rozanov trails light fingers up the length of his cock, smearing the wetness into flushed skin.
“So wet already,” he drawls. “You are excited, yes?”
It makes Shane’s dick twitch and leak more precome. Fuck, this should not be doing it for him.
“What’s it look like?” he snaps, glad that he’s flushed all the way already. Going by the way his face heats even more, he might change shade and give himself away anyway.
“Mmmh, I don’t know. You tell me.”
What. A. Fucking. Asshole.
Through clenched teeth, Shane says, “Yes. Now can we get on with it?”
Rozanov sighs dramatically. “And they say romance is dead.”
Shane’s stomach flips, heart stuttering. “Shut up. This isn’t a fucking romance.”
“You have such a way with words.” Rozanov is smirking his shit-eating smirk again. “You could ask nicely.”
Shane shoves at his thigh with his foot before he turns, laying himself down on his counter. Briefly, he considers moving this endeavor somewhere else—this is his kitchen after all—but decides against it. He’ll just have to disinfect it after.
“Please hurry the fuck up, asshole.”
Rozanov laughs at that and his cock bounces with the movement in front of Shane’s face while Shane wiggles into place. It’s flushed a dark, dusty pink, beading at the tip, and Shane’s mouth fills with saliva.
Cockslut, he remembers the faceless guy in the video call the woman that, and maybe that’s what Shane is, too. A cockslut. The thought is as accurate as it is humiliating, and Shane feels his own dick throb against the crease of his thigh.
No need to dwell on it.
Rozanov’s laughter has died down and he’s looking at Shane with bottomless eyes now, something warm and soft in them that makes Shane squirm. A large hand cups the back of his head. Shane swallows and feels the way his skin stretches tight across his Adam’s apple like this.
“If it gets too much, slap my leg.” Rozanov reaches for Shane’s hand then and places it flat on his thigh. It’s endearingly sweet.
Whatever.
He grips the base of his cock with one hand, stepping closer, and runs his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip with the other. “Open,” he instructs, far gentler than it’s called for. “Stick your tongue out.”
Shane might huff and roll his eyes at that if he wasn’t busy doing as he’s told, eager, so eager, for this to finally happen.
Teasingly, Rozanov taps the head of his cock against Shane’s tongue before he slowly starts slipping it into his open, waiting mouth. Shane hears him exhale roughly and lets his eyes flutter closed, lets the new angle and sensation of it flood him completely.
Rozanov goes unbearably slow and Shane realizes the disadvantage of this position: he has no control over how fast he can swallow Rozanov’s dick. Shane makes a sound that he hopes conveys his impatience and wraps his hands around the backs of Rozanov’s thighs, pulling him in closer.
Instead of going faster, Rozanov curls gentle fingers around his jaw and shushes him, continuing to feed Shane his cock inch by inch excruciatingly slowly.
This angle feels different. The weight of Rozanov’s cock in his mouth feels different. He focuses on breathing evenly, feels the heat of Rozanov’s dick on his nose, the clean, pure, familiar scent of him enveloping Shane.
Rozanov slips easier into his throat like this, and Shane moans when he feels the crown of his cock go past the usual, initial resistance.
And then, Rozanov’s balls are resting against his nose, bottomed out. Shane’s head goes fuzzy, his whole body tingling.
Shane can’t do much, he realizes. He can barely suck, he can’t move his head, even keeping his lips tight around Rozanov’s dick isn’t as easy in this position. All he can do is let Rozanov set the pace, let him move as he pleases, go as deep as he wants, and Shane can relax his throat, focus on his breathing, and take it.
The realization that he’s entirely at Rozanov’s mercy like this slides through him molten hot, unfurling into every part of his body, filling him with something utterly other than terror.
Shane exhales through his nose and moans, dick twitching and spurting against his skin as the feeling settles into his every nook and crevice.
Rozanov draws back a little and Shane presses his tongue against the hot length, feels it twitch, tastes precome. Slowly, carefully, Rozanov pushes back in, swollen crown dragging and pushing against the back of his throat until it slips all the way inside once more. This time, he stays there, bottomed out, pelvis resting against Shane’s chin, for a moment. A thumb gingerly rubs over his jaw. Shane breathes, dazed.
When Rozanov pulls back next, he draws completely back and out, and Shane makes a disappointment noise, oddly bereft without the weight of Rozanov’s dick in his throat. He blinks up at him and finds Rozanov staring down at him, slack-jawed. His thumb is still brushing back and forth over Shane’s jaw, as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
“Okay?” he asks, and his voice sounds rougher, thicker with his accent.
Shane grips the backs of his thighs tighter. “Fuck, yeah. C’mon.”
Rozanov makes a noise that sounds caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan, a choked off thing that skitters over Shane’s skin and only feeds into his impatience. He opens his mouth, straining to get Rozanov’s cock in his mouth again.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he mutters as he begins feeding Shane his dick again. His hand remains on Shane’s jaw while he slides the palm of the other over Shane’s arm soothingly.
Something in Shane’s stomach squirms. He doesn’t need to be soothed. He wants Rozanov so deep down his throat he’ll still feel him there tomorrow. He shouldn’t; he shouldn’t want any of this. It’s bad enough he can’t stop going back to him. Wanting to feel Rozanov even after, when Shane should not be wasting a single thought on him until their next meetup, is even worse.
Shane shoves the thought away vigorously.
Rozanov sinks all the way in again, a smooth, steady slide this time, and Shane’s throat works around the head when he doesn’t pull back immediately. It feels tighter, somehow, more intense, and Shane digs his fingers into the meat of Rozanov’s thighs. The moan crawling up Shane’s throat is stemmed back by the fat cockhead in it.
Two, three, four times Rozanov thrusts shallowly, burying himself to the hilt. Every move is followed by the wet sound of Shane’s mouth, the squelching pop of Rozanov’s dick hitting the back of his throat. It’s an obscene noise, a spine-melting sensation: it creeps through him molasses-slow, wrapping him up, dragging him under, snuffing out whatever shame, whatever guilt, whatever frustration has been thrumming through him since Rozanov entered his home.
Rozanov pulls out again. His cock slips free wetly and Shane sucks in a deep breath. Shane licks his lips, tastes the faint traces of Rozanov’s or come. When he flicks his eyes up at him, Rozanov’s gaze is fixed on him, seemingly unblinking, as if he thinks he might miss something if he closes his eyes for even a fraction of a second.
Impatiently, Shane shifts to drag the tip of his tongue over Rozanov’s slit. He lifts a hand from one of Rozanov’s thighs to wrap it around his cock, stroking it from root to tip, and his palm slips across the heated, silky skin so smoothly, eased by his own saliva. A little sound escapes him and his dick twitches against his stomach, spurting. Shane stretches and manages to wrap his lips around the tip of Rozanov’s cock.
Rozanov curses in Russian. He grabs Shane’s wrist to move his hand out of the way before he pushes forward, and Shane hums happily when the blood-hot weight of Rozanov’s erection slides down his throat again.
“Look at you,” Rozanov says. He smooths a thumb from the tip of Shane’s chin to his Adam’s apple. “Gagging for my cock.”
Shane moans without meaning to, eyes fluttering closed. His throat works around Rozanov’s dick and he makes another breathless little noise.
“Need it bad, yes, Hollander?” Rozanov’s rough, accented voice washes over Shane, sets him ablaze; the words striking something deep inside that burns through him with ease, until there’s nothing left but Shane’s naked desire; until it’s burned everything away and Shane hasn’t enough sense left to tell himself that he hates it.
Humiliation smears into white-hot pleasure and Shame hears himself moan again, deeper this time, enough to push past even the fat cockhead in his throat. Rozanov answers in kind.
“Yes, I know,” Rozanov says, magnanimously almost, as he pulls out and thrusts in again. “You take it so good.”
Shane’s insides squirm and his dick throbs. Sometimes, Rozanov sounds awed, sincere, and that’s somehow worse than when he’s being a condescending asshole.
One of Rozanov’s hands drifts over Shane’s shoulder to his chest, squeezing. He’s set a pace now, shallow little thrusts that barely take him out of Shane’s throat, and Shane loses himself in the rhythm, in the feeling of both Rozanov's cock inside him and not being able to do more than relax his throat and let it happen. Shane hears himself make choked off, breathless little sounds, some of which are stemmed back, some that make it past Rozanov’s dick, some that seem to come from so deep inside him that they claw themselves free from his chest.
Rozanov makes a punched out sound as he pulls all the way out, and Shane blinks his eyes open. Thick strings of saliva connect his mouth and Rozanov’s dick before breaking and falling onto Shane’s face. He doesn’t even realize he’s sucking in deep, gulping breaths of air until his head clears a little. There’s wetness clumped in his eyelashes that he only feels when he blinks, smearing it on the skin right under his eyes. Rozanov’s cock is coated—utterly drenched—in Shane’s spit, glistening in the low light of the kitchen, and Shane stares at it, starstruck and aching.
He’s forgotten about his own dick but now that his head is cleared a little, he feels it throb. It’s a hard, hot line against the side of his abdomen. There’s a hot string of his own precome sliding across and down his hip and onto the counter, and suddenly, he feels so close to coming that he wraps a hand around the base of his cock to squeeze. Shane closes his eyes, blocking the sight of Rozanov’s dick, and breathes deep.
There are fingers at his cheek gathering his saliva to push it back into his mouth. Shane groans around the digits, keeping his eyes firmly shut.
Rozanov makes a low sound, something akin to a growl that shoots straight to Shane’s dick and is very counterproductive to what he’s been trying to do.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says. He sounds a little dazed himself, or maybe Shane only imagines it. “Are you—”
“No.” Shane says it way too fast. He sounds…hoarse. “Shut up.”
Rozanov brushes a thumb under one of his eyes gently and Shane looks up at him. “Fuck, Hollander,” he mutters. “You are a menace.” And before Shane can even try to begin parsing what he means, Rozanov bends down and licks into his mouth, kissing Shane like he’s trying to suck the last bit of air right out his lungs; until Shane is dizzy again.
Rozanov straightens. He rubs the underside of his cockhead over Shane’s lips. Shane sucks at the soaked skin, presses his tongue to the point where the head meets the shaft, and Rozanov curses. He lifts his dick and his balls bump against Shane’s upper lip lightly, heavy and hot, neglected to far. With a hungry little noise, Shane sucks one into his mouth, lets the weight settle against his tongue. He closes his lips around it, sucking and licking at it until it twitches and Rozanov curses again. Shane does the same to the other one and feels saliva pool at the sides of his mouth.
“Don’t come,” Rozanov tells him when he draws his balls out of Shane’s mouth to start feeding him his cock again. “Not yet.”
Shane’s throat convulses around the intrusion and he chokes wetly around Rozanov’s dick. It’s happened before, both of them quick and eager, and by now, Rozanov knows not to apologize or give Shane too much time to gather himself. He draws back just enough for Shane to take a breath and relax before pushing back inside.
Rozanov’s balls, still soaked in Shane’s saliva, press heavily just below Shane’s noise, smearing wetness into his skin. Shane’s throat makes a wet sound with each of Rozanov’s thrusts. Each new press inside seems to carve out a space a little further down, claiming new depths.
Shane’s hand flies up to curl around his neck. And then he feels it: Rozanov’s dick moving inside him. The skin of his neck shifts and stretches with each thrust. His fingers travel to the hollow of his throat, pushing down lightly, and the head of Rozanov’s cock bumps against them, making them both groan in unison.
It might be the hottest thing Shane has ever experienced.
He wishes he could see it, too. For a brief, incandescent moment even considers asking Rozanov to film it but—
No. It would be an even stupider idea than what they’re doing already.
Instead of dwelling on what he cannot have, Shane focuses back on the pull and push of Rozanov’s dick against his hand. It’s dizzying, feeling the heft of him moving inside and out, claiming Shane so thoroughly it makes his head spin and stuffs it full of cotton at the same time, shoving everything but these twin sensations out of his mind.
“You like that, Hollander?” Rozanov asks. His voice is deep and raspy, almost breathless. “Feeling me so deep inside you? Outside, too?”
Shane moans helplessly.
Rozanov pushes in and holds himself there, enveloped by the wet squeeze of Shane’s throat, and Shane feels the contraction under his hand. Whatever was left in his mind fizzes out. Rozanov’s balls press right under his nose, constricting the air flow, and Shane’s head feels fuzzy, floaty, light. He registers Rozanov trail his fingers over the hollow of Shane’s throat, pushing just so, and then he moans, loud and guttural.
He pulls out entirely again and Shane gasps, air rushing back into his lungs. Strands of thick saliva smear across his face as Rozanov’s dick hovers above his face, glistening in the low light of the kitchen and twitching. His balls are drawn up, and, oh, he is close.
Shane curls both hands around the backs of his thighs again and pulls him closer. “Come down my throat,” he says, voice scratchy. They don’t do this often, Shane doesn’t always feel like it, but this, now—he wants Rozanov buried deep, spilling down his throat. “Want it as deep as possible. Make me take it.”
Rozanov spits out a string of what Shane assumes are curses in Russian. He slides back into Shane’s throat so easily now, all the way in in one smooth motion, until his pubes press into Shane’s chin and his ball push below his nose again. One palm slides across Shane’s chest and stomach while the thumb of his free hand smooths up and down the column of Shane’s neck, pressing lightly. His next thrusts are long and deep, accompanied not only by the wet noises of Shane’s mouth and throat but by a chorus of their combined moans.
“Fuck,” Rozanov groans. He strokes his thumb firmly over Shane’s neck. “You will feel me here tomorrow.”
Shane makes a reedy little noise, eyes squeezed tight, and suddenly, he’s teetering at the edge of his own orgasm.
“This is what you want, Hollander?” Rozanov brushes his other thumb at the corner of Shane’s mouth, rubbing spit into his skin. “Have your throat fucked open? To be used like this?”
Shane shudders out a muffled moan. Thankfully, with Rozanov’s dick stuffed in his throat, he can’t speak. And he doesn’t know if he could handle hearing himself say yes. Because that is what he would say.
Yes.
He didn’t realize that’s what was at the bottom of his desires when he first saw the porn; didn’t understand until just now. The realization makes his dick jump against his hip. A fresh string of wetness splashes over his skin. His balls are drawn up tight; he’s so close it hurts. Shane trembles with the force of holding his orgasm back.
Rozanov groans. “Oh god, Hollander, you should see yourself. Offering yourself up like that, letting me fuck you open.” His hand brushes along Shane’s jaw much too tenderly. “I do not need to make you take it. You always do it all on your own.”
As Rozanov’s words wash over him, Shane’s orgasm crashes into him like a massive tidal wave, overtaking him and dragging under. There are white spots dancing behind his eyelids and his skin tingles. Every single nerve ending feels lit up and sensitive, making everything feel that much more intense: Rozanov’s fingers hotly against his skin, the line of his hard dick in his throat, the brush of his pubes against Shane’s chin with each thrust, the feeling of his balls against Shane’s noise, the weight of Rozanov’s words against Shane’s consciousness; the way Shane shakes with the force of the sum of these sensations.
He’s coming in hot streaks against his hip; is sure most of it hits the kitchen counter. He doesn’t care.
It’s impossible to care about anything but what Rozanov is doing to him.
Rozanov lets out a sound like a wounded animal, buried all the way inside, and comes so deep down Shane’s throat he feels the hot splash of come without ever tasting it. His dick twitches and pulses against Shane’s tongue as he empties himself, and Shane sucks as best as he can, earning himself a punched out groan from Rozanov.
Slowly, carefully, Rozanov pulls out once he’s done. Shane’s face feels drenched in his own saliva, streaks of it slipping over his lips and cheeks once again, dripping from Rozanov’s dick. It sends a tremor of aftershock through his body, straight to his own cock that spurts a last, pathetic little drip of come. Shane blinks, dazed, and uselessly licks his lips.
Rozanov hauls him back up with a hand wrapped around the back of his neck, manhandles him until Shane sits facing him and pulls him in for a sloppily wet kiss. He’s stepped so close in between Shane’s legs that Shane can feel the heat radiating off him. Rozanov curls gentle fingers around Shane’s face to hold him in place and kisses him with deep strokes of his tongue. It should feel filthy, like a prelude to a next round.
It feels…not like that at all.
Shane feels himself melt against Rozanov, slumping like a doll whose strings have been cut. Rozanov doesn’t seem to mind one bit and runs a soothing hand up and down Shane’s spine. He helps Shane off the counter a few minutes later, after they’ve traded some lazy kisses that make Shane’s insides squirm again, a soft warmth cascading through him.
“If there was a Stanley Cup for sucking dick—”
Shane groans hoarsely against Rozanov’s shoulder. “Stop.”
“I’m just saying,” Rozanov says, and Shane can hear the grin in his voice, running gentle fingers over Shane’s sides. “You would be dick sucking champion.”
“Oh my god, shut up.” Shane feels the furious blush spread from his cheeks to his neck. Rozanov doesn’t need to know that it’s not so much embarrassment as it is pride.
Rozanov turns his face into Shane’s hair. “Maybe I will get you a ring, so you can have dick sucking champion trophy.”
“I will never suck your dick again if you don’t stop talking now.”
Rozanov chuckles but lets it go.
They stumble into the shower together and take turns under the spray, soap up each other’s backs, brush hands over wet skin to rinse the last of the suds: soft, lingering touches that don’t aim to lead anywhere. It’s a thing they don’t do often together, Shane realizes. Most of the time, they shower one after another, and briefly wonders if maybe they should do it together more often. It feels…it feels—
It feels exactly like why they shouldn’t shower together more often.
Rozanov is out of the shower before Shane and Shane expects to find his condo empty when he steps out of the bathroom. This is another thing they don’t do: linger. Once they’re back in their clothes, they leave. That is their routine.
Except Rozanov is lingering now. He’s in the kitchen and there’s a steaming mug of something next to him. Shane’s heart lurches dangerously.
Rozanov walks around the kitchen isle—that is wiped down already, and Shane tries very hard not to feel anything about that.
“Ah, is tea,” Rozanov says and gestures to the mug. “With honey. For your throat.”
His whole body floods with warmth. It’s outrage, of course, at Rozanov going through his cabinets to find tea and honey.
“Oh.” It comes out toneless. Shane clears his throat and winces a little at the soreness in it. “Thank you.”
Rozanov raises a hand to his chin, brushes a thumb over the corner of Shane’s mouth. He presses a soft, dry kiss to Shane’s lips. Shane’s heart stutters for a moment. He ignores it.
“Good night, Hollander,” Rozanov murmurs without drawing back, and even from up this close Shane can see his eyes flick over Shane’s face. He presses another quick kiss to his mouth before stepping back, pulling on his coat.
“Good night,” Shane echoes. He flexes his socked toes against the floor to keep himself from walking over to Rozanov. He might do something stupid, like kiss him again, or worse, ask him to stay a little longer.
Shane drinks the tea once Rozanov’s gone and pretends the warmth he feels is caused by the drink and not the fact that Rozanov cared enough to make it for him.