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The package sat there, staring at Shane. They’d talked about it, of course, the idea of Shane dressing in a maid outfit for Rozanov. Rozanov had been biting at the tendon of Shane’s shoulder, whispering something about how sweet Shane was. How he wanted to be of service, his perfect little Котик. But it hadn’t grown legs, this idea, until later.
Rozanov had worked Shane up to it, like he did with everything they ever chose to do together. He would never give Shane the pleasure of plausible deniability, not when he so often inched Shane along until he was begging on his knees.
Shane had given in, making a deal with Rozanov that the next game the Metros lost, he’d wear the dress, stockings and all.
And yet, this, the actual outfit hiding just beyond blankets of plastic, was nerve-wracking in a way that Shane couldn’t articulate beyond images of soft curves and smooth skin. His mouth filled with saliva, and he swallowed.
His belly clenched as he imagined Rozanov’s reaction. He imagined it would be akin to every other time they’ve had sex, intense, all-consuming, like they’d shake apart if they didn’t have the other. Not new territory there.
And yet, Shane felt his cheeks heat at the thought of actually fitting himself into the clothes. He’s not afraid of whether he’d be attractive in said maid outfit—he’d worked hard for his physique, between his macrobiotic diet and his strict exercise regimen. Shane knew his dedication and commitment paid off in spades in that regard.
But the fact that he was willing to debase himself in this way was almost too much. It wasn’t the first time Shane wondered at the fact that his dedication and commitment also applied to Rozanov, with his cocky, toothy smile.
Shane’s good sense shut off every time they were together—it was like his limbs moved without his prior knowledge. Like he was guided by a force larger than himself, where all he could do was follow the rushing tides. He wasn’t sure he’d ever come up for air again if he didn’t.
Shane was often overwhelmed by the sheer depth of his feelings, swallowing down all the words he wished he could say. He wasn’t sure they were legible anyway; he didn’t have names for them. They were more so impressions: the feeling of a hand, the brush of a mouth. So instead, Shane folded the shapes nicely into the spaces between his ribs.
There were times when those shapes were something akin to je t’aime, and he could feel them rolling behind his teeth. Shane would stutter trying to rearrange them instead into a demand— only for Rozanov’s voice to cut through the noise first.
Rozanov knew all Shane’s pain points. Knew all his pressures and pleasures, beyond anything Shane had been able to speak aloud, anyway. Their bodies arched to each other in ways that only they knew the language of, their skin sparking between them.
And just like this maid outfit, there was never any threat that Rozanov would push Shane beyond what he was capable of—he seemed to know even before Shane did what he could and couldn’t manage. Though Shane wasn’t sure Rozanov could put it into words, if he tried.
Just the same way that Shane could only ask for skin and heat, nothing more, he thinks Rozanov could only do the same. Instead, Rozanov digs his fingertips into Shane’s muscles, sculpting him like clay into versions of himself he never could have imagined before.
Like now, a feminine figure cut of him for Rozanov’s viewing pleasure. Shane breathed out, like Rozanov had told him before—
“In, Hollander.” Shane’s hand was held to Rozanov’s chest with the firm, yet gentle, pressure Shane had come to know so intimately. “Now, out.”
Shane could feel each breath rattling his bones. He was shaking like a leaf, but with Rozanov looking intently at him, he knew, somehow, he would keep breathing. There was no danger here, not with Rozanov’s capable hands holding him together. Shane should have been scared, but something in him had cracked after Vegas.
Shane tore into the binding of the package, exposing the black and white fabrics. The smell of freshly pressed lingerie was enough to make him gag. His nose wrinkled.
The size wouldn’t be an issue, so long as he made sure not to run the dryer on too high of heat. Shane had read on Reddit as to what brands of male lingerie would fit an athletic build best and knew to size up to accommodate his musculature accordingly.
Shane gathered the pile along with his dirty hamper and headed for his laundry room. As he started loading the washer, it wasn’t lost on him that there was a nonzero amount of clothing in the load that belonged to Rozanov. If Shane had snagged a shirt or pair of sweats of his at some point, it was no one’s business but his own.
He started the washer and watched the soap and water mingle, watched as the clothes began to agitate.
Rozanov was just as trapped as Shane in this little bubble. Their careers, their friendships, their lives were at the same risk of ruin. It wasn’t like he could blackmail Shane with a photo of him in a skimpy costume, his ass peeking out from the bottom of a frilled dress, stockings climbing up his long, long legs, pecs sitting pretty. Not without being subject to the same question of how he had come to possess the photo. Shane was smart enough not to send selfies with his face in them, besides.
Not that Rozanov would do such a thing. They were good to each other in that way. The fact of the codenames was solid enough ground to Shane that Rozanov took this arrangement as seriously as he did. Shane appreciated his discretion, and knew it’d be hard to come by in others. That’s why he kept choosing Rozanov, over and over.
It was because he understood the need for discretion, understood Shane’s diet, understood hockey. They lived the same kind of cycle, going round and round the same rink in different cities, month after month. Rozanov understood the offseason being both reprieve and retribution—how easy it was to get lost in the sticky days of summer, time bleeding together until it was September all over again.
And Rozanov wasn’t talking about sponsorships, or old teammates, like Shane’s parents always were. His dad was always patting his shoulder, saying obvious and uncomfortable things like “You know we’d still love you, even if you were to quit tomorrow,” like he enjoyed shoving a stake into Shane’s heart over and over.
Shane understood to some level that his dad was just trying to be kind, but that’s what he didn’t understand. Without hockey, what would there be left for Shane? His dad had played for McGill, yes, and Shane is proud to come from such an accomplished lineage. But David Hollander, hockey player, had moved on. David Hollander, reader of The New Yorker, government official, father, had taken his place.
Other than hockey, there was very little Shane had in his corner. Corporate sponsorships with faceless administrators, more money than he could spend in a lifetime, sure, but there would be no escaping the fact of the young faces peering up at Shane on their TVs, rooting for him from the stands.
He wouldn’t have anything to say to comfort them, if he were to leave. And so with that, hockey remained. Shane had signed up for this job and knew what it came with. The only way hockey would leave is if it left him first.
Besides, being one of the best hockey players alive meant he had an obligation to keep Rozanov’s ego in check, one way or another.
Shane set a timer on his phone and went to do a set of yoga.
Shane couldn’t bear to look in the mirror. He chose high quality fabric that wouldn’t irritate his skin, but just chancing a glance at his thighs covered in the black silk, his skin prickled anyway.
Heat tugged at something deep in his belly, and his toes curled against his better judgement. The silk pulled taught at his feet. The dress was corseted in the middle, highlighting Shane’s chest and waist in ways he was unused to; he had cleavage.
Rozanov already loved Shane’s pecs, but this—this was another level.
Shane’s phone buzzed.
Lily: door 😈
Shane felt his body contract.
The dress was doing little to conceal his half-hard cock. His blush turned crimson. He made his way over to the door, blinds having long been pulled closed, and unlocked it, as he stepped back to give himself a wide berth from Rozanov.
Rozanov, having heard the deadbolt, turned the knob and stepped inside. Shane stood with his hands behind his back, knuckles pressing into his lower back. He focused on the little points of pressure, on the lamplight shrouding his home in gold tones, on the sleek feel of the silk on his skin. Rozanov closed the door behind him and toed off his shoes next to Shane’s at the entry.
It was only then that Rozanov looked up, and Shane swore he could hear Rozanov’s breath catch in his throat. The few feet between them felt like a chasm, like Rozanov was unsure how to bridge the distance.
Shane could hear Rozanov’s ragged exhale, and so he choked out, “Do I look s—”
Rozanov launched himself at Shane, pressing his mouth urgently to Shane’s. Shane fisted his hands into Rozanov’s curls. He sighed into Rozanov’s mouth, his lips approximating something of a kiss as Rozanov’s hands caressed Shane’s jaw.
Rozanov pulled off to look into Shane’s eyes, and Shane could barely hold his eyes open as Rozanov’s musky leather scent enveloped him. Rozanov’s hands were warm. Shane felt something in his chest loosen and fall away.
“You look incredible. Hollander, look at me.”
Shane smiled. Rozanov was the balm to his aches. It should have been unnatural, the way Shane felt his body respond to Rozanov. Like a drug of some kind, his breath sped up and his cock filled instantly at his presence.
It was so easy with Rozanov; the constant ache of inevitable disappointment was far away with Rozanov in front of him.
There was never any chance of failure with him, not with his clear instructions and constant string of praise. Shane lifted his gaze, his knees nearly at the point of buckling from Rozanov’s hand moving to hold Shane’s chin.
Rozanov smirked at Shane’s smile. “Ah, there he is. My perfect Котик.”
Shane had looked it up, Котик, once. He tried to repeat the word to himself as much as he could, so he could phonetically type it out with the hopes of finding a rough translation. He’d been unsuccessful. Though, Shane knew it was praise, and that was enough, for now.
Rozanov pressed a kiss to Shane’s smile, pulling him forward by the chin, ever so gently. Rozanov began running his hands up and down the dress, keeping his forehead pressed to Shane’s.
“Even prettier than I thought, Hollander. You spoil me.”
Shane just giggled, a little girlish thing. He was beyond embarrassment. How could he be embarrassed when Rozanov was in front of him, gripping his waist and pressing kisses to the side of his neck? Shane bent his head to the side to give Rozanov easier access.
Rozanov slid a hand between them, trailing it up to Shane’s left pec. “Your tits look so pretty,” Rozanov said. “What a pretty girl for me.”
Shane huffed, “Shut up, Rozanov. You’re such an asshole,” as he started to pull away. Leave it to Rozanov to fuck up a good high.
“Ah, no. I think you are my pretty girl tonight,” Rozanov said confidently, hand gripping tighter at Shane’s pec.
He leaned down and pulled the material down just enough for Shane’s nipple to meet the air. Rozanov just hovered, his breath warm and wet on Shane’s chest. Rozanov’s other hand went to Shane’s cock, which had gotten harder, somehow.
Shane scoffed, “You’re lucky I dressed up for you,” but his voice cracked when Rozanov took his nipple into his mouth, the suction sending arousal straight through Shane’s body.
Rozanov released his nipple with a pop, replying, “Yes, I am lucky.” He looked up at Shane. Shane looked away.
Rozanov went back to his task at hand, sucking on Shane’s nipple and tugging lightly at Shane’s cock. Between the two points of contact, Shane was going to come in no time.
“Rozanov, I need—” Shane moaned when Rozanov squeezed his cock. “I’m going to come if you keep this up,” Shane said. He felt intoxicated. His head was swimming with arousal. The only things that mattered were Rozanov.
Rozanov peeled himself off of Shane, taking two steps back. He pulled his shirt off, and Shane panted as he watched Rozanov look him up and down. Shane moved, illogically, to cover his chest, as though they were real tits and not his pecs. Rozanov slapped Shane’s hands away, as though he knew that’s what Shane was going to do. Maybe he did know. Rozanov seemed to know Shane better than himself.
“Keep hands down.”
Shane shivered as he replayed Rozanov calling him his pretty girl. His cock was nearly aching with how hard it was, despite the dress, the cleavage, the ‘girl’ comments.
Rozanov started at Shane, but then Shane was taking steps backward, until his back met the island countertop. Rozanov hitched him up with a hold on Shane’s thighs, right below his bare ass. The dress did so little to hold onto Shane’s modesty, and he hissed as his skin met the cold marble.
Rozanov leaned in with a kiss, sliding his tongue between Shane’s lips. Shane felt like he was being devoured with the fervor of their kisses, and yet.
“Hollander, I can hear you thinking.”
Shane had the good sense to blush, burying his head in the nook between Rozanov’s shoulder and neck. “This outfit… this dress, it’s a lot,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, it’s a lot sexy. You look fucking fantastic.”
Shane laughed, “You promise?”
“Promise, pretty girl,” Rozanov said, making Shane blush all over again. He ran his hands down Shane’s back, grabbing at his ass. Rozanov groaned like it hurt him when Shane gasped, his eyelashes fluttering at the contact.
“Just relax for me. I always make it good for you, right?” Shane nodded into Rozanov’s skin. “Ah, use your words, Котик.”
“Yes, you always make it good for me,” Shane said, muffled into Rozanov’s shoulder.
Rozanov was pleased though. “Good girl.”
Shane moaned. His treacherous, treacherous body was betraying him in real time. But Rozanov so clearly wanted this from him. It would be so easy to win when all Shane had to do was relax. Shane wasn’t sure he was ever made for relaxation, but Rozanov seemed so intent every time to leave him in such a state that Shane started to believe maybe he was capable.
Shane sighed, and in that rush of air so went his burden. He tried to tell himself was not made in the image of Atlas; he couldn’t hold up the weight of an entire generation, much less an entire race between two continents all the time. If he wanted to be a girl for just an evening, the only people who would know were him and the man before him. Hockey would still be there tomorrow.
He decided to let his mind melt into a puddle of arousal and something else he couldn’t find words for.
Rozanov began trailing kisses down Shane’s neck and then his chest, taking down the straps of the dress just enough to give him access to Shane’s tits. He dug his teeth hard enough in each tit to leave the imprint of all thirty-two teeth.
Shane tipped his head back, groaning at the thought of being marked, for even just a few hours. Rozanov respected the ‘no marks’ rule they had, and the pressure of his bites weren’t enough to break it. So for now, he’d press the little indentations—the markings that Rozanov was here.
Rozanov’s hand at Shane’s waist, made tiny by the fabric clinging so tightly to his skin, felt like a brand. Some piece of Shane almost wished Rozanov’s fingerprints could brand his skin, stain the skin with each whorl. Something for Shane to poke at in the morning when the bites were gone.
Shane’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He tried to say something again, but Rozanov chose this moment to flip up Shane’s dress, exposing his cock. Shane felt like he was going wild, like he would shake apart if Rozanov didn’t get his mouth on him in the next ten seconds. He tried to vocalize it, but all that came out was a series of whimpers.
“I have you. You are safe, милая моя,” Rozanov said gently, like Shane was a spooked horse. He rubbed at Shane’s flank, and Shane quieted again.
Rozanov licked a stripe up Shane’s cock, pressing a dry finger gently to his entrance. Just the simple pressure, the promise, was enough for Shane to come. Shane shivered with it, and his breath caught. He hadn’t thought it would happen so suddenly. He couldn’t make a sound.
His cock pulsed in Rozanov’s mouth, as he suckled at the head, lapping up Shane’s come. Shane’s body went tight like a bow, his back arching to push more of himself into Rozanov, as much as he could bear.
Rozanov took it all, like he always did, and Shane watched his throat work as he swallowed. Shane was inside of Rozanov. Shane wanted to suck on Rozanov’s Adam’s apple; he wanted to track the slide of come down his throat with his lips.
Shane’s sure Rozanov had chosen to start with going down on Shane in the case that Shane came quickly, so Shane would continue wearing the outfit. So it wouldn’t be soiled, because Rozanov would have taken care of it.
Shane sighed. Now that the edge was gone, he felt boneless. He threw his arms around Rozanov’s neck, kissing him once, chastely on the mouth.
Rozanov’s smile was so bright, Shane could barely stand it. Rozanov picked him up again, this time carrying Shane to his bedroom. He threw him onto the bed, and Shane laughed, if only because it was all so absurd. Rozanov was in his apartment, Shane was in a maid outfit, and Shane was his pretty girl for the night.
“What’s so funny?” Rozanov had a crooked smile on his face, as he opened up the bedside drawer.
Shane replied, “I’m Jane tonight, can you believe it? Wow.”
Rozanov let out a small laugh as he lubed up his fingers. “Yes, Hollander, you are my beautiful Jane for this evening.”
Shane’s eyes welled up with tears as he pushes down a sound from deep within him. Shane tells himself it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s never heard Rozanov call him by his first name.
Shane willed his eyes to quit their watering and relaxed his body further into the sheets. Rozanov pulled one of the million pillows from Shane’s bed and placed it under Shane’s hips, angling them higher.
Shane thought to himself that the lamplight and his willpower must have been doing a great job keeping his watery eyes a secret. Rozanov normally would have said something, even if only to see Shane squirm.
Rozanov pressed a finger to Shane’s hole, this time wet with lube. It went easily, and Shane let his head loll, shoulders going loose. Any tension that remained dissipated with the fact that Rozanov was finally, finally inside of him.
Rozanov gripped again at Shane’s chest, fingers digging into his right tit as he fucked Shane slowly. Shane could feel the drag of Rozanov’s skin against his hole, and he was nearly overwhelmed at the steady, slow pace.
Shane whined. “Come on, Rozanov, need it. Give it to me.”
Rozanov was firm. “Good girls say please. You know that, Jane.”
“Please, give it to me,” Shane whimpered. He felt like he was going to be sick from the sheer arousal consuming him. Shane was almost worried if he kept talking, what would come out would be a plea for another thing entirely.
Shane grabbed at Rozanov’s hand on his tit, pulling it towards his mouth. Rozanov closed most of his hand, pressing two fingers onto Shane’s tongue. Shane closed his eyes and moaned. The taste and feel of Rozanov was cool water on his skin. Shane twined his tongue around the pads of Rozanov’s fingers, and he felt sparks go down his spine. Shane’s cock was filling again, and he felt lightheaded from the rush.
Rozanov mirrored his right hand, a second finger joining the first in Shane’s hole. Shane sighed happily, relieved at the feeling of fullness. Rozanov hooked his fingers on the inside of Shane’s cheek.
“Jane, what should you say now?” Rozanov looked up at Shane.
Shane couldn’t bear to make eye contact. Not with the way Rozanov leaned down, breathing onto Shane’s cock, holding his gaze. Rozanov licked a stripe from his balls to the tip, pressing a kiss to the crown. Drool was sliding down Shane’s chin.
“Thank you. Thank you, Rozanov,” Shane said, the edges of his words muffled by the hand hooked in his cheek.
“Good job, милая моя!” Rozanov was delighted.
Shane preened under the attention, his cheeks red with flush. He could only imagine the contrast between the dress and his face. Rozanov gently let go of Shane’s face, and as Shane went to sit up because of the loss, Rozanov pinned Shane’s arms above his head.
“Because you have been so sweet, I am going to give you something more,” Rozanov said.
Shane watched as his cock twitched from the heat of Rozanov’s skin. Rozanov pulled his fingers free from inside of Shane and wiped them on the bedsheets. Shane went to make an indignant sound, but Rozanov kissed him fiercely instead.
“Turn over pretty girl. Want to eat your pussy,” Rozanov said as he gripped at Shane’s waist, flipping him over.
The breath was knocked out of Shane. He felt stunned as Rozanov grabbed at his ass, kneading with intention. Rozanov growled, shoving the skirt of the dress up so he had just enough clearance to lick his way into Shane’s heat.
Shane moaned.
“So pretty here. You know that?” Rozanov didn’t wait for an answer as he dipped his head down.
Shane’s back was arched, his ass in the air, tits out, face covered in spit. He’d never felt so slutty before.
Rozanov spit on Shane’s hole, and pressed insistently at the rim with his fingers, working the saliva inside of Shane. Shane moaned again, gripping at the pillows where his hands met. Rozanov didn’t need to keep Shane’s arms pinned, because Shane was a good girl who followed directions.
Rozanov kept licking at Shane. Just little kitten licks. Shane felt like he was going out of his mind. He imagined his teammates finding them, seeing Shane in a maid dress, his pussy fucked wet and open for their biggest rival in the entire league.
Shane tensed, whether from arousal or shame, he didn’t know.
Rozanov pressed his thumbs into Shane’s loosened hole, gaping the muscle. He spat again and pressed his face in, tongue fucking into Shane. Shane cried out, nothing like words coming forth.
Rozanov pulled off and said, “Your pussy tastes so good, Jane. Would eat you all the time.”
Shane buried his face into the sheets. Yes, yes, he tasted so good, he was a good girl, he was following instructions and was doing everything right. Nothing else mattered, not when they were together.
Shane’s cock was hard against the dress, and the silk rubbed so deliciously against him. He huffed out a laugh in pleasure.
“Thank you,” Shane said quietly. Rozanov hummed in response.
“You want my cock? You want it in your pretty pussy, Jane?” Rozanov asked. He tapped his hard cock against Shane’s hole.
“Yes,” Shane said. He felt like he was floating. He thrust backward, trying to make more contact.
Rozanov gripped Shane’s ass. “I give it to you, don’t worry, Котик. My beautiful girl.”
Rozanov stood up, shucking off his sweats and briefs. He ripped open a condom and slid it on, lubing himself up. He leaned down and kissed Shane, pressing their mouths together gently, as Rozanov pressed himself inside of Shane.
Shane’s vision whited out. Rozanov was giving him inch after inch, so, so slowly. When Rozanov was fully seated, Shane came, cock spurting all over the dress, up to his tits.
Rozanov gasped. “Jane, you did not say you needed so badly. Now I must go slow so you can come back to me,” he said.
Shane barely heard the words. His head was fuzzy with pleasure, the pressure of Rozanov’s cock inside him being the only tether to this world.
The bed was so soft, the dress so soft, Rozanov’s hands and scent and mouth were so warm, hands gripping at his waist, scent enveloping him, mouth warm at his cheek. Rozanov kissed Shane gently on his jaw, moving a hand to press at Shane’s back.
Shane arched more dramatically, the side of his face pressed into the mattress. He smiled dopily as Rozanov thrust slowly in and out.
Shane’s soft cock hung there, as the come began to dry on his dress. He’d wash it later, with the sheets. But later was not now. Now was Rozanov grunting with exertion, as he continued to thrust slowly, pulling nearly all the way out, and then pushing all the way back in at a slow, slow pace.
Shane’s prostate was sparking with each thrust, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to move again. Rozanov was a force of nature like this, holding all these pieces of Shane together like they were something to be cherished.
“Your pussy is so tight, Jane, fuck. So tight. Like it wants to keep me there,” Rozanov said as he thrusted leisurely.
Shane’s cock was half-hard now, hanging heavy with the force of their fucking. Shane felt his hole pulse with arousal. Rozanov leaned forward, pressing his bare chest to Shane’s back.
He gripped Shane’s waist and pulled Shane to him to meet his thrust, finally building up momentum. Rozanov began to thrust harder and faster, bracing himself with a foot near Shane’s knees.
Rozanov was so warm, Shane swore he could feel him as though they were skin to skin. Rozanov snaked a hand down and gripped Shane, gently stroking his cock in time with his thrusts.
The pressure was just enough to keep Shane from shivering with overstimulation, but wasn’t enough for Shane to have a meaningful orgasm. Shane panted.
Rozanov sped up, his thrusts getting faster. He squeezed Shane gently and let go, unsticking himself from Shane in the process.
Rozanov was taking his pleasure, and Shane was there for the ride. Shane’s hole was just a means to an end—and he was okay with that. Jane was the kind of woman who was confident, a good fucktoy, a good hole for the man she lo—liked.
Soon enough, Rozanov was on the edge, gripping at Shane’s dress so tightly Shane worried it might rip.
“Fuck, Jane, you—you look so good, feel so tight. Your pussy is so good for me,” Rozanov gritted out.
“Yeah, it’s yours, it’s all yours. My pussy is yours,” Shane said, and Rozanov came with a shout, fucking into Shane like he’d die if he didn’t go as fast as he possibly could.
Shane was so hard he felt like he’d die if he didn’t come soon, but it seemed like Rozanov had other plans. Rozanov stilled, hand still gripping at the silk. He slipped out, tied off the condom, and threw it somewhere.
Suddenly, Rozanov manhandled Shane so he was in Rozanov’s arms, as Rozanov pressed kisses all over Shane’s overheated cheeks.
Shane weakly tried to speak, but Rozanov spoke over him, “I know, Jane, will help you. Won’t leave you without something.”
And so Rozanov pressed three lubed fingers inside of Shane, as Shane’s hard cock tented the silk of his dress, and brushed against Rozanov’s stomach.
Rozanov looked like a man in love, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Shane tucked his head into Rozanov’s shoulder, not because Shane felt like he was going to cry, but because Jane might. Shane whined as Rozanov pressed insistently at Shane’s prostate.
“I can’t, Rozanov, I can’t,” Shane said from the safety of the crook of Rozanov’s body.
“You can, you always take what I give you, pretty girl. You always do such good job,” Rozanov replied, scissoring his fingers in Shane’s fucked-out hole.
Shane nodded because Rozanov was right. His stomach twisted with something, and again, there were tears pricking at his eyes. He wondered at what Rozanov was like when he was in love, if this is what Shane got as just a hookup. Shane couldn’t help but wonder what more Rozanov would give him.
Shane’s hands were fisted on Rozanov’s chest, not holding on, but pressed like Rozanov was a wall of rock Shane was to climb.
Shane had studied anatomy when he first got serious about hockey. Shane tilted his head and thought to himself, our fists are only a bit smaller than our hearts, and something in him jumped. His cock twitched, and his throat squeezed closed.
Before he could think further, his mouth moved, words tumbling out without his consent. “I need more, Rozanov. Can I have more? Please?”
And so Rozanov slowed down his fingering. He brushed against Shane’s prostate gently, and Shane’s eyes rolled back. Shane moaned loudly. Rozanov’s cock was still soft, and Rozanov looked at Shane with some confusion.
“What do you need? What is my girl needing?”
Shane Hollander knows how to survive falling through ice. He knows how to move when there’s knives at your feet, how to push through frigid air, even when it’s wrapping around your lungs and squeezing so hard you have nothing left.
And yet, he looked at his fist, and he wondered if it would ever be enough to simply touch and hold and kiss.
And so, he again told Rozanov he needed more in his pussy—even three fingers deep. Rozanov looked at him with a look softer than Shane could withstand.
Shane’s breath caught in his throat, and he wondered if now is when Rozanov would make fun of him for being so needy, so desperate.
But instead, Rozanov continued to watch him, three fingers seated inside Shane, his other hand holding Shane’s jaw like something fragile. Rozanov rubbed under Shane’s eye, and Shane suddenly felt the moisture there. Shane wondered briefly if Jane was more beautiful than him.
Shane had to close his eyes. It’s then that Rozanov slid in his pinky, into the soft and wet place of himself. And then, Shane felt closer to full, but no closer to what he needed than just three minutes ago.
Shane panted and panted, and he imagined he could almost see the clouds of damp air curling in the lamplight around them. The dark behind his eyelids was comforting, at least.
It was dark and he had nothing to be afraid of. The boogie man couldn’t reach him here, deep in the confines of an apartment no one else would ever step foot in. No teammates, no parents, no reporters would ever find him here.
Something in Shane was pulling at him, every time Rozanov was near him. Something like longing, even as Rozanov was inside of him. Did the longing exist if he pretended it wasn’t suffocating him? Killing him slowly with the long-distance deprivation of someone who treated him like he was pretty, soft, good enough?
Did their bodies coming together make a sound if no one knew?
Shane grabbed Rozanov’s free hand from where it had migrated to Shane’s hip bone, rubbing mindlessly through the silk. He pressed it firmly to his left tit.
Shane imagined it was a little uncomfortable, a little bit of a stretch for Rozanov, making this diagonal, but Shane thought to himself that it was a small sacrifice for all that Shane was giving him. His body, his mind, his breath.
Shane wondered how many of these pieces Rozanov had held in his hands had he taken back with him to Boston. Shane felt it was more than one or two. He wondered if over time, there’d be more of Shane in Boston than here in Montreal.
Shane imagined that Rozanov could feel Shane’s heart pumping under his calloused fingers. He imagined that Rozanov was tracking the blood circulating under his skin and throughout his body, and that’s how Rozanov could tell what Shane was thinking before Shane even knew. The way Rozanov could read Shane’s body without words was a talent Shane was not sure he’d ever have.
The best Shane could do was be responsible for his body’s physical processes and their health. It was much harder for him to understand the inner machinations of his own mind, much less another person’s.
It felt like Shane was playing a game, but without all the pieces, and with nearly zero knowledge of the rules. The two things he knew for sure were one: it was a game, and two: Shane would never have all of Rozanov.
So, Shane pretended it was enough to move Rozanov’s hand closer to his heart. He pretended that Rozanov could know what it was that Shane wanted without using words. Rozanov was being very nice today, not asking Shane to use his words.
Shane thought to himself that he was really floating away this time, from the force of all these sensations in his body. Rozanov’s hand was almost entirely inside of him, and Shane felt like he was going to shake apart. He’d never had so much of Rozanov before, even if it wasn’t all of him.
Shane felt far from his mind, like he could watch his body contract in pleasure, separately from his mind.
He whispered, once his body adjusted to the wide stretch of four fingers inside of him, “More, please. I can take it, I’m a good girl.”
Shane whimpered, because it was the truth, “I need it, please.”
Rozanov’s eyes widened, and Shane stuttered, “I—”, only for Rozanov to grip Shane’s body tighter to him, as he pressed a kiss to Shane’s lips.
Shane’s mouth tingled with the contact as Rozanov laid him down onto his back, and they watched together as Rozanov tucked his thumb into his palm, and slowly, so slowly, pressed his entire hand into Shane.
He was crying, but it was okay. They were Jane’s tears anyway. Jane was strong; Jane was allowed to cry, because she had proven herself to be good enough to receive a divine gift such as this one.
Something in Shane’s chest tightened, and he thought to himself, Rozanov has my heart. My chest is caving in, because my heart is gone. Rozanov took it.
Shane started to hyperventilate, so he scrabbled for purchase on Rozanov’s shoulders.
“You are having panic attack, pretty girl?”
Shane shook his head and imitated his hands grasping at the air. Rozanov seemed to understand; he adjusted himself so he could kiss Shane while slowly pulling his fist in and out of Shane. Shane’s ass swallowed the whole thing over and over, like a snake eating its meal. Absolutely devouring Rozanov, over and over again.
Shane’s cock was leaking, precome pooling in the folds of his dress. He’d never felt so full in his life, his ass stretching to accommodate an entire hand—an entire heart. The stretch burned and Shane savored every second of it.
Shane pretended he was being given Rozanov’s heart. Something to hold onto in the dark nights when he was cold and alone.
Rozanov’s mouth was addicting, the wet heat of his tongue and spit mixing with Shane’s. Shane gripped tightly at Rozanov’s shoulders, like he may leave—like he wasn’t tied to Shane, this tether built between the two of them. Shane’s ass was clinging to Rozanov’s fist as much as Rozanov’s fist was fucking into him.
Rozanov jerked Shane’s cock once, and twice, and suddenly Shane was coming, his cock jerking as every muscle in his body clenched together in a song he didn’t know the tune to. Rozanov groaned into Shane’s mouth, sounding like he was in pain.
Rozanov kept working at Shane, as Shane dug his fingers into Rozanov’s shoulders, unsure of if he’d make it through the night alive. He was so spent, so physically exerted, he couldn’t imagine he’d be able to walk the next day.
Rozanov kept stroking, keeping up even after Shane was finished, his cock spent and come spilt on Rozanov’s fingers. Rozanov slowed, and he brought his free hand to his mouth, lapping at the come there. Shane gasped as Rozanov stuck his tongue out, the come dripping into Shane’s open mouth. Shane swallowed and surged up to kiss Rozanov’s red, red mouth.
Shane could only weakly moan when Rozanov gently pulled his fingers free. Shane was too far gone to do anything other than grab at Rozanov—his arms, his chest, whatever he could get his hands on.
Rozanov leaned down, too keyed up himself to do much more than share breath with Shane. He tugged at himself until he was coming all over the dress. Shane thought to himself the number of loads on his dress would probably equate to how many loads of laundry he’d have to do later. He laughed.
Rozanov buried his head in the empty space between Shane’s head and shoulder, nuzzling at the line of his jaw there.
Rozanov pressed a kiss to Shane’s neck, and Shane felt like he’d lost something, but he wasn’t sure what.