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    The steady, persistent pressure of Rozanov’s thick cock sinking into him is unlike anything Shane has ever felt before. He feels impossibly full, impossibly exposed, but more than that, he feels good.

    Fuck, it’s good.

    It’s so good that he forgets to feel awkward as he begins to rock back into Rozanov’s thrusts. He forgets to feel ashamed as Rozanov draws sounds out of him he didn’t even know he was capable of making. As Rozanov drives him out of his mind and deep into his own body, holds him there, forces him to feel everything and think nothing at all—

    Shane forgets to feel anything but good.

    (In which Shane has a dirty fantasy, and Ilya runs with it.)
     



    “Ah,” Ilya says softly, brushing a finger along the column of Shane’s throat. “Is that what you want, Hollander? To be humiliated?”

    “Yes,” Shane says, the word a guttural moan. “No? I don’t know. Maybe. Fuck.”

    “To be put to good use? To be told what to do?”

    “Yes,” Shane gasps, relieved to be asked a simpler question. “That’s what I want.”

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    12 Jun 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    No one would believe it now, but Ilya Rozanov was a shy kid, prone to tears. Small for his age. An easy target.

    After his mother’s death, he threw himself into hockey. He hit a growth spurt. He started lifting weights, became big and strong. Not as big and strong as his older brother, but big enough to make Alexei and the other bullies think twice. Strong enough to fight back.

    (Or: Five times Ilya has to go home to Russia, and one time he chooses to go home to Shane.)
     



    This isn’t what Ilya had in mind when he figured they’d be spending most of their time at the cottage in bed.

    He throws his arm over his eyes and groans. “I am ruining our time together. I am ruining your time off.”

    “No you’re not,” Shane says. “Are you kidding me? I’ve basically been fantasizing about this.”

    Ilya lowers his arm. “About me puking all over your favorite place on earth?”

    “No, you asshole. About taking care of you.”

    Ilya stares at him.

    Shane says, defensively, “What?”

    “I fantasize about you fucking yourself on boring beige dildo,” Ilya says, voice cracking, “and you fantasize about me being sick at your cottage so you can take care of me?”

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    12 Jun 2026

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    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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    12 Jun 2026

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    Shane leaves that Vegas penthouse suite feeling wretched, and like an idiot, and like he never wants to see Ilya Rozanov again.

    Except, well. Then there are zombies.

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    04 Jun 2026

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    Ilya's on a hotel roof in the middle of the night. The draft is tomorrow, and he can't sleep.

    That's when Shane Hollander appears, but he's somehow thirty-five years old, and acting very friendly... and he's wearing glasses. This must be a dream — mustn't it?

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    02 Jun 2026