Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Having second thoughts?”

Shane followed Rozanov down a hallway lined with numbered doors, each one identical: dark wood, brass fixtures, small plaques bearing only numbers. The carpet beneath his feet absorbed sound, leaving only the ambient throb of music from the main room and the whisper of his own breathing.

And yes, he was having second thoughts.

“No. I’m—” Shane watched Rozanov stop at door seven, and produce a key from his pocket, opening it with a smooth turn of his wrist. “I’m fine.”

“You are also bad liar.” Rozanov fixed him with a look then stepped aside, gesturing Shane in first. “Luckily for you, I like bad liars. They try harder. Is okay be nervous, I am excellent at dealing with men who have no idea what they want. Please, come in.”

Beyond the door, instead of a dungeon there was… oh, that was it? He was a curious person by nature. He had seen porn online and knew about that armory in San Francisco, the one teammates always mentioned like a joke whenever they were in California to play the Sharks. He sort of already knew what Wolfbird was even before he’d stepped inside, and built something specific in his head over how this was supposed to look. It was supposed to be dark with leather restraints and dog collars bolted to the walls, and there were definitely supposed to be muffled sounds of someone in the next room being whipped and called terrible names until they cried or came. Or both, he wondered, wasn’t that the point?

There was nothing like that here.

Shane deflated slightly, taking in the mundane scene: a leather couch stretched along one wall, deep enough to swallow a person whole and a small bathroom door stood ajar to the left. There weren’t any chains dangled from hooks or a pillory or iron maidens or gimp masks hung on display on the walls. The walls weren’t even craggy stone, instead they were a soft off white sort of shade with a few tasteful abstract paintings in muted colors—blues bleeding into grays, pops of gold. Pretty. A side table held bottles of water, a small basket with wrapped condoms and packets of lube, a box of tissues. Everything clean. Everything... normal.

Shane, once again, lingered in the threshold.

“I am thinking this is not what you expected?” Rozanov said from behind him, amused.

Shane turned. Rozanov had closed the door and now leaned against it, arms crossed loosely, hazel eyes catching the light as he watched Shane take in the room.

“A little. But… I don’t know what I expected.”

“Mm. Chains? Leather? Maybe big scary chair with straps and—what are they calling this online—‘romantasy’ book sized dildo? And very dramatic pink-red lighting, yes? You think we are filming Netflix series in here?” Rozanov’s mouth quirked, and he pushed off the door and moved deeper into the room. “We do have these things, but I think not for you tonight. And yes, I see the question in your face again, I hear you thinking how do you know what I need? The answer is I know because, while my English is not always so good, I read very good, Hollander. And you are written in big blocky text even child could read: you are tense. Scary vibrator or shibari rig with ropes would only make you more tense.” Rozanov winked, and gestured at the couch. “Sit. Please. Is more comfortable than standing, I promise.”

Bewildered, Shane sat. The leather exhaled beneath his weight, soft and broken in. He kept his spine straight, hands on his knees like he was waiting in a principal’s office, or in his coach’s office.

Rozanov pulled a chair from the corner—a simple thing, wood and black cushioning—and positioned it across from the couch with a bit of distance between them, slipping into it to sit like he was in detention, and did not care. He reached for a tablet waiting on a small side table, tapping it awake with his thumb.

“So. Before anything else, we talk.” He looked up, hazel eyes catching the amber light. “Is boring part, yes, but is most important. We figure out what you want, what you do not want, what is absolutely ’Rozanov if you try this I will kick you in the balls.’”

Despite himself, Shane huffed a laugh.

“Ah, there. See? You can smile.” Rozanov grinned at him, then pulled up something on the tablet. “Is good sign. Now. I start with easy things. Have you done this before? Any of this? With man, with woman, with anyone?”

“I’ve—” How could he ask things like this so casually?! “I’ve done sex things before.”

“’Sex things.’ This is very specific term.” Rozanov’s mouth twitched. “And by this you are meaning...”

“ In high school, junior hockey. I…” Shane’s face felt like it was on fire, this was well beyond blushing territory. “I’ve, ah, dated… girls… and… once we, ah, I mean I—she let me finger her. Ah, there was… I’ve.. gotten head. Sort of. But that was where we stopped.”

“And so not farther, and not this, not giving up control.”

“No.”

“And not with man before?”

“No.”

Rozanov made a note. “Okay. Is good to know. Means we start very simple, very slow, and we check in often. Yes?”

“... Okay.”

“Now, slightly harder questions, but I think you are smart man, Hollander. You will do fine.” Rozanov met his eyes. “We discuss hard limits first. Things you will not do, no matter what. I ask questions, you say yes or no. Much easier than trying to think of everything yourself.”

The knot in Shane’s chest loosened slightly. “Okay.”

“Pain. Do you want this? Spanking, hitting, things that hurt?”

“No.” The answer came fast, certain.

“Good. I also do not enjoy hurting people, so we agree.” Rozanov made a note. “Being called names? Told you are worthless, ugly, degraded?”

Shane’s stomach clenched. “No. God, no.”

“Also good, because I think you are very attractive and would be lying if I said otherwise.” Rozanov’s thumb moved across the screen. “Other people watching? Public scenes?”

“No.”

“Bondage? Rope, restraints, being tied so you cannot move?”

Shane hesitated. His fingers curled against his jeans. “I... maybe? I don’t know.”

“Then is soft limit. We save for later, if you decide you want to try.” Rozanov glanced up. “You are doing well. Keep going.”

They continued through the list. Rozanov’s questions were direct but never cold—he added small comments between each one, little observations that made the whole thing feel less like an interrogation and more like a conversation. Did Shane want to be penetrated? Eventually, maybe. Fisting? Absolutely not, no thank you, was that a real question or a joke? Did he want to use toys? Maybe. Blindfolds? Maybe. Gags? No.

“And then this is most important thing,” Rozanov said, setting the tablet aside temporarily, “At any point, you want to stop, you say stop. I will stop. Even if we are in middle of something, even if I am—” he waved a hand vaguely and waggled his eyebrows, “—very invested in what we are doing. You say stop, everything stops. Understand?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Good.” Rozanov picked up the tablet again and pulled up a document, turned the screen toward Shane, “Now… here, you sit and review everything in tablet. Is okay if we make changes now. Then, if you are comfortable and feeling safe, you can sign, and we can begin.”

Shane took the tablet. His hands shook slightly.

On the screen, there was an auto populated contract with notes that Rozanov had taken, and the language itself was straightforward—consent, boundaries, discretion. He skimmed it twice, then signed at the bottom. His signature looked like shit.

Rozanov took the tablet back, glanced at the signature, and didn’t comment on it. Instead he pulled a small card reader from his pocket. “I will email you copy for records. And... this part: payment now, before we start. Gets awkward business out of way so we can both forget about it. You saw fee, yes?”

$400 an hour. Yes, he’d seen it, and yes, he could more than afford it. The cost wasn’t the sting, it was that he was paying at all, like some kind of loser that would only ever be able to find solace (maybe) when he paid someone to pretend to care.

Still, Shane pulled out his wallet and handed over his credit card. The reader beeped. Rozanov processed the transaction without looking at the amount, then handed the card back. The transaction took maybe ten seconds.

“There. Business is done.” Rozanov set everything aside—tablet, reader, card—on the side table. When he looked at Shane again, something had shifted. The professional distance remained, but underneath it lived something warmer.

“Is it wrong that I can’t be more specific about what I want?” Shane asked.

“Hm? No. Is your first time like you said, yes? Unless you are a lying liar?”

“W-what? No, I wasn’t lying.”

“Then how could you know? Is why most people come to me, anyway. It is my job to know things. Is easier, sometimes, to let someone else be in charge.” Rozanov leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You spend all day being responsible, being perfect, being what everyone needs. Here, you can stop. Here…” He spread his hands, “you can let go and I will catch you. This is what I am good at.”

“I thought—” Shane’s hands twisted together. “I thought this would be more about pain. Punishment. The stuff you see in movies.”

“So many thoughts, Hollander. How do you have room for self in all those worries? Sometimes, for some people, yes. But this is not what you need.” Rozanov’s fingers stilled on the screen. He looked at Shane directly. “You need something… soft.”

“Soft?”

“Da. Yes.”

“And why do you think that’s what I need?”

Rozanov’s head tipped to the side, and he was smiling again. “Because you are exhausted from deciding and hiding, being Mr. Perfect, and so you will give the decision to me. I take the choice from you, and with it, stress. Is like handing off heavy object to someone else. You take a break.” His accent thickened slightly, “… and… since choice is now mine, I will do what I like with it. I savour these things. And I like being soft, Hollander. Will you let me be soft with you?”

Not can I, but will you let me.

“... yes.”

Rozanov’s smile widened. “Good. Then we start.” He shifted on the couch, angling his body toward Shane. “I want to touch you. Nothing under clothes yet, just—” he reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement, “—I want to feel where you hold all this tension you carry around. May I?”

Shane nodded.

“Words, please.”

“Yes. You can—yes.”

Rozanov’s hand settled on Shane’s shoulder, thumb finding the knot of muscle there immediately. He pressed in, and Shane’s breath stuttered. Okay so… a massage? A Professional Dom wanted to give him a massage? This was probably just him being slow, realizing that Shane was nervous and out of his depth, and in a moment, things would switch up. They’d agreed no pain, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t get bossed around. That’s what Doms did, right? Rozanov would tell him to kneel, probably. Or strip. Something to prove he could follow directions the way he followed his coach's plays or calls or how a photographer might tell him to turn this way or that to smile for cameras, or the way he never fucked up in front of sponsors. There had to be a test. A way to show he was doing this right.

“Bozhe moy, Hollander. You are like stone here.” Rozanov’s other hand joined the first, both working into Shane’s shoulders through the fabric of his sweater. “When was last time someone touched you? Really touched you?”

Shane opened his mouth but nothing came—the answer buried somewhere too deep to reach, or maybe there wasn’t one at all. He certainly couldn’t remember or even fake a response and it must’ve shown on his stupid face.

“Mm. Too long.” Rozanov’s fingers moved in slow, firm circles. “Turn. Face forward, let me get behind you.”

Shane shifted, and Rozanov moved behind him on the couch with thighs bracketing Shane’s hips without quite touching. Rozanov’s legs were long, elegant even, Shane noticed. They were also muscular, meaty thighs like his own, the kind built on years of brutal skating drills in cold rinks from Burnaby to Brossard. Ones that were used to hard work and endurance. Shane wondered what a man like Rozanov, who wasn’t paid to murder himself at practice or in professional sports, did to maintain that physique, what he—

The thoughts fluttered away as Rozanov’s hands settled on Shane’s shoulders properly, and when they pressed in with intention, working the tense flesh beneath in earnest, and Shane… Shane was still scrambling to find the moment when the shoe would drop and Rozanov would really tell him to do something beyond how to sit—now you do this for me, now you earn it—but Rozanov just kept working down his spine, fingers pressing into every locked joint. He asked about Shane's tension, about the weather, about the knots under his skin. His hands stayed focused on Shane's body, learning it, loosening it.

This was it. This was the whole thing.

“Breathe,” Rozanov said, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted against Shane’s ear. “In through nose, out through mouth. Slow.”

Shane tried. His shoulders wanted to creep back up toward his ears. Was this how things were supposed to work? People always needed things from him. The league needed a role model. Sponsors needed a clean image. Even that girl after prom had needed him to wear a specific cologne that she liked and buy a specific kind of flower for her corsage. Everyone always needed something from him.

Rozanov apparently just needed Shane to sit still and breathe.

“No, no. Drop shoulders now with exhale. Like this.” Rozanov pressed down gently, coaxing. “I know you think you must hold everything up, must be strong always, but not here. Let shoulders fall, let me hold weight instead—I am strong enough to handle. Try again.”

Shane breathed in. Let it out. His shoulders dropped maybe half an inch.

“Better. This is better.” Rozanov worked the knots systematically, patient and thorough. His thumbs dug into the meat of Shane’s shoulders, found every place Shane had been clenching without realizing. “You play hockey, yes? You take many hits?”

“Yeah.”

“I can tell. Your body hoarding them all right here.” Rozanov’s hands moved up to Shane’s neck, fingers pressing into the base of his skull. “But we teach it to let go. Is possible, even for you.”

“... Rozanov?”

“Yes?”

“What… does a back and neck massage have to do with you being a Dom?”

“Everything. You are my plaything, Hollander, and my game is currently to help you feel very good. So sit. Behave. Tilt head forward.”

Shane’s head tipped forward. He couldn’t help it. The pressure of Rozanov’s fingers against his scalp sent something loose and warm spreading down his spine.

“Good,” Rozanov murmured. “Stay just like this.”

His fingers worked into Shane’s hair, massaging slow circles. Shane’s eyes closed. A sound escaped him—something between a sigh and a groan—and he would’ve been embarrassed except Rozanov made an approving hum.

“You like this?”

“Yeah.”

“Then tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

Shane’s face felt like it was on fire. “It feels good. Your hands. When you—when you touch there.”

“Where? Here?” Rozanov’s fingers pressed into a spot behind Shane’s ear.

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Very good, Hollander. Being very good for me.”

Shane shivered, the rumbling ‘r’ on the tip of Rozanov’s tongue settling horribly, wonderfully, against his skin. Feeling the frisson of his voice, Shane felt himself exhale as something tight and deep in his chest unlatched. He hadn’t even noticed the knot was there at all.

Rozanov noticed everything, it seemed. His hands stilled for a moment. “Ah. You like that too? When I tell you that you are doing well.” His fingers resumed their work, moving from Shane’s scalp down to his neck again, his shoulders. “This is useful thing to know. I like giving praise, and you are starving for it. Is good match.”

He was starving, dying, for it, even Shane knew this about himself when he barely could identify any of his own feelings. Shane worked himself into the ground every practice, every game, and the best he usually got was a nod from his coach or his mother saying good, but you can do better!

“You are doing so well right now, Hollander.” Rozanov’s thumbs worked down Shane’s spine, pressing through the fabric.

Shane’s breath came shorter. His whole body had gone loose and heavy under Rozanov’s hands, muscles giving up their tension piece by piece.

“Turn around,” Rozanov said softly. “Come here. Look at me.”

Shane turned. Rozanov had shifted back to give him room, was watching him with those goddamn eyes, patient and warm. He reached up and cupped Shane’s chin.

“I want to kiss you,” Rozanov said. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

Rozanov smiled and leaned in.

The kiss was nothing like Shane expected. Gentle. Exploring. Rozanov’s mouth moved against his like he had all the time in the world, like he was savoring something rare. His hand stayed on Shane’s chin, thumb stroking Shane’s cheekbone, while his other hand settled on Shane’s hip.

Shane kissed back and tried not to think about technique, about whether he was doing it right, but Rozanov made a soft approving sound and deepened the kiss slightly, and Shane stopped thinking at all.

When they broke apart, Shane was breathing hard.

“More?” Rozanov asked.

Shane nodded, then remembered. “Yes. More.”

“Good.” Rozanov kissed him again, deeper this time. His hand slid from Shane’s chin into his hair, fingers curling, angling Shane’s head exactly where he wanted it. The control was subtle but absolute. Shane followed the pressure, let Rozanov guide him, and felt something in his chest crack open.

They kissed until Shane forgot about the time, the room, everything except Rozanov’s mouth and the warm pressure of his hands. When Rozanov finally pulled back, Shane made an involuntary sound of protest.

Rozanov’s mouth curved. “Easy. We take our time, yes?” His gaze dropped to Shane’s lap, then back up. “You are enjoying this.”

Shane followed his gaze and flushed. He was hard, straining against his jeans, obvious and undeniable.

“No, don’t hide.” Rozanov’s hand returned to Shane’s face, turned it back toward him. “This is good. This is what I want to see.” His thumb traced Shane’s bottom lip. “And I like what I am seeing, Hollander. Do you want more than kissing?”

Shane’s mind had gone hazy, slow. “I—yes.”

Rozanov’s fingers found the hem of Shane’s sweater. “Then this is in my way. Can you remove for me?” His hand dropped away, giving Shane space. “Is okay say no, as reminder.”

Reminder or not, Shane sucked in a breath, nodding anyway. He pulled his charcoal sweater up and over his head, reaching back behind him to tug at the expensive fabric, and let it fall carelessly beside him. As soon as it thumped to the floor, Rozanov’s hands were back on him, hot and skimming down Shane’s sides, feeling the cotton shirt beneath as he leaned in to kiss him again, indulging in the soft press of their lips.

Shane’s head was spinning. “I—this off too.”

Rozanov hummed and kissed at his jugular, slowing things down to an agonizing stall.

“You are smart man, Hollander. You can do better than that.”

“I want… shit, I want you to take this off too, please.”

“Kak khochesh’. And for record, I agree, this here is still too many layers.” He kissed Shane again, deeper this time, while his fingers worked at Shane’s shirt buttons. One. Two. Three. Each one opened while Rozanov’s tongue explored Shane’s mouth, dividing Shane’s attention until he couldn’t track which sensation to focus on.

Rozanov pulled back just long enough to push the shirt open, baring Shane’s chest. His palm settled over Shane’s heart. “I can feel how fast this is beating.”

Shane couldn’t form words yet.

“Come here. Closer,” Rozanov said softly. “Let me see you.”

Shane shifted closer. Rozanov’s hand went to the back of his neck again, pulling him into another kiss, and this time when Shane gasped Rozanov swallowed the sound. His other hand traced down Shane’s bare ribs, his hip, his thigh, mapping him with touches that made Shane’s skin burn.

“Is okay for you to touch me, Hollander. I am not fragile.”

Shane realized, distantly, that his hands were still in his lap, near his knees, the way they’d been at the booth and before. He hadn’t even noticed until Rozanov pointed it out, far too busy cataloging every place Rozanov touched him, mapping the heat of those palms through his skin.

“...right, sorry.”

“Why apologize? No need. I am telling you is okay.”

Swallowing, somehow still unsure, Shane’s fingers lifted, hesitated in the air between them. Rozanov waited, eyes tracking the movement until Shane’s palm settled against Rozanov’s shoulder. The muscle beneath the black shirt was solid, warm through the fabric. He felt like a fucking tree trunk, solid and immovable and strength coiled in on itself. He traced along the curve, feeling the muscles there, then slid his hand across Rozanov’s collarbone to the other shoulder.

Rozanov’s eyes closed. A low, pleased hum floated past his lips.

“Da, like that,” he murmured. His hand covered Shane’s, pressed it firmer against him. “See? I like this too.”

Emboldened, Shane’s other hand joined the first. He explored the breadth of Rozanov’s shoulders, the slope of his chest, the lean lines of his waist. Rozanov’s breathing deepened. When Shane’s thumb accidentally grazed his nipple through the shirt, it was a breathy moan that tumbled out of Rozanov.

“You are learning fast, Hollander, I like that.” Rozanov’s mouth found his again, kissing him deeply while Shane’s hands continued their exploration. “Do you want my mouth on you?” Rozanov asked against Shane’s lips. “In other places?”

Shane whited out for a second. What?

“Hollander.” Rozanov pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “I need you to answer.”

“I—yeah. Yeah.”

“I am thinking I dislike this ‘yeah’ from you, Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes snapped to Rozanov’s wide with a split second of panic, which was rubbed away by one of his thumbs rubbing a small circle against the back of his neck. “I mean yes.”

“Yes what?” Rozanov’s hand settled on Shane’s thigh, high enough that his thumb could brush the crease where leg met hip through the fabric. “I want to hear you say it. Can you do that for me?”

Shane stared at him. At the patient expectation in Rozanov’s face, the lack of judgment or mockery. Just waiting.

“Will you—” Shane’s voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “Please.”

“No, not quite Hollander. I need you to ask me nicely to put my mouth on you.”

“W-will you… put your mouth on me?”

When Rozanov didn’t immediately praise him, Shane realized his mistake:

“Rozanov, will you put your mouth on me please.”

Rozanov’s smile was slow and devastating. “Yes, khorosho, good boy. I will.”

Before Shane could ask what that word in Russian meant or process that good boy, Rozanov was pulling him forward and up, hauling Shane’s weight like it was nothing, like Shane didn’t clock in at two hundred pounds of muscle and bone. Shane’s knees hit the couch on either side of Rozanov’s thighs, and suddenly he was straddling him, perched in his lap with nowhere to look except directly at those bright hazel eyes.

“How did you—” Shane’s hands had automatically gone to Rozanov’s shoulders for balance. “I’m not exactly light.”

“You think I cannot handle you?” Rozanov’s palms settled on Shane’s lower back, steadying him. “I am very strong, Hollander. And you...” His gaze dragged down Shane’s body, then back up. “You are exactly right where I want you.”

Rozanov kissed him again, deeper now, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Shane’s skull. His mouth moved from Shane’s lips to his jawline, down the column of his neck. Shane’s head tilted back automatically, giving him access, and felt Rozanov’s teeth graze his skin.

His hips rocked forward—an unconscious movement, seeking friction. The moment he realized what he’d done, embarrassment overflowed, spreading pink to his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“No.” Rozanov’s hands tightened on his hips, holding him in place. “Do not apologize for wanting. You apologize for this again, I start charging you extra per ‘sorry.’ I will be rich by end of night. This is good, Hollander.” He guided Shane’s hips forward again, letting him feel the hard line of Rozanov’s own arousal through their jeans. “See? You are not alone in this.”

Shane’s breath hitched.

“Is allowed,” Rozanov said against his skin, kissing along his collarbone. It was hard to think, and Rozanov continued to lavish affection along his jugular. “Is encouraged. I want to feel how much you need this.”

And… so he moved.

Shane’s hips moved again, tentative this time, testing. The friction sent sparks up his spine and he did it again, rolling forward against Rozanov’s lap. Awkward at first—his rhythm uncertain, not sure how much was too much—but Rozanov’s hands tightened on his hips, encouraging, helping to drag him forward or back and always closer closer closer.

“Da, like that.” Rozanov’s head tipped back slightly, eyes half-lidded. “You feel how hard you make me?”

He did. The thick line of Rozanov’s cock pressed against his own through layers of denim, and every roll of Shane’s hips dragged them together. He found a rhythm that made his breath catch, made his fingers dig into Rozanov’s shoulders for leverage.

“Good, Hollander. Taking what you need.” Rozanov’s mouth found his neck again, teeth grazing. “Do not stop.”

Rozanov’s mouth moved down Shane’s skin, drfiting across his collarbone, devouring him as Shane rode his lap. “Does that feel good? Could you come like this, Hollander?”

“I don’t—ah—know.”

“Mm. I think you could. I know you could. We can do that.” The Russian’s hand traced down Shane’s ribs, his stomach, stopped at the waistband of his jeans, fingers tracing the edge above his belt loops before hooking one with his thumb and tugging gently. “Is very nice just kissing you, Hollander, having you like this for me. Or I can help you with these too,” he tugged the beltloop again, “And touch you properly.”

Shane’s response was a breathy thing along the lines of yes, I want that, I want you to touch me properly, but everything in his ears was white water noise now. Thankfully Rozanov seemed to be understanding.

“Then help me. Undo them.”

It was awkward while straddling his lap. Shane’s fingers fumbled with the button in the front, popped it open, and no sooner had he done so, Rozanov’s hand had covered his, helping to coax down the zipper. It was loud, when had clothing ever been so loud? Together they pushed the denim down Shane’s thighs, shimmying to accommodate since he was spread out and over Rozanov’s own legs. His palm dragged up Shane’s thigh afterward, traced the edge of his boxers, then pressed against the hard outline beneath the fabric.

Shane’s head fell back. The pressure was perfect and not enough all at once.

“So responsive,” Rozanov murmured. He kissed Shane’s sternum, his ribs, working his way down while his hand continued its slow, torturous friction. “And so hard for me already. More?”

“Yes, more, please Rozanov—”

Rozanov pulled the fabric of his boxers lower, just enough to get them out of the way, and the cool air hit Shane’s overheated skin as his cock sprang forward.

“Look at you,” Rozanov said, taking him in hand with little fanfare, the callouses of his palms on sensitive skin already enough to drive Shane mad. His other hand slid lower, cupping Shane’s balls, rolling them gently. It was unfair how good it all felt just to be touched.

“Bozhe. My my. Goodness, Hollander, you are dying for it.”

Shane’s face burned. Suddenly he felt very, very, naked even though some of his clothes were still on, alarmed by the flush of his own blushing cock, the needy bead of clear pre-cum welling out of the little slit which Rozanov was quick to press against with his thumb.

“I—”

“Is not insult. Is wonderful. I am very flattered.” Rozanov said, “You have been needing this for so long.”

Shane couldn’t argue because Rozanov was right. His whole body felt like it was on a live wire, desperate, aching for touch in a way that went beyond tonight. Tomorrow, he’d be horrifically embarrassed by the whine that tumbled out of him.

“Sensitive here?” Rozanov’s thumb rubbed across the tight skin, then his fingers pressed behind his sac, ghosting just past that most vulnerable part, finding a spot that made Shane’s thighs twitch. “Mm. Yes, very sensitive. I will remember this.”

Rozanov reached for something on the side table. Shane heard a cap snap open, then Rozanov’s hand returned, warm and slick with lube as he worked it over his palm. Cool air hit Shane’s overheated skin for a moment before Rozanov’s hand wrapped around his cock.

Shane’s hips rocked forward into Rozanov’s fist automatically, chasing the friction, and Rozanov let him, hand moving in steady strokes that had Shane gasping. The lube made everything wet and lush and smooth, and Rozanov’s callused palm dragged against sensitive skin in a way that made Shane’s thighs shake.

“That’s it. Show me how much you want this.” Rozanov’s free hand gripped Shane’s hip, guiding his rhythm. “You can take what you need. I have you.”

Shane’s breath came in short gasps. He was close already—embarrassingly close—wound too tight for too long and now everything was unraveling under Rozanov’s hands.

“Close?” Rozanov asked, his hand slowing to a torturous rhythm.

“Yeah—yes, I’m—”

Rozanov’s hand stilled completely. Shane made a sound of protest, opened his eyes to find Rozanov watching him intensely.

“You are very beautiful, Hollander.”

Shane’s brain short-circuited.

“I want to taste you,” Rozanov said. “Will you let me? My mouth instead?”

“You—what?”

“My mouth, Hollander. Here.” Rozanov stroked his cock achingly slowly, squeezing for emphasis. “Would you like that?”

“I—yes. Yes.”

“Good.” Rozanov’s palm pressed against Shane’s chest, guiding him backward until Shane’s shoulders hit the couch cushions. “Lay back. Get comfortable.”

Shane sank into the leather, boneless already. Rozanov shifted between his knees, one hand sliding up Shane’s thigh while the other worked Shane’s jeans and boxers lower still, giving himself more room. He glanced up once more, checking.

“Still yes?”

“Rozanov I swear if—” Shane nodded, then caught himself. “Yes. Please—”

“You can close your eyes if you want,” Rozanov answered by kissing the skin above Shane’s knee, giving him permission and more importantly options. He pressed another kiss to the inside of Shane’s thigh, then another higher up, teasing every area as he went. Shane’s breath caught. Another kiss, this one to his hip bone, and then Rozanov’s hand wrapped around the base of Shane’s cock, steadying it for his singular attention. “Or you can watch. Is up to you.”

You can look. Don’t look. Both are okay. Rozanov had already decided it was fine, and so it was. And wasn’t that fine, wasn’t that—oh fuck—wasn’t that magic, a revelation, how another secret lock just clunked open beaneath the cage of Shane’s ribs?

Then Rozanov’s mouth was on him and Shane’s head fell back against the couch.

Wet. Tight. Perfect. Shane bit back a swear, blinking sightlessly. Rozanov’s tongue worked along the underside of his shaft, traced the ridge of the head, and Shane’s hands fisted in the leather beneath him. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Rozanov!”

He’d had this before, technically. Not really. Almost. Awkward fumbling in the back of someone’s car after prom, a girl who’d tried for maybe thirty seconds before giving up and he was too much of a coward to ask why and even more of a coward since he didn’t want to examine why even those thirty seconds had done nothing for him. But this was nothing like that. Rozanov took him deeper, hollowed his cheeks, set a rhythm that had Shane gasping, chest heaving, stars behind his eyes. Shane risked a glance down, catching those fucking devil eyes peering back at him, drinking in every gasp, every shudder—and adjusting accordingly.

“Fuck,” Shane breathed. His hips jerked forward before he could stop them, driving deeper, and he was trapped, transfixed, helpless to do nothing but watch the wet plunge of his cock sliding past rosy lips, shining for a moment, covered in spit, before vanishing once more. This was another man kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those damnable devil eyes, plush lips stretched around his cock to savour and… and how was he taking him so deep? Sucking him down like it was nothing, like it was easy, like he needed too.

Rozanov’s hands pressed his hips back down to the couch, firm but not rough, holding him in place. The control of it—being held still while Rozanov did exactly what he wanted—sent sparks up Shane’s spine. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but take it, feel Rozanov’s mouth sliding up and down his length, tongue pressing and swirling.

Rozanov pulled off for a moment, hand replacing his mouth, stroking. “You taste good, Hollander.” Then he took Shane back in, deeper this time, and Shane felt the back of Rozanov’s throat.

“Rozanov, I’m—” Shane’s voice broke off. “I’m gonna—”

Rozanov didn’t pull away. His hands tightened on Shane’s hips, a clear message: I’ve got you. Let go. His mouth worked faster, tongue pressing against the sensitive spot just under the head, and Shane shattered.

He came with a choked-off sound, hips straining against Rozanov’s hold. The release shuddered through him in waves that left him gasping and shaking and completely undone. Rozanov swallowed, pulled off slowly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looked up at Shane with eyes that were too satisfied, too knowing.

“Good,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “That was perfect, Hollander. You were perfect.”

Shane couldn’t form words yet. His whole body felt like it had been taken apart and put back together differently—loose and heavy and emptied out in a way that didn’t hurt.

Rozanov stood, pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple. “Stay. I will be right back.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Shane heard water running. He sat there trying to remember how his lungs worked, how his hands worked, how any part of him worked. His legs felt like water.

Rozanov returned with a damp cloth and crouched in front of Shane. The cloth was warm against Shane’s skin as Rozanov wiped him clean—stomach first, then thighs, thorough without rushing. His free hand rested on Shane’s knee, thumb rubbing small circles there.

“You okay?” Rozanov asked, glancing up.

Shane nodded, then remembered. “Yeah. I’m—” He stopped himself before he could say fine again. “Yes, I’m good. Really good.”

“Good.” Rozanov’s hands went to Shane’s shirt, still hanging open. “Arms back through for me.”

Shane tried to shrug the shirt back onto his shoulders properly, but his hands were shaking too much to manage the buttons. He fumbled with the first one twice before making a frustrated sound.

“Here.” Rozanov took over, working from bottom to top. When he reached the collar he smoothed it down, let his hands rest on Shane’s shoulders for a moment.

“There. Better.”

“Thanks.” Shane’s voice came out rough. “I, uh—” He tried for humor and landed somewhere in the vicinity of awkward. “So is this where you give me a punch card? Ten sessions, get one free?”

Rozanov’s hands stilled. He looked up, bright eyes meeting Shane’s directly.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make this less than it was. Turn it into joke.” Rozanov picked up Shane’s jeans, shook them out, handed them over. “I am not shitty coffee shop loyalty card. You do not get tenth orgasm free. Is allowed for you to feel things, Hollander. You do not need to make yourself small with humor.”

Shane looked at the floor, took the jeans, pulled them on while Rozanov waited. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Rozanov said quietly. “Trusting me with this.”

“I should be thanking you, I think.”

“Boring, but fine: we both say thank you and leave it there.” Rozanov stood, offered his hand. Shane took it and let himself be pulled to his feet. Rozanov handed him a bottle of water from the side table. “Drink, and all of it.”

“I think I’d rather have more of the whiskey.”

“No, no more whiskey tonight for you Hollander,” Rozanov said, “You will have that water, and you will finish it, and I will be checking. Then we sit until your cab arrives.”

“I’m fine, I can call a cab.”

“Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice was firm but not unkind. “I will call cab for you. You will drink water and sit with me until it arrives, and I will walk you out and see you sit in it before driver whisks you away back home to confirmed address. This is not negotiable.”

Something in Shane eased at being told what to do. At not having to make even that small choice.

“Okay.”

They settled back on the couch together, Rozanov angled sideways so he could see Shane’s face. He asked easy questions—nothing that required real thought. How long had Shane been in Montreal? Did he like the city? What was his favorite thing about playing hockey?

Shane answered in fragments, still too loose and floaty to manage full sentences. Rozanov didn’t seem to mind. He kept up the conversation with the occasional observation or story about Montreal, his accent thickening slightly as he relaxed.

“You have color back in your face now,” Rozanov said after a few minutes. “Is good sign. You were very pale before.”

“Was I?”

“Da. I was worried maybe I broke you.” Rozanov grinned. “But no, you are still in one piece. Very relaxed one piece.”

“I don’t remember the last time I felt like this.”

“Like what?”

Shane struggled for the word. “Quiet. In my head. Everything’s usually so loud.”

Rozanov’s face softened. “Easier to be when not so many thoughts, isn’t it?”

He glanced at his phone when it buzzed. “Ah. Cab is nearly outside; two minutes away.” He stood and offered Shane his hand. “Come. We get your things.”

Shane let himself be pulled to his feet. His legs felt steadier now, but Rozanov kept a hand at his elbow as they walked down the short hallway to the front desk anyway.

Aimée looked up and smiled. “Did you have a good evening, Mr. Hollander?”

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

“Wonderful.” She tapped at her screen. “Can I have your pin code?”

Shane rattled off the numbers. She retrieved his phone, watch, and coat from locker twenty-three, setting them on the polished desk between them. His phone lit up immediately—three missed texts from J.J. and two more from his mother. He shoved it in his pocket without reading them, reaching for the watch next.

Rozanov took the coat before Shane could. He held it open, waiting. “Arms.”

Shane turned and slipped his arms through the sleeves. Rozanov tugged the leather up onto his shoulders, then moved around to face him. His fingers found the zipper, drew it up slowly, and Shane fought the need to shiver. When he reached the top, Rozanov straightened the collar, his knuckles brushing Shane’s skin.

“There. Wrapped back up nice and cozy.”

“The cab’s just arrived, have a safe trip home Mr. Hollander,” Aimée said from the desk, still smiling.

“I will, thank you.” Shane turned to Rozanov. They stood in the entryway with cold air leaking in from outside. Shane didn’t know what to say. Thank you felt insufficient. See you later felt presumptuous. That was incredible felt like too much.

“You will text me when you get home safe,” Rozanov said, saving him from having to find words.

“I don’t have your…”

“Yes, you do.” Rozanov reached into his pocket and pulled out a card—matte black with silver lettering. Just a phone number, nothing else. He pressed it into Shane’s palm, folded Shane’s fingers around it.

“And so you will text me when you get home safe,” Rozanov said. “Yes?”

“I—yeah.”

“Hollander…”

“Yes. I will.”

“Good.” Rozanov pushed open the heavy door, and the cold rushed in to meet them. The cab sat idling at the curb, exhaust pluming white in the frigid air. Rozanov walked Shane to it, one hand at the small of his back, and opened the rear door.

Shane hesitated at the threshold, turning back. “Rozanov, I—”

“No long goodbyes in the cold, kotyonok. Russians do not do this.” Rozanov’s hand pressed gently between Shane’s shoulder blades, guiding him into the warmth of the cab. “Do not forget to text me.”

Shane ducked into the backseat. Rozanov leaned down, one hand on the door frame, and smiled at him through the open door; that same lopsided curve that had undone Shane all night.

“Now go, before you freeze out here like lost puppy. Goodnight, Hollander.”

The door closed with a solid thunk. Through the window, Shane watched Rozanov step back onto the curb, hands shoved in his pockets, breath fogging the air. He stood there until the cab pulled away, watching.

The cab driver didn’t try to make conversation, which Shane appreciated because he wasn’t sure he could manage it. Over the radio a voice murmured low in French, and despite being fluent the words washed over him rather than sank into sense. He stared out the window at the passing streetlights, at Saint-Catherine sliding past, and felt the phantom pressure of Rozanov’s hands on him still. His shoulders. His chin. His hips.

He’d expected to feel embarrassed once he left. Ashamed, maybe. The weight of what he’d done—paid someone to touch him, to make him feel good—settling in.

Instead he felt settled. Quiet in a way he hadn’t been in months. Something that had been vibrating wrong inside his chest had finally clicked into the right frequency.

The driver pulled up to Shane’s building, an old high-rise with the river little more than a dark strip beyond, pulling up near the sidewalk beside snowbanks streaked gray with slush. Shane tapped his card on the reader, muttered a merci, bonne nuit, and stepped out into the cold, took the elevator up to his floor where his unit was… then remembered that this entire floor was his unit, unlocked the door, and went straight to the bathroom. He stood under the shower spray for a long time, hot enough to turn his speckled skin pink. His muscles felt like they had skated a full sixty minutes at the Bell Centre and then done bag skates.

And… he stood there, trying to process what had happened.

He’d gone to a sex club. Signed a waiver. Paid someone to—

No. That wasn’t right. Wasn’t it? Was it?

Thinking felt like walking through 3 ft of snow. It was easier to stay in this softer, floatier feeling. He didn’t want to think, anyway.

Too many thoughts.

When the water started to cool, Shane got out. Dried off. Crawled into bed still damp and picked up his phone.

One text from Hayden asking if he’d gotten home okay. Thankfully there weren’t any more texts from J.J or his mother and... oh right, he needed to text Rozanov. Right.

His thumbs were clunky as he typed out the message. Then another. And a third.

Shit.

Shane set his phone on the nightstand with a sigh. He expected to lie awake for an hour like he usually did, brain spinning through tomorrow’s practice schedule and whether he’d answered his mother’s texts correctly and if he should’ve said something different to Rozanov at the door.

Instead, he was asleep in minutes.

Ilya walked back through the hallway, up the steps, through the door, and emerged back into the main room. Wolfbird had, after all his time, almost started to feel like a second home, a pocket of warm light under downtown Montreal that kept the winter of Moscow, ever reaching for him still, from ever touching. He knew every corner and shadow and secretive alcove here. The people here, both staff and patrons, almost knew him. He was almost himself (usually) and as always… Ilya excelled at giving and he never had to pretend to be less.

The club had filled up while he’d been occupied—bodies pressed close at the bar, bass thrumming through the floor, conversations rising and falling in overlapping waves. It would be a busy night, which was good for business. Voices buzzed in French all around him. Fast. Casual. Effortless. He could follow half the words if he chased them, but the rest slipped past him like fish. Frustrating, but he was accustomed to it now. Startlingly few people spoke Russian here, and he was still learning English, much less French on top of it.

In Russian, he had poetry.

In English, he had whatever scraps survived crossing the ocean.

The hard part was that, in English, Ilya always sounded like he’d run his mouth through gravel first. Canada had welcomed him the way a casino welcomes a man with good luck. They took his money, his body, his accent, and let him stay. This was what counted as a future and while he was grateful for it, this escape, in this city he was always arriving half a sentence late, and he saw assumptions descend. Stupid. Immigrant who doesn’t know how things work. Even worse: criminal.

Though… They weren’t entirely wrong about the last part.

Yes, there had been a time when he had been desperate enough, lonely enough, to make choices no one would be proud of.

But that was fine. Most people were not like this. Most people, he was foolish enough to still believe, were good. The rotten ones could think what they wanted, and Ilya knew he was not the over-worn ‘Russian criminal’ from old movies. And here if he kept his mouth, and the mouths of others, busy in other ways, the damnation never came.

Svetlana spotted him immediately. She set down the glass she’d been polishing.

“How’d it go?” She asked him in Russian.

“Fine,” he answered back, slipping into the comfortable familiarity of his mother tongue. That was the truth, but Ilya was still a good liar. ‘Fine’ did not encompass the whole of him, all the colors in his head.

“Mm-hmm.” Svetlana pulled a tumbler from beneath the bar, poured two fingers of whiskey without asking, slid it across to him. “You look tired, sweetheart. Here.”

Ilya took it but didn’t drink yet. He wasn’t actually tired, not really. Or he was, but not in the usual way. The work never tired his body, only his mind, the way wanting so much and never quite getting, even when surrounded by excess, did.

No price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.

Owning yourself was supposed to be freedom, Ilya recalled Nietzsche’s empty promises. He forgot to mention it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff with no one holding the railing.

There were thoughts. And just as he told his clients, too many of them made it hard to just be. Ilya, lately, was made of many thoughts, but his work provided a lucrative, if not selfishly enjoyable, escape for a time. Most sessions left him satisfied in a professional sense: problem identified, solution provided, client happy. Clean. Efficient. Done. They also left him satisfied in a sexual sense: Ilya loved being touched, any kind of connection. There would never be enough love, enough touch, enough to fill him whole, and so he sought it out. He had long accepted that desire was the only currency he would ever be rich in.

Besides, Ilya was good at it. Sex. Fucking. He felt good. There was a simple symmetry in that, and most nights, even before he’d started this professionally, had been spent chasing lovers just like this, but… none had been like this.

Shane Hollander—the Shane Hollander, number twenty-four, Cosmopolitan’s hottest man in the NHL, Canada’s golden boy with the stars in his skin and weight of galaxies on his shoulders—had walked into Wolfbird drawn so thin, under so much tension, Ilya thought he might snap. And when he’d finally let go...

Ilya had seen people cry during sessions. Had seen them laugh, shake, go boneless with relief. But Shane had looked at him like Ilya had just handed him something he’d been dying for without knowing he needed it. Like he’d been drowning and Ilya had pulled him up for air.

That look was still lodged in Ilya’s chest, knocking against his bones. And it had felt good, very good, even in his own experienced standards. Hollander had needed to stop there, and Ilya had no qualms with ending a session without being pleased himself if it was the right thing to do but…

It was… a tantalizing prospect to let his mind wander down corridors where he could allow himself to be selfish. Hollander’s lips had been very soft.

“More people came in while you were back there,” Svetlana said, nodding toward the room. They usually spoke Russian with one another like this as they made their schemes and plans. “There’s a cute couple in the corner booth. Guy at the bar keeps glancing this way. You want me to ask if they’re interested?”

Ilya opened his mouth to say yes. He always said yes. He’d just made $800 in two hours and could easily double, if not triple, that before closing. More money always meant fewer problems, and so Ilya always said yes, he always would take another client. He always wanted to feel more, to be wanted more, to need and be needed in those moments, more.

But…

“I will take a break tonight,” Ilya heard himself say. The fucking Shane Hollander would be a difficult act to follow for anyone, and he was distracted enough that it might be noticeable to other clients. If Svetlana noticed something, others might too. It was unacceptable to be anything but focused with clients. “Dimitri can see them if they want.”

Svetlana blinked. “You’re turning down clients? Are you feeling alright?”

“I am fine. Just—” Ilya shrugged, took a sip of the whiskey. “As you said, it was a long session. I need food and a cigarette and maybe to sit down for bit before next one.”

“You want me to grab you something from the kitchen? Or I can swing by your place later with leftovers. I made too much pelmeni again.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Ilya set the glass down. “I will just go home early tonight. Dimitri needs more practice anyway.”

Ilya pulled out his phone to check the time and saw a message on the screen:

Cute. And very Canadian. Hollander was sweet, and it made him want to bite at his neck as much as it made him want to never see him again. Still… Ilya paused, staring at the screen a moment. Most clients said thanks the way you thank a waiter. He knew, reasonably, that this had meant more to Shane.

He saved the number to his contacts (initals only, always), and typed back a response:

Svetlana had a similar message for him:

“Go home and rest Ilyusha,” she said, squeezing his arm and drawing him back to the present. “I’ll tell Aimée you’re done for the night.”

“Thank you.” Ilya drained the rest of the whiskey and headed for the door.

Outside, the wet Montreal cold sank through wool and leather, biting through his jacket. He walked toward the nearest STM entrance, hands in his pockets, breath fogging the air above the shoveled-out snowbanks with Shane’s text still glowing behind his eyes, and then… there was the rest of him. He hadn’t been joking or lying in the session: it’d felt good for him too. It was Ilya’s job to make his clients feel amazing, and it was a nice perk that he also got to enjoy himself but… it would be a lie to say that Ilya hadn’t been mesmerized by the way those freckled hands hesitated to move, to touch, and then their slow exploration of skin, soft and excited. Hollander had been worried about him not enjoying himself which wasn’t necessary, but… certainly appreciated.

Hollander’s face in the dim room, softly illuminated by the lamp glow, brushed with gold and shadow. That sculpted body. Freckles dusted his cheeks like stardust. And his mouth, swollen from Ilya’s kisses. He was beautiful.

He was… perhaps… never coming back again. That happened sometimes.

That was fine, Ilya reminded himself. Hollander was another client who would either come back or he wouldn’t.

Winter always took what it wanted.

But as he descended into the nearest metro station, Ilya had thoughts. So many thoughts. He looked to his left, to his right, and finding no one pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket to smoke.

Too many thoughts.