Chapter Text
Rozanov watched Shane with an expression that was far too knowing to be anything but dangerous.
“You make such a show of pretending to dislike this,” he said lightly. “Yet you waited here alone.”
“I was not waiting for you,” Shane replied, refusing to make eye contact. He sat down heavily on the bench, frustrated with himself for having given in to his desires.
“No,” Rozanov agreed, taking a step closer, his shoes crunching against the gravel. “You are waiting for quiet. I merely follow wherever you go.”
Shane let out a sharp breath through his nose. “You always speak to provoke.”
“I like when you lose patience,” Rozanov shrugged. “It is one of your few indulgences.”
Shane rose abruptly, closing the small distance between them before he could think better of it. “You have needled me all evening,” he said, low and furious. “You interrupted my conversations, undermined my manners, and very nearly drew far too much attention to us.”
Rozanov’s gaze dropped briefly to Shane’s mouth, then back to his eyes. “And yet you danced,” he said. “You smiled. You behaved precisely as expected.”
“Someone must,” Shane snapped.
“Must they?” Rozanov murmured. “Or is it simply easier to pretend you are still the same careful man you were last Season?”
“What do you even want from me?” Shane demanded. “You left after last Season, without a word I might add, and now you will only acknowledge me in public by teasing me and stealing Lady Rose’s attention– stealing everyone’s attention.”
“I want you to suck my cock again,” Rozanov said, bluntly.
A frisson of lust shot through Shane, followed immediately by anger. He glared at Rozanov, eyes narrowed. “Truly?” he bit out. “Instead, you should suck mine.”
Rozanov leaned in closer to him and Shane was taken aback when he reached out gently and stroked a finger down his jaw. “You should ask more politely. You are good at manners and etiquette,” he said.
Rozanov’s hand gripped Shane’s jaw and forced his head up. His piercing eyes met Shane’s in a direct challenge and after only a few moments Shane felt his resolve crumble. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gave in. “Please,” he heard himself say. A strange feeling flooded him when he spoke. It felt like… relief. Or perhaps it was the thrill of knowing that Rozanov wanted him in the same desperate way. He could not name it, but something inside of him relaxed.
“Please do what?” Rozanov’s hand moved, shaking Shane’s head from side to side. His thumb moved to caress Shane’s lips, brushing along them and tugging his bottom lip down ever so slightly.
“Please,” Shane said softly against Rozanov’s thumb. “Get on your knees and suck my cock.”
Rozanov leaned in and nosed along Shane’s neck up to his ear, letting his other hand move slowly down between Shane’s legs, feeling how hard he was. Both of them let out a breath as he cupped Shane’s cock and squeezed gently. Shane could practically hear him smirk. He closed his eyes in anticipation, mentally preparing himself for the kiss he was sure was coming. Rozanov leaned in and–
“No,” he whispered as he removed his hands,
Shane’s eyes flew open. “Wha–”
“No. I will not do anything to you here. We will go back to this tedious party, dance with all the tiresome ladies. And then we will leave separately, find a place to meet, and then, maybe, maybe, I will do more than suck your cock,” Rozanov intoned.
Shane bit his lower lip. Rozanov’s English had improved since last Season.
“You would leave me like this?” he asked incredulously. Rozanov had never been one to turn down a quick tryst.
“For now.” Rozanov smiled. “Perhaps to pass the time, we shall have a wager? If you dance with more eligible women than I, then later tonight I shall do… whatever you desire.”
“And if you do?” Shane asked breathlessly.
Rozanov’s smile became more wicked, and then he leaned in and kissed Shane passionately, just this side of rough. It was sharp and unforgiving, but familiar. Shane almost hated how well his body remembered this. How easily anger gave way to heat. It was over too quickly.
Rozanov pulled away and he brushed Shane’s hair back into place before turning to go back to the ball without a word.
Shane took a deep breath in the darkness. Rozanov was still irresistible, even after all this time.
***
Rozanov left the ball first, slipping out quietly so as not to arouse suspicion. Shane waited an appropriate amount of time and then a bit longer, just to make Rozanov squirm, before hiding his mother and father good night, with the excuse of meeting some friends at The Kingfisher. He exited the estate and made his way down a side street where he found Rozanov smoking in a doorway.
“You should not smoke,” he reprimanded without thinking as they began walking side by side towards Rozanov’s carriage.
“Does it offend your delicate senses?” teased Rozanov. “Or is it simply not proper?”
Shane did not answer right away, waiting until they were safely ensconced in the carriage and it had lurched into movement. “When you kiss me, I can taste them,” he admitted.
“You do not like the taste?” Rozanov asked, clearly curious. Shane shook his head. He did not elaborate on the fact that the cigarettes obscured the fruity, spicy taste of Rozanov’s mouth, which he had come to crave. Rozanov made a noncommittal sound. His foot on the floor of the carriage gently reached out and knocked against Shane’s. Their eyes met and both of them smiled.
It was not far to the gentleman’s club near Shane’s apartment. When they arrived, Rozanov sent his carriage home but instead of entering the club, they made their way to a nondescript building two blocks away, a familiar path that they had each walked many times before. The living quarters here had been set aside for another Hollander son when he came of age, but as Shane had no siblings, they remained unused. He was not even sure his parents remembered the property’s existence, and he preferred to keep it that way.
Shane unlocked the door with practiced ease, and went immediately to the table by the entry to light a candle. Rozanov entered behind him and shut the door, both of them breathing a bit easier in the now familiar space. As Shane reached up to light more candles in the hall, Rozanov crowded him against the wall from behind. “I remember when you first invited me here,” Rozanov said softly, nosing into the nape of Shane’s neck. “I thought you meant to murder me.”
“Perhaps I still might,” Shane replied lightly. Rozanov moved to suck on his earlobe. He indulged in the pleasant sensation for a moment before remembering. “Oh, our wager. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Rozanov replied, proudly. Then, his voice deepening, “Now, take off your clothes.”
“Here? In the hallway?” Shane breathed, already moving to unbutton his coat. “We are right beside the door.”
Rozanov stepped back to watch him disrobe, folding his clothes neatly as always, and placing them on a chair, lining up his shoes neatly underneath it. He stood, uncomfortable being in the hallway clad only in his underclothes, but also clearly intrigued about what Rozanov had planned.
“Come this way.” Rozanov led him down the familiar path to the bedroom. He directed Shane to lay on the bed while he fetched a chair and placed it right at the foot of the bed. Then he made his way over to a side table where several bottles and glasses were arranged.
“Forgive me for the lack of vodka,” Shane offered from his place on the bed. “It has been difficult to procure as of late.”
“I will bring you some next time,” Rozanov replied, pouring himself a brandy and returning to the chair. As he took a seat, Shane began to feel nervous.
“What do you want?” he asked, feeling quite exposed while Rozanov remained fully clothed.
Rozanov took a long sip of brandy. “Touch yourself,” he replied, simply.
“What?”
“It has been long time since I have seen your body. Show it to me. Show me how you touched yourself while we were apart.”
Shane took a moment to process that. He knew that he looked pleasing. He had worked hard on his physical fitness since last Season. His limbs were stronger, more muscular, and his chest was broader, pectorals and abdominals more defined and he knew that his rear was more shapely. It was pleasing to think that Rozanov might have been thinking about him while they were apart, but intimidating to show off for the man.
“May I fortify myself with a drink before we begin?” he asked.
Rozanov shook his head. “No. You can have after. As reward. Get to work.”
Shane narrowed his eyes at this infuriating man, who spread his legs and leaned back in the chair haphazardly. Before he could stop himself, Shane lifted his hand, running it down his own neck and across his chest, grazing his nipples, which had hardened in the cool evening air. Rozanov watched every move hungrily and Shane smiled at the attention despite his embarrassment.
He ran his hand down over his stomach and then lower, grazing over the ever-growing bulge in his small clothes. He placed his hand over it more firmly and squeezed, moaning a little at the pressure. Rozanov took another sip of brandy but Shane was pleased to see that it appeared to be more like a gulp. He arched his back and began to shimmy his small clothes down his hips.
“Fuck Hollander. Yes, show me,” Rozanov commanded.
Shane bunched the cloth up and tossed it at Rozanov’s head. He almost giggled at the look on the man’s face but then Rozanov was lifting the cloth up and pressing it to his nose, inhaling Shane’s scent deeply, eyes locked on Shane’s crotch. He tossed the cloth behind him and leaned forward as Shane took himself in hand.
Shane stroked himself slowly, almost lazily, letting his senses light up as he became more and more uninhibited. He spread his legs wider and let his other hand drift down to play with his balls and then to the opening beneath them. Rozanov shifted in his chair and Shane was pleased to see that the man was not unaffected. Shane slowly slid his knees upward, showing off more of what was between his legs. At the same time, he ran his palm over the head of his own cock, gathering the wetness that was already spilling out and using it to ease the strokes on his cock.
He dipped one finger cautiously into his entrance and saw Rozanov almost choke on his brandy. He moaned, somewhat performatively, and then heard himself say, “I need…”
“What do you need?” Rozanov asked, his voice hoarse.
“You. I need you.” Shane admitted. Rozanov inhaled sharply and stood, setting his brandy aside, then divesting himself of his shirt and unbuttoning his pants far too slowly. Impatient, Shane moved, crawling to the end of the bed as Rozanov drew closer. He buried his face in the bulge in Rozanov’s pants, nuzzling the hardness he felt there and mouthing at the fabric. Rozanov brought one hand to the back of his head and pressed Shane’s face more firmly against him, saying something in Russian. Shane felt almost wild with need. They had been apart for seven months but it had felt like seven years. He almost hated himself for this unfettered desire, something he had never felt for another person before, but not enough to stop.
He boldly pushed the remainder of Rozanov’s clothing off and eagerly returned to his hands and knees to suck Rozanov in earnest. Savoring the taste after so long apart. He knew what Rozanov liked. How he liked to hold Shane’s head between his big, warm hands and move his cock in and out of his mouth. How he liked it when Shane took as much of the length as he could down his throat and held him there, swallowing around his girth until tears formed on Shane’s eyelashes. The taste, the sensation, and now, the humiliation all seemed to ignite an unquenchable fire in him.
Rozanov let Shane suck him for a blissful but short few moments before he pulled back. “Turn over,” he murmured softly, and Shane hurried to obey, raising his hips in the air. “You have been hard at work since last Season, Hollander,” Rozanov teased, and delivered a stinging slap to his right cheek. “The view is much improved.”
“Fuck you,” Shane breathed, watching as Rozanov pulled the drawer out of the bedside table and produced a small bottle of oil.
“Is the other way around, sweetheart.”
Before Shane could marshal any sort of retort, his ass was slapped again, this time the other cheek. He gasped into the bed and arched his back. It felt… good. He could feel blood rushing to the site and he began to feel almost dizzy.
A well-oiled finger slid between his cheeks. Shane gasped. The feeling was welcome and familiar, but not one he had felt in quite some time. He had occasionally touched himself in that way when he was alone, but the feeling was quite incomparable to Rozanov’s large hands.
“Did you miss this?” Rozanov whispered, kissing along Shane’s back as he pressed his finger in inexorably.
“Fuck,” Shane hissed, trying to cant his hips back and increase the pace at which he was filled. Rozanov held him still with a hand on the back of his neck.
“You are very tight,” Rozanov commented, moving his finger in and out at a maddeningly slow pace.
Shane did not answer, for he did not want to admit that he had been effectively celibate in the time they were apart. There had been a few dalliances with women at The Kingfisher but nothing like this. And no other men. The risk of discovery was too great.
Rozanov added more oil and another finger, making Shane curse again. He felt Rozanov’s tongue against his shoulderblade, mapping the bone and musculature there. Shane savored the feeling of fullness, noting that even though Rozanov’s grip was firm, Shane could easily break out of it if he wished. He heard Rozanov sigh, “Fuck, Hollander, you feel so good. Are you ready for more?” and could do nothing but whimper and nod his assent. He feared that if he opened his mouth to speak, he would beg, and he refused to do.
Rozanov prepared him thoroughly and then took him roughly from behind, one hand pushing between his shoulderblades into the bed and the other hooking two fingers in the side of his mouth. They were both uninhibited and loud, moans overlapping with the sound of skin slapping against skin. Before he realized it, Shane found himself begging for it harder and deeper, savoring the feeling of Rozanov filling him up. He wanted Rozanov to carve out a place for himself inside Shane after all this time. Wanted to feel the other man for days, be reminded of him every time he took a step or sat down. And Rozanov obliged, putting seven months of effort into every thrust as Shane bit into the bedding beneath him to keep from screaming.
He came untouched all over the sheets and Rozanov was not far behind, pushing in so deep that Shane believed could feel it in his throat, then emptying himself inside with a loud groan. He gripped Shane’s hips tightly as he came down from his high, then pressed his forehead against Shane’s back and gently pulled out.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked softly, moving to lay on the other side of the bed.
“No, that was… amazing,” Shane replied, turning over slowly.
Rozanov smirked and pushed himself up to sit against the headboard, one knee bent, the other leg extended languidly across the rumpled sheets. They sat in silence for a few moments more. Shane could feel Rozanov’s gaze on him as if measuring and appraising, but the man did not speak, nor did he reach for him as he once would have done without hesitation.
The absence of touch felt louder than words.
“Will you be at the New Admiralty tomorrow?” Shane asked at last, unable to bear it any longer. “Lord Marleau and Lord Pike will be there, and I was able to secure a few private sessions with Hunter over the summer to improve my technique– he is truly gifted at boxing and teaching. Tomorrow should be an entertaining time.”
Rozanov’s expression shifted, subtle but unmistakable. His mouth flattened slightly as he rose from the bed, gathering his discarded brandy glass from the table. He took a long drink, his back half-turned, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window rather than on Shane.
“I am not certain,” he said. “I have early appointment with the ambassador.”
The words were polite and his tone was not unkind, but Shane felt suddenly like an intruder. “Oh,” he said, feeling foolish. “Of course.”
Rozanov set the glass aside with care. “You have been… industrious, it seems,” he added lightly. “Private lessons. New pursuits.”
Shane frowned, uncertain. “I merely wished to improve. You know I dislike being shown up.”
“Yes,” Rozanov replied. “I remember.”
He did not look at him.
Something unspoken hovered between them, the seven months of separation pressing down into the space they now shared. Shane searched for the easy familiarity they had once slipped into so effortlessly and found only restraint in its place.
“If you must go,” Shane said at last, “I shall not keep you.”
Rozanov turned then, his expression carefully composed, his eyes unreadable. “You need not,” he said. “I would not wish to interrupt your evening.”
“My evening?” Shane echoed.
Rozanov’s mouth curved, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “You seem quite well occupied these days.” He stood up and went to fetch his clothes, which were scattered all over the room. He dressed slowly and methodically. Shane wanted to ask if everything was all right, or to somehow close the distance that had appeared between them, but did not have the courage. The words caught in his throat. He watched Rozanov walk out of the bedroom and heard him put his shoes on by the door.
“Goodbye, Hollander,” Rozanov said without emotion from the hall.
“Goodbye, Rozanov,” Shane replied, trying to match the tone. He knew something was wrong, but he could not put his finger on what. He heard the door open and close and then he was alone. He sighed and laid back against the pillows. The apartment suddenly felt very empty.
Shane ran his fingertips along his lips lightly and then the realization hit him. They had not even kissed. Not a single time since they had entered the apartment. He was not sure how to feel about that. Perhaps it was for the best. This arrangement was strictly physical and kissing was far too intimate. And yet, he missed it, even the taste of Rozanov’s cigarettes.
His thoughts drifted back to their first Season. The various encounters they had managed to engineer despite their very public rivalry. Careful notes inviting each other for a drink at the Kingfisher Club, or to spar at The New Admiralty, which eventually became a regular activity. Even though Rozanov confounded him, Shane enjoyed their sparring, both verbal and in the ring. But he enjoyed their physical couplings even more. Rozanov had shown him things that Shane had never even imagined that two people could do to each other. His face flushed and he shifted uncomfortably at the memories that were flooding back to him. He had tried to compartmentalize the last Season, explain it to himself as an aberration, an outlier in his behavior and composure and decision making that he could remedy. But his immediate reaction to Rozanov after seven months apart was forcing him to realize that this was likely something else entirely. He could not name it, or perhaps he did not want to.
Shane rose and rifled through the bottles on the table, and smiled when he found his favorite ginger beer. He had never favored liquor or ale, but there was something about the effervescent, slightly tart, and mildly alcoholic drink that he relished and often settled something in him. Sadly, it was not often served at balls, but he had procured a steady supplier for his own home.
He lounged on the bed, naked, and his thoughts, unbidden, drifted to Rozanov again, and his sudden change in manner before his abrupt departure. Shane knew that he himself often behaved in a contradictory way around Rozanov. The push and pull between them, with the added public tension and illicit nature of two men being together, was part of what made their affair so compelling. But this time had seemed different. More often when they were finished, Rozanov would provoke Shane into a seductive wrestling match that often turned into a second round.
Shane let his mind return to their first time in the apartment. They had had several rushed encounters in various locations but had not had any private meetings since the room at Grillons. Rozanov had alluded to wanting to “be inside” Shane and one time had run his hand between Shane’s cheeks when they had slipped away from the group during a hunt (Shane had been the one to bring down the buck that day, much to Rozanov’s chagrin). Shane had conceived of the idea of using the forgotten Bloomsbury Square apartment as a private, safe place for them to meet. He had tentatively suggested it when they were changing after a sparring match at the New Admiralty and Rozanov had insisted that they depart straightaway.
Shane had not known what to expect, but Rozanov had been surprisingly patient, confirming in that deep accented voice whether Shane still desired to try, “You still want?” and then teasing him, “Do not worry, it will fit, not like the first time you sucked me,” making Shane both irritated and giddy. He had kissed Shane all over and sucked his cock until he was so turned on he had forgotten to be scared. He had asked, over and over “May I?” or “Is that comfortable?” and not proceeding until Shane had confirmed. And he did not stop until Shane had spilled on the bedcovers, dirtying them. Shane felt like he was addicted. It was as if his body knew what Rozanov was capable of making him feel, so any time the man was near him, he would react.
Their encounters had continued, the apartment becoming a refuge for them. Sometimes they were rough and almost angry with each other, other times were slower and more gentle, like the first time. One memorable encounter had Shane admitting that he had purchased an ivory dildo from a mail order catalogue under a false name and Rozanov insisting on using it on him. Another had involved using their respective cravats to fasten Shane’s wrists to the headboard while Rozanov mapped his entire body with his tongue. Shane had come with Rozanov’s fingers inside and then again when the man was fully sheathed in him.
Rozanov had not sent a note or said farewell before he departed for Russia after the Season had concluded. It had been an abrupt end to the affair and Shane had not been sure that they would see each other again. He did not know where to send a letter in Russia and Rozanov had never written to him. So he had shelved those memories and experiences and focused on his purchase of Ottawan Cottage and hoped that his second Season would yield a better match.
When Shane had heard through the gossip mill that the ambassador and his handsome son were returning from the continent for the Season, he had not expected the affair to continue. In fact, he had hoped it would not. After all, he needed to find a wife, and could not afford the distraction. And yet, on the night of the very first ball, he had found himself unable to resist. He had forgotten his duty to his parents, the requirements as a member of the Ton, and flouted the rules of society. Not to mention the scandal if they were discovered. With Rozanov acting so strangely, perhaps he too was realizing that they could not simply pick up where they had left off at the end of last Season.
Resolutely, Shane drained his ginger beer and set it on the table. He stripped the bed of its sheets and threw them in the corner. He did not make it up with new sheets because it would not be required. As he dressed, his plan began to form with greater clarity. He would shutter the apartment, it was too much of a temptation. He would engage politely with Rozanov in public, not give Whistledown more fodder for her “rivalry” storyline, and if the man suggested another meeting or approached him in private, he resolved to stand his ground. Rozanov would not care, his reputation as a rake was well-earned and Shane had discovered that most of the rumors were true. Rozanov had never asked for or indicated that he wanted anything more. They were each free to make their own decisions about how to proceed.
With a clear plan, Shane dressed quickly, extinguished the candles, and left the apartment. He locked the door firmly and set off down the street, not once looking back.