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And of course Ilya Rozanov, all of nineteen years old, fucked with the confidence and skill of, like, a sex god.
“Did you buy a building so we would have somewhere to fuck, Hollander?”
Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.
“Mine.” Ilya’s breath tickled Shane’s skin when he spoke the single word. “Yours,” Shane said dreamily. “All of this. For two weeks. Is mine.” Forever, Shane wanted to say. Forever if you ask.
Especially when Shane looked at him like he was looking at him right now—like Ilya was worth all this trouble. Like he was worth loving.