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“Still time for a hat trick, I think,” Rozanov mused, his English barely comprehensible between his thick accent and his mouth guard. “Should I do it now, or wait until last minute? More exciting that way, yes?”
“I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.” “Don’t say it.” “I preferred it when it was on me.” “Dammit, Rozanov.”
Shane laughed, and his nose crinkled. The freckles got all bunched up under his glasses, and Ilya nearly died.