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    Summary

    “Fuck yourself,” Ilya said without shame. “With me. Right here. Right now.” He pulled back just enough to look Shane in the eye. 

    The suggestion was so blunt, so depraved. They were in a public facility, for fuck's sake. They could get caught.

    “I can’t,” Shane whispered, the denial tasting like shit in his mouth. He felt his own cock stirring, thickening against his thigh, and he winced.

    “You can,” Ilya insisted. He leaned against the tiled wall, one hand moving down his own body. “Look at me, Hollander. Watch.”

    All Shane Hollander wanted was to shower off the stink of a loss. He didn't expect Ilya Rozanov to join him, let alone to call him out on the hard on he'd been trying to ignore. "Fuck yourself," Rozanov dares him. And, God help him, Shane does.

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