Summary:

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya gasped, faux-aghast. “You are wet. Wet like pussy.” Shane flushed and tried to squirm out of Rozanov’s grasp, to no avail. “S’just sweat,” he murmured. “It’s just fucking… hot in here.” Ilya’s strong grip tightened, vice-like, around Shane’s hip. His grin curled into something cruel, something bright and sparkling. “Is not hot. You are bad liar. Take it off.”