Summary:

Ilya calls Shane to debrief, from Cliff's bed... but apparently Shane doesn't want to hear about it.

Shane wants to watch.

***

Right now, sprawled across Roz's chest with Roz's fingertips trailing across the nape of his neck, Cliff does not feel done. He's raw as fuck, limp as a rag. The intensity of it being Roz, not some anonymous hot chick, but Roz whose smile and voice and laugh he knows – having reduced Roz to senseless pleasure – is somehow a thousand times more affecting than even the wildest night with a bunch of puck bunny tens. Feeling Roz smile into his kisses. Hearing Roz curse and gasp. Being welcomed into Roz's body, Christ—he's never had sex like it. That was not just sex. That was… he doesn't know what that was, by the end. A religious experience? 

Gun to his head, it could best be described as a monumental, life-ruining sex event… and now Roz is going to call Hollzy about it?! Recount the highlights, play by play, while Cliff's still reeling? Fuck! He's not sure he can stay chill with Ilya's accented voice narrating everything they've just done, while Hollzy listens and—and what? Reacts, judges? Ticks off a scorecard?