Chapter Text
Alexei Rozanov was dead.
Shane Hollander may as well be.
He knew it as soon as his mother’s second-in-command summoned him back to Ottawa from Montreal. Shane had been running his own operation there for years with minimal direct interference from Yuna—ever since it became apparent that he had what it took to take over the family business someday. He was good at it too, smart enough that within five years the Hollander name was a well-respected name in the underground world of Montreal.
Not only that, but Shane was well-respected in the Hollander organization now. He was not simply the heir who would be handed the reins simply because of the luckiness of his birth. No, he had earned it. He’d grown from the quiet, anxious boy who’d clung to his mother’s clothing the first time he’d been brought to a business deal at 8 years old to a strong and focused man who wasn’t afraid to make the difficult decisions.
Now, though, his mother’s men couldn’t even look at him. Not without that obvious flicker of fear—not of Shane, no it was for him. He walked down the familiar hallway to his mother’s main meeting room with the icy feeling that someone had grabbed hold of his spine and was now steering him by it.
“You’re asking too much, Rozanov. You overstep your bounds,” his mother was saying as Shane finally entered her meeting room, her voice cold in the way it only became when she was doing business.
Yuna was a loving mother, gentle when she was home with David and Shane. It was a fact he mourned when he moved to Montreal—that he no longer lived with them, and was no longer privy to the softer side of his mother. He only ever saw this manufactured version of her, the strong leader who wasn’t above doing anything for the betterment of the empire that she’d built with her own hands. She led like a connection was above her, because it had to be. Any sign of weakness, any admittance of something could be leveraged against her would be. With sparing visits back to Ottawa, mainly communicating over the phone for business needs, it was easy to forget that any other version existed.
Which was why it was so terrifying to see a sliver of that home version of her standing there in her own meeting room.
This was their territory, their home base. And yet, Yuna’s expression did not match the neutrality of her voice. It was subtle, and truly Shane had to wonder if anyone else who was not familiar with the woman’s microexpressions would have noticed.
But to Shane, it was obvious like she was screaming it out.
His mother was terrified.
“You come into my territory, accuse us of such blatant l–”
“Lies? So this is not your son killing my fucking brother?” The man in front of her asked, his eyebrows raising on his face as the armed man beside him handed over a file folder.
Shane watched over Yuna’s shoulder as she opened it, revealing the evidence that marked him for death.
He’d been so careful.
He’d planned for months, ever since Alexei dared to push into his territory in Montreal. The disgraced Rozanov brother was trying to make a name for himself ever since being removed from the line of succession, and thought he could do so by testing Shane’s newer hold on the city. He killed Shane’s men, he sabotaged shipments of weapons Shane had worked so hard to get shuffled across the border. He’d left Shane with no other choice but to respond, lest the rest of the city think him weak. So he’d planned, and Shane knew by the time he executed his plan he would leave no trace behind.
Except he had.
He’d made a mistake, because there in his mother’s hands was a photo of him holding the gun that would kill Alexei. Behind it was a photo of Shane knelt over Alexei’s body, his face cold as he spoke to one of his own men across from him. Shane remembered this moment, when he’d directed Hayden to get rid of the body in the seaway. At least the camera had not captured his right-hand-man’s face, only his own.
“I could kill all of you for this,” the man said then, pulling both Shane and Yuna’s attention from the photos.
Shane had no doubt this was Ilya Rozanov.
He’d never seen Rozanov in person, but his reputation preceded him. Ilya, heir to the Rozanov dynasty after Alexei was removed from the succession a few years ago. Ilya, who’d successfully expanded the notorious and dangerous Rozanov dynasty into North America, starting first with Boston as their stronghold and moving outward.
Rozanov was known to be gorgeous too. He’d heard the stories that spread from awe-struck men and women alike who’d been bedded by him, of strong, controlling hands that knew just how to take a person apart and put them back together again. A man who truly made people understand why the French referred to it as a little death, because in one night he’d ruined them for anyone else.
Shane had no doubt that this man with slicked-back blond curls and a dangerous, furious glare in his blue eyes was Ilya Rozanov, the heir to the Rozanov empire.
Ilya Rozanov, perhaps one of the few people more dangerous than Shane.
Because the Hollanders were feared in Ottawa and Montreal, but everyone in their world knew the Rozanovs. They were powerful and old, existing perhaps as long as crime itself did if the rumors were in fact true. The only reason Shane had dared to cross Alexei was because he’d been disgraced, removed entirely from the family. If he’d known that Ilya would still harbor anger for it, would still consider it a slight against their family, he would’ve found another way to keep control of his city.
Because Ilya Rozanov, who didn’t have a presence in Ottawa, was standing in his mother’s meeting room looking like an avenging angel on a mission. Worse, he seemed to have set his sights on Shane’s mother for his mistakes.
“Alexei was removed from your family years ago, Rozanov,” Shane finally spoke up, willing his voice to remain steady as the man looked at him. Weakness would only make it worse, would give the man a piece of leverage to dig his claws into.
Yuna looked to him, a minute shift to her expression telling him everything. Stand down, she urged him.
He couldn’t let her take the fall for what he’d done. Shane had brought this onto their family, he had to be the one to fix it. So for one of the first times in his adult life, Shane openly defied his mother, looking back to meet Rozanov’s stare.
“You’re owed no retribution,” Shane dared, his hands clenched into fists if only to hide the way they shook.
Rozanov sneered, the first crack in his perfectly crafted facade so far. “He was shit at managing a city, but he was still my brother. You still spilled Rozanov blood, Hollander. For that, I should burn this entire place to the ground.”
Everything they worked for, gone in an instant. One fucking mistake and they were done, would be wiped off the map with no one left to remember their fucking names.
All of that pain, the loneliness, the stress of trying to live up to the brilliance that was his mother, for nothing.
“However,” Rozanov interrupted his spiraling, his gaze flicking back over to where Yuna watched him. He looked a little like a shark circling his prey, like he thought he knew something that Shane and Yuna didn’t. “I am willing to make a deal that would satisfy all parties. Clear your debt without erasing your family.”
“As I said, Rozanov, it’s not an equal trade,” Yuna said, and–
Oh God, how bad was it?
Never, in all the years Shane worked with her, did he ever see Yuna crack like this. She still tried to keep up the facade of a strong crime boss, but he could see the clear panic in her eyes as she glanced over to where he stood. This was about him then.
“An eldest son for an eldest son, is simple. Seems equal to me.”
Oh, oh that was why.
Rozanov wanted his head in return for Alexei’s.
And that, well, that was better than Shane was expecting. It made sense, really. It was the best possible outcome the Hollanders could hope for. It wasn’t ideal. No, Shane would much prefer to have more than twenty-three years to his name, but if someone had to die for his sins then it should be him.
“You damn well know it isn’t the same. He is my only son, my only heir.”
“He should have thought of this before he killed my only brother.”
“You’re asking me to willingly end my bloodline.”
“If you don’t give me Shane, I will burn this place to the ground. Then I will go to pretty government building downtown and kill your husband, too. The choice is yours, Hollander. How many lives do you want on your hands?”
Yuna wasn’t going to do it. Shane could see it clearly on her face, in the way her right hand twitched as if she wanted to reach out for him but knew better. How could she doom her own son to death? It wouldn’t be a quick death either, if Shane knew anything about the way that Rozanovs got their retribution. No, it would be brutalistic torture, his body pulled apart until there was nothing but blood and pieces left. He’d be unrecognizable even to his own mother by the time they dumped him in the same seaway he’d dumped Alexei. There was no way he could ask Yuna to make that decision for him. It might just be the one thing that could break her.
So Shane set his shoulders back the same way his mother had taught him to and said the words that made his chest flutter painfully with fear. “To be clear, you kill me, then you’ll leave her alone? You won’t touch the rest of the organization? My father?”
Rozanov smirked, his eyes alight with victory already. “Yes, Hollander. You’re mine and the debt will be paid. I would have no further reason to look at Ottawa. You Hollanders can even keep Montreal, I have no need or desire for it.”
Simple. Straight to the point. An eye for an eye.
There would not be a better offer than this.
Shane nodded. “Deal.”
“Shane,” Yuna snapped, her hand reaching out to grab onto his arm tightly.
He couldn’t look her in the eyes. It took everything in him not to break, not to reveal the overwhelming storm of grief and fear taking over his body at what he’d just agreed to. If Shane saw any sadness in her eyes, he would crumble on the spot. So instead he watched the way her lips pressed into a straight line, a clear attempt at maintaining composure in front of their new enemy. He forced himself to keep the painfully neutral expression he always wore when he reported back to her—not Shane her son, but Shane the heir who’d been working for her in some capacity since he was sixteen years old.
“I made the mistake, I should be the one to accept the consequences,” Shane told her. “This is the best outcome.”
“I will not have my son killed.”
“You’re not,” Shane promised, the last kindness he could ever offer his mom. “As head of the Montreal branch, I’m the one liaisoning with Rozanov. I made the decision. You couldn’t stop it without undermining your heir. This is my choice.”
Don’t blame yourself for this, don’t let the guilt consume you, Mom, was left unspoken but hanging in the now stifling air of the room.
“I am growing bored of this. Come, Hollander, now,” Rozanov snapped, interrupting Shane’s final goodbye.
He wouldn’t get a private moment to say goodbye to his mom. His dad was at his government job now—he’d have to hear about the news later, when Shane was long since shoved into a warehouse and made to scream. There was no breaking the news to Shane’s associates and confidantes in Montreal, no ability to tie up any loose ends he had there. This was it, one conversation spoken in code with Rozanov watching their every move to wrap up his entire life.
Shane would not allow Rozanov to bear witness to any weakness from them. So he nodded, reaching out to hold both of his mother’s arms, squeezing once as if that could say everything he needed to say. Then he took a step away from her and toward Rozanov, toward his death.
He didn’t look back. He didn’t fight as one of Rozanov’s men wrenched his arms behind his back and tied his wrists together with thick, coarse rope.
Shane didn’t say anything else, and neither did Yuna.
But cruel, cruel Rozanov could not allow Shane to say goodbye with such dignity. He grabbed hold of the back of Shane’s neck, smirking as he said, “Good boy, Hollander. Already so obedient for me. You are going to be very fun.”
Shane was led out of his mother’s building, cheeks flush with humiliation and rage, thankful only for the fact that Yuna could only see his back and not the shame in his eyes.
They were getting on a plane.
It seemed like a waste of resources to bring Shane back to Boston to kill him. Though the Rozanovs did not have a strong presence in Ottawa, he figured they’d have enough resources to be able to find a secure location for Ilya Rozanov to torture one man.
All the same, Rozanov’s men shoved Shane into a plane seat, his arms still tied securely behind his back. The rope was dug in so tightly that Shane could already only feel stinging pins and needles in his fingers, and could feel the irritation sparking along his wrists where the rope rubbed each time he shifted even slightly. It would be a minor pain, though, compared to whatever torture Rozanov had in store for him.
How long were they planning on torturing him? Would they leave him alive for days, weeks? Were they bringing him back to Boston so they could take him apart piece by piece on their own extended timeline, to make him beg for his own death before they granted him it?
Maybe this was all a part of Rozanov’s game. He’d play with Shane, lull him into a sense of safety on this plane before his men shoved him into a warehouse and tore his body apart with the meticulousness of a fucking expert.
Rozanov sat in the seat across from him, facing Shane. He crossed one ankle over his other knee, his fingers gripping a glass of something clear. His clean suit was still perfect and uncreased, a stark contrast to the rumpled look of Shane’s white button-up after Rozanov’s men binded him. The man didn’t say anything, he just watched Shane try to subtly shift his shoulders to ease the growing tension in them.
“Why are you taking me back to Boston?” Shane finally asked once the plane was in the air. “Why not kill me here?”
“Oh, I have no intention of killing you, Hollander.”
Shane’s mind stuttered to a halt, buzzing as he tried to catch up to the words filtering in from his ears. It was dangerous, the smirk on Rozanov’s face over the glass of vodka he held up to his lips. A feeling of being cornered lit up Shane’s body, like he was about to activate a trap he’d never seen coming. Still, he couldn’t help but to take that step, not able to think of any other way through.
“What? You said–”
“No, you said. Is not my fault you assumed I would give you the easy way out. No, Hollander, you do not get to die martyr’s death.”
Shane was glad Yuna wasn’t around, if only so she couldn’t see the way he cracked. His eyes widened, lips parting as he realized how much danger he was in now. The trap was set, the noose tightened around his neck. Here he was, restrained on a plane with one of the most dangerous men in the world, separated from all of the resources he was used to having, and he’d miscalculated. He’d put himself here.
Another fucking mistake.
Shane could have accepted death. It would have been the worst pain of his life leading up to it, but at least it would be over and he could rest knowing his parents would be alive and untouched because of his sacrifice. But this unknown awaiting him? This was unbearable.
“What do you want from me then?”
Rozanov leaned forward, smiling dangerously as he said, “I want you to learn your place.”
Heart pounding, his body grown cold, Shane dared ask what he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “I have a feeling we have two very different ideas about what my place is, Rozanov.”
Lightning fast, Rozanov reached out and gripped Shane’s jaw tight enough that his lips pursed out. He wouldn’t be surprised if there would be red marks left behind where Rozanov’s fingers dug into his flesh. “Do not get comfortable with me, Hollander. I will make myself clear. From now until the end of your life, you are mine. My property, gifted willingly to me, to do with as I please. You are now nothing. You will know nothing but what I give you. You will not so much as breathe without my fucking permission. You forget this, you try to disrespect this, and I will torture your mother and father until they both beg for death while you watch. Do you understand?”
Shane would rather die.
He no longer got that choice.
The threat was clear: he either accepted his fate, whatever it meant for him, or he would condemn his own family.
It wasn’t a choice at all, not really, but Shane nodded all the same. “Yes,” Shane spoke, voice quiet as though that might ease the blow of giving in so easily.
“Yes, Sir,” Rozanov corrected, shaking Shane’s head with his tight grip on his jaw. “Respect your new owner, shchenok.”
Shane’s cheeks burned. He longed to strike out, to bite the hand holding onto him. To try to throw a punch even with his hands restrained the way they were. His muscles twitched and burned with the need for it, to prove that he was on equal grounds as this man who threatened him. They were both heirs, how dare Rozanov try to reduce him to less than?
But images of his mother and father bloody and pleading for death burned in Shane’s mind.
So, through the unbearable heat of humiliation, Shane gave in. “Yes, Sir, I understand.”
“Good boy,” Rozanov praised, tapping Shane’s cheek condescendingly before he sat back in his seat. “Remember this, Hollander. When you hate me, when you blame me for what I do to you, remember that it was your actions that caused this. You did this. I am only giving you what you deserve.”
“Strip.”
They’d barely stepped into Rozanov’s fucking mansion when he demanded it of Shane. Shane stood in the large entryway, wrists aching from the abrasions the rope was giving him, staring shocked at the casual way Rozanov ordered it. Rozanov’s men had walked away as soon as they’d gotten to the mansion, though Shane had no doubt they were still around somewhere nearby for Rozanov’s protection.
“How the fuck do you expect me to do that?” Shane asked incredulously, trying to wave his restrained hands about to call attention to them rather than the obscene request Rozanov had of him.
“Watch that filthy fucking mouth, Hollander,” Rozanov practically growled, “That is the last time I warn you. I do not tolerate disrespect from my whore.”
“Your–your what?” Shane spluttered, watching as Rozanov grabbed something off of the entryway table and stepped around behind Shane. They were heavy leather cuffs that could connect to each other. Rozanov grabbed his arms harshly, buckling the cuffs on either of his wrists before undoing the rope.
Shane was the heir to the fucking Hollander legacy, he could not be reduced to this. He’d rather fucking die right now. He wondered if he could make Rozanov do it, if he could run right now and force the other man’s hand. It was clear that Rozanov had a temper, perhaps that was something that could be exploited.
Except Rozanov already said he wouldn’t kill Shane. What else would he do to him instead if he tried something like that?
“You killed Alexei without negotiating retribution for what he’d done first. You were reckless because you assumed I would no longer care about him once he was removed as my father’s heir,” Rozanov narrated, speaking calmly like he was discussing the weather. He kept moving behind Shane, the sound of a drawer sliding open revealing that he was grabbing something else. Shane didn’t dare turn around to see what.
“I know of you, Shane Hollander. I knew of you before this.” Well, that wasn’t fucking terrifying at all. “You are proud. You are perfect son of Yuna Hollander, the golden boy meeting every expectation handed to him. You were destined to achieve many great things. When I thought of what revenge I could get in return for your carelessness toward my brother, the worst I could think of was to take all of that away. To make you nothing, to make you mine. What does this say, Hollander?”
Rozanov stepped back around to his front, holding another strip of leather in his hands.
No, not a strip of leather, a damned collar. It had a little metal tag on the front loop of it, that read–
“You know how to read, yes? Tell me what you are now, Hollander.”
It felt like Shane’s entire body might combust. Like he might catch fire and burn away to nothing. He might prefer that, now, over the clear picture of what Rozanov wanted to do to him. If he would’ve known that this was what Rozanov wanted, would he still have accepted?
Yes, Shane thought with an agonizing pain in his chest. It was his family, of course he’d do this. He was just glad his mother would assume him dead rather than this.
“Fuck you, I’m not saying that,” Shane blurted out, feeling his pride scrambling at the walls of his chest, scratching at him from the inside out until it felt like his chest might burst right open. Fight back, you have to fight back. You’re Shane fucking Hollander, son of Yuna Hollander. What the hell are you doing standing here accepting this?
Rozanov ‘tsk’ed, shaking his head as he dropped the hand holding onto the leather collar. “This will be much easier on you if you accept it now.”
And maybe because he already knew he had his back cornered into the wall, Shane dug his heels in further despite the way his breath caught in his throat and his heart pounded heavy in his chest. Danger, his mind screamed. Fight, his muscles screamed right back. “Fuck that. I’m not your fucking property, I’m not your–your whore.”
“Mm, we will see,” Rozanov said, voice still terrifyingly calm. Then, quick as a viper, Rozanov reached out to grab hold of Shane’s neck, using it to try to drag him along to the stairs.
Shane wasn’t going to go deeper into this house without a fight. Whatever Rozanov had planned was not something Shane wanted to see. So he fought the best he could, trying to throw his upper body around to gain momentum, kicking out with his legs when Rozanov lifted him off the ground. His mind screamed in victory with each panicked hit that landed on Rozanov’s skin, hoping it would leave behind a bruise, some kind of proof that he hadn’t given in without a fight. Shane yelled, screaming obscenities and threats at the other man, determined to make this as difficult as possible. From the sweat building at Rozanov’s hairline and the way the skin around his face and neck mottled red, Shane was doing a good job of it.
Still, restrained as he was, Rozanov was still able to get him to a bedroom. His arms were pinched under his body, thrashing as Rozanov wrangled each of his ankles into leather restraints that connected to either bottom corner of the bed, keeping him pinned where the other man wanted him.
“You will learn to watch your words,” Rozanov threatened as he grabbed something from the box at the end of the bed. “You need to be reminded of the only use I have for your mouth. It’s okay, moy shchenok, you’ll learn.”
Then he grabbed hold of Shane’s nose, squeezing tight to cut off his oxygen supply. Eventually, Shane would have no choice but to open his mouth, and when he did–
Oh, fuck.
Rozanov was holding a fucking dildo attached to straps, like some kind of gag. It wasn’t massive, but Shane figured it would still sit uncomfortably in his mouth.
No, he didn’t want this. He squirmed against Rozanov’s hold, trying to get away. That animalistic panic built right back up in him, sending chills down Shane’s body as he eyed the thing Rozanov meant to use against him. But between his restrained ankles and the way his arms were still tied behind his back underneath his torso, Shane had no leverage to escape.
Lightheaded.
Oh god, he was lightheaded. His vision began to buzz, growing blurry around the edges as his mind panicked, desperate for the oxygen he wasn’t being given. The ends of his fingers were numb, and the feeling was quickly spreading to the rest of his limbs that already felt heavy and disconnected from himself.
You will not so much as breathe without my fucking permission.
Shane gasped for air, the relief of his lungs refilling again short-lived as Rozanov took advantage of the moment of weakness to shove the dildo gag between his lips. It was thick enough to depress his tongue. Thankfully it wasn’t long enough to touch the back of his throat but it bumped harshly against his soft palate as Shane tried to get used to the intrusion. The straps digging tightly into the sides of his mouth and the sound of the buckle sent all fight careening right out of him, his body left exhausted and limp as he recovered from the momentary lack of oxygen.
“Much better,” Rozanov said, shoving several pillows behind Shane’s upper back to prop him just upright enough so he wouldn’t choke on the gag or the resulting drool.
Because yes, he was fucking drooling. He couldn’t even help it, couldn’t wipe it away as it leaked from the corners of his mouth and dripped down his chin onto his chest. Like everything else Rozanov had done to him that night, all Shane could do was sit there, take it, and wait for a mistake that he could capitalize on.
Because Rozanov was a person too, and he would make a mistake. Shane just had to be aware enough to notice it, and brave enough to act on it. He couldn’t let this man break him so soon lest he miss his opportunity. Shane just had to hold on, he could do this.
“Is for your own good,” Rozanov spoke, taking Shane’s lingering oxygen-deprived weakness to disconnect the wrist cuffs to attach each instead to the headboard of the bed, his arms spread wide on either side of him. “Only until you can accept your new place.”
He stepped away from the bed for only a moment, returning with a pair of scissors in hand. Shane let out a muffled noise of protest, but he was helpless as Rozanov cut away at his black dress pants and boxer briefs, leaving his lower half completely exposed. He unbuttoned Shane’s white shirt, pulling it open to expose his chest but not cutting it off of him like he’d done the pants.
It was all so clinical, Rozanov’s eyes not lingering as he worked. It was almost worse than if he would’ve looked, would’ve let his hands wander. This sterile undressing of him made Shane’s situation all the more clear. This was not about Rozanov’s desire, though he could see a flash of something burning in the man’s eyes. No, this was a clinical undoing of Shane, simply playing with something that Rozanov knew was his.
“I thought your family might be enough to make you behave. I see now you require a more…hands-on demonstration.”
Rozanov settled himself between Shane’s spread legs, smirking at the glare that Shane sent him as he did so. One of Rozanov’s hands rested on Shane’s inner thigh, not stroking or teasing, simply resting there with fingertips pressed tightly into his sensitive flesh. The other hand moved slowly up the other thigh and in until–
Oh, fuck.
“Have you ever touched yourself here, Hollander?”
Rozanov’s finger was slowly circling Shane’s asshole, occasionally pressing in on the rim and eliciting a choked out noise from Shane.
He had, of course. Shane thought of the dildo he had hidden in his nightstand back in Montreal, bought on a whim after yet another conversation about when he would start thinking of having a family of his own. His cheeks burned with the effort of keeping his hips still, even as Rozanov continued to tease him.
“Look how your body already responds so well to me, моя шлюха,” Rozanov said, taking his hand off of Shane’s thigh to flick the tip of Shane’s now hard cock. He laughed at the whine that fell unrestricted from Shane’s lips at the flash of pain, watching as his cock bobbed in response. “It’s like it knows it’s mine. We only need your mind to get there.”
Fucking hell, Shane was going to die here. Rozanov was going to kill him like this.
He hated that he was hard, that his body was in fact responding to what Rozanov was doing. It’s a natural reaction, he tried to tell himself, but still the warmth of shame that was quickly becoming familiar to him burned through his chest.
Shane yelped as something cold and wet touched his dick. Looking down his own body, he saw Rozanov slicking up his dick with lube. When had the man even grabbed that? Was Shane already unraveling, to not have noticed?
“Do you know what this is?” Rozanov asked, holding up a little metal ring.
Shane didn’t. He wasn’t going to admit that to the Russian man. So he held still, continuing to glare at him, hoping it was still effective despite the way his chest heaved and his skin flushed in response to everything the man was doing to him.
Rozanov hummed, shrugging and beginning to work the ring down over Shane’s dick. It was tight, uncomfortable as the metal was settled down at the base of him. “This will keep your naughty dick from cumming until I want it to. Bad sluts don’t get to cum, not until you beg for it.”
The man slid up Shane’s body enough to grab his chin between his fingers, gripping it tightly. “Believe me, Hollander, you will be begging for it.”
Shane let out an outraged noise, trying to wrench his head out from Rozanov’s grip. The other man let him, chuckling as he moved back to his spot between Shane’s legs. This was the only ounce of fight Shane could still have, tied down and displayed like this on the bed. He had to take it when he could, he couldn’t let himself think for a second that he wanted this in the way his body seemed to think.
That would be accepting defeat, accepting that Rozanov had beaten him.
“I would’ve made our first night together nice. I would have prepped you, taken you apart on my fingers first to get you nice and ready for my dick,” Rozanov spoke, rubbing a generous amount of lube around Shane’s hole.
Oh fuck, was Rozanov going to fuck him?
Shane’s body tensed at the idea, squirming in an attempt to get away from the man’s touch but not making much movement. The other man was still completely dressed, but why else would he be prepping him like this? Shane had used his dildo before, but it wasn’t that big, and he’d never actually been brave enough to spend a night with another man before.
Fuck, he couldn’t do this.
“Sh, sh, shchenok, you haven’t earned my dick yet,” Rozanov said like it was an insult, sending a flood of relief through Shane.
It was short-lived, though, as something pressed insistently against his rim. The familiar burn of something entering him made Shane tip his head back, letting out a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine of protest. He shifted his hips, trying to get away from the intrusion but Rozanov was quick to flatten his hand down on Shane’s lower stomach to hold him in place.
The movement was over quickly. Whatever was pressed inside of him now was just long enough and big enough for Shane to notice it, to be constantly aware of the fullness inside of him, but was not uncomfortable or painful.
And then–
Shane keened, his body tightening up as the toy began to vibrate inside him, just barely missing the spot he knew would ignite sparks within his body. His jaw clenched around the dildo filling his mouth, hating the way his lips were forced open enough that he couldn’t hold back the noises being pulled out of him now.
It was an insistent buzzing in him, a constant wave of pleasure but a low one. It had to be one of the lowest settings on the toy, set there intentionally to tease him.
And fuck, Rozanov looked like he already won. He watched Shane writhe on the bed like he was already taking him apart in his mind, not even touching him anymore but not really needing to.
Fuck him. Fuck him and that smug fucking grin. When Shane got out of this, when he found a way out of these restraints, he’d fucking kill him. He’d hold the man down and force him through the same humiliation ritual he was pulling Shane through now.
Rozanov was getting off the bed.
The man straightened out his own suit, smoothing the fabric flat as he watched Shane. “Remember, Hollander, this could have been a much nicer night for you. All you had to do was listen.”
Fuck you, Shane tried to say, the words incomprehensible around the gag.
“I will be back in a little while. We’ll see if you’re ready to accept your collar then.”
Was he actually going to leave him like this? How long was Rozanov going to be gone? Shane groaned around the gag, trying to yell and get the man to stay, to turn off the vibrator, to just fucking let him go. This would kill him, would push Shane somewhere he couldn’t come back from. He could already feel his body coiling tight with the waves of overwhelming hot pleasure the vibrator sent through him, pain beginning to settle low in his abdomen as he was unable to release the building pleasure.
Rozanov couldn’t do this to him, it was too cruel.
But no, he could. He did. Rozanov, smirking, simply turned and walked out of the room, closing the door with a resounding click and leaving Shane to his torture.