Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(36)

“Hey,” Rozanov said, “before we give out the award, can I get a selfie?”

“What?” Shane asked. It was all part of the script.

“Just a quick one. I mean, when will this happen again, right?”

“Fine, but hurry up.”

Rozanov wrapped an arm around Shane’s shoulders and pulled him tight against him. Everyone laughed. Rozanov held his phone out and snapped, Shane noticed, at least six quick photos.

“Give me your number. I’ll send it to you.”

“No chance,” Shane deadpanned.

Laughter.

Rozanov was slow to move his arm from Shane’s shoulders. When he finally did, he let his fingers brush the back of Shane’s neck, making every hair stand up.

Shane felt his cock swell a bit, and silently cursed him.

They read the nominees, gave the winner his trophy, and then Shane left the stage as quickly as possible. He kept walking until he found a small bathroom backstage. He entered, and left the door unlocked.

Less than thirty seconds later, Rozanov slipped inside and locked the door. He crowded Shane up against the wall. Shane was seething; he stared Rozanov right in the eye and waited for him to make the first move.

“Well?” Rozanov said.

“Well what?”

He gestured to the floor. “Are you not going to suck my dick?”

Shane’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck you! Why don’t you suck mine?”

“Hmm.” He traced a finger over Shane’s clenched jaw—so gently it made Shane close his eyes and part his lips involuntarily. “Maybe ask nice.”

Shane wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But instead, to his mortification, he heard himself say, “Please.”

Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “You want me to kneel on this dirty bathroom floor? You have to ask nicer than that, Hollander.”

“Please,” Shane gritted out. “Get on your knees and suck my dick. Please.”

Rozanov pressed his palm where Shane’s erection strained against his tuxedo pants, making Shane gasp and tilt his head back against the wall. Rozanov leaned in and brushed his lips over Shane’s ear.

“No.”

He let go of Shane, and stepped back.

“What?” Shane sputtered.

“No. I will not do anything to you in here. We will go back out there, and sit in our seats, and then go to the party. And then, when you have been waiting all night for it, you will come to my hotel room. And I will maybe do more than suck your dick.”

Shane felt dizzy. And angry. And kind of impressed by Rozanov’s English. It had really come a long way.

“You’re really going to leave me like this?”

“Yes. For now.”

“Fine,” Shane grumbled.

“Aw,” Rozanov cooed with mock sympathy. “I will make a deal: if you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you...whatever you want.”

Shane swallowed. “And if you win?”

A wicked smile unfurled across Rozanov’s face.

“I will let you know.”

He put his hand on the door handle and was about to leave when he quickly turned and grabbed the front of Shane’s jacket. He kissed him roughly, then let him go.

“Good luck tonight,” he said.

And then he was gone.

Shane left the party as early as he could. He wished he had the willpower to stay later, to make Rozanov wait. He wished he had the strength to stand Rozanov up.

He’d been on edge for hours, half hard and buzzing with need. He’d had a few beers, which was a few more than he usually had, and his brain was only able to focus on his desire to get off as soon as possible.

He had a text with Rozanov’s room number, and he’d seen him slip out of the party a few minutes ago. They hadn’t spoken since the bathroom backstage.

Rozanov had won. Of course he had won. And now Shane had to find out what exactly he wanted from him.

They had done...everything? Shane was pretty sure they’d done everything at this point. Blow jobs: check. Hand jobs: of course. Fucking: yes, but only with Shane bottoming. Shane couldn’t see Rozanov wanting to change that up. He hoped not, anyway.

Shane sent Rozanov a text as he approached the door, and he heard it click open just before he arrived. He entered quickly.

Rozanov had an enormous suite booked at the Las Vegas casino where the award ceremony was held. He stood in the middle of it now, most of his tuxedo already removed. He was down to just the sleek, black pants, with his dress shirt half unbuttoned. His feet were bare. Shane had removed his bowtie and stuffed it in his pocket when he had unfastened a couple of his own shirt buttons earlier, but he had some catching up to do.

“Here to congratulate me?” Rozanov said.

“I guess.”

Rozanov spread his arms out, as if to say Well?

“Congratulations,” Shane said flatly.

“Thank you. Now take off your clothes.”

Shane had been kind of hoping Rozanov would help him with that, but he obeyed, draping each discarded piece of his suit carefully over the back of the sofa. Rozanov didn’t remove any of his own clothing. He just leaned against a glass table and crossed his arms, watching Shane.

“Shouldn’t we—I mean. There are windows.” There were a lot of windows.

“We are on the sixteenth floor.”