“Fuck, Hollander.”

The raspy edge in Rozanov’s voice, his warm baritone, resonated deeply in Shane’s core, setting his insides on vibrate. Each of his body’s cells hummed to Ilya’s song, Ilya’s heartbeat, Ilya’s breath. Air ghosted over his skin like the gentle touch of velvet gloves, shivers rippling across the silky planes of flesh.

Shane’s eyes flew wide open. He blinked at the white, nondescript ceiling of the hotel room as his brain took in his surroundings. His eyes flitted to the large windows, watching the light of early morning, the world a soft palette of greys.

“Ilya fucking Rozanov.”