"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 … Continue reading Toronto, July 2010