Rozanov returns to where he was sitting, the Polaroid camera in his hand. He looks down, an inquisitive eyebrow raised and Shane lets out a shaky gasp, nodding yesyesyesyes.
The distance between the front door and bedroom is covered in a haze of desperate greed, mouth on mouth and mouth on neck, rigid gasps echoing through the hallway. Shane feels like he’s been starving for weeks, for Ilya’s breath in his mouth, for his hands slipping under his shirt to palm at his ribs. Rozanov grabs hard at his hips, the friction causing a blur to his vision. By the time they’re at the foot of the bed, shirts off, groping at the other’s skin, Shane pushes Rozanov to sit back on the bed and drops to his knees, clawing at Rozanov’s sweatpants to drag them down to his ankles, his hard cock springing out. Shane palms at Rozanov’s knees, bringing his face to Rozanov’s thigh, cheek dragging across soft, hairy skin. He’s panting by the time his mouth is almost close enough to Rozanov’s dick. He wraps his hand around the base and opens his mouth, flat tongue sticking out. He looks up, eyes hooded and glossed. He sees Rozanov looking back down at him, intent. The warm light of the nightstand casts a honey-like glow to his skin; his blue eyes tinted into dark grey. They flicker sharply; like the surface of a lake, disturbed.
“Wait-” Rozanov says suddenly and pulls away. Shane's attention snaps back to reality. “Don’t move” Rozanov adds quietly, but steady. He scoots back on the bed towards the nightstand, and Shane stays on his knees, breaths shallow, eyes following the moves of Rozanov’s naked body. His mouth waters at the sight of thick muscles flexing; his dick twitching in his pants. He loves how strong Rozanov looks, he loves how he can so easily pin him down or toss him around. He wants to lick the divot in between Rozanov’s thigh muscles, right up to the cliff of his Adonis belt. Shane bites at his bottom lip, transfixed.
Rozanov returns to where he was sitting, the Polaroid camera in his hand. He looks down, an inquisitive eyebrow raised and Shane lets out a shaky gasp, nodding yesyesyesyes.
Shane leans back down between Rozanov’s legs and takes him all the way in, until he can feel the head of Rozanov’s dick at the back of his throat and the coarse curls of his pubic hair tickling his nose. He remembers to relax, and breathe through his nose, and feels a surge of warmth in his stomach as the camera clicks and whirrs.
“Look up now” he hears, and obeys. Rozanov’s face is hidden behind the camera as he takes another picture and Shane cannot see his expression, but the change in his breathing is audible, stuttering, louder, less controlled. Rozanov laces the fingers of his left hand in the dark of Shane’s hair, then squeezes hard. The sensation of tight grip on his scalp sends jolts of hot pleasure through Shane’s veins and he whimpers. Rozanov lowers the camera, and snaps a close up of the top of Shane’s head.
The pressure is encouraging enough, his movements are now faster, deeper somehow, there’s saliva running down his chin. He digs his nails into the sides of Rozanov’s thighs and looks up again to meet the other’s eye. Rozanov is a vision - his head is thrown back, his mouth agape, soft, whiny ah ah ahs escaping. His eyes are hooded and wet, the soft light of the room reflecting in shimmers. His Adam's apple bobbles as he swallows, and Shane wants to bite into the soft skin of his neck, right beside the throbbing vein there. Then their eyes meet and suddenly Shane feels much closer to falling apart than he cares to admit and it happens, all at once and without his permission, when Rozanov breathes, low and raspy:
“I’m gonna come on your face”
His vision goes white and he shudders, the orgasm bolting through his entire body like lightning.
It barely takes two strokes after that, then Rozanov groans and Shane feels the spatter of warmth on his cheeks and mouth. His breaths are still coming out in gasps, loud, almost moans, he knows he’s making sounds so pathetic he’ll blush if Rozanov brings them up after. Then, just as he slides out his tongue to lick the taste of it off his lips, Rozanov catches him in the act, posing the camera at the level of his chin.
He reaches to pick up the plastic square sliding out of the machine, and leans down to the floor to pick up the other three. He doesn’t look at them, but there is no point in looking yet. He neatly stacks them under the duvet in the corner of the bed.
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