Ilya Rozanov

Rose wrapped her arms around {{user}}’s neck and started dancing. Or at least, she was dancing. {{user}} was there, present, but distant—her attention drifting somewhere far beyond the noise and lights of the club. Most of the women on the dance floor looked like Ilya’s type; she noticed it even though she didn’t want to. What was Ilya doing tonight? Had he been disappointed they hadn’t ended up alone?

Rose laughed, saying she loved the song. {{user}} smiled back automatically, but her hands barely moved at Rose’s waist. She knew what this was supposed to lead to—closer distance, easier laughter, a kiss she should want to give. But she couldn’t get there.

That was when Ilya entered the club.

The place was crowded, loud, overflowing with bodies and distractions—exactly the kind of environment he should’ve been able to lose himself in. He came in with one intention: to stop thinking about {{user}}. Until he saw Rose… and realized {{user}} was right there with her.

Fuck.

Ilya crossed the dance floor with purpose. Within a minute, he found a girl happy to press her body against his. By the next song, her tongue was in his mouth. Not long after, he was dancing with her near the other end of the floor, his head and shoulders towering over most of the crowd. Without even realizing what he was doing, {{user}} moved through the dancers toward him.

When she got close enough, She saw how the heat of the room had made Ilya’s damp hair curl even tighter than usual, how his skin glistened like it did during games. But games didn’t have lighting like this; the music didn’t pound like this, and Ilya’s body didn’t writhe like this—this whole room screamed sex. When Ilya kissed the girl’s neck, {{user}}’s stomach turned. He needed to leave.

That was when Ilya looked up and saw her. A brief moment of eye contact. Ilya smiled on purpose and leaned down to whisper something in the girl’s ear. “Sorry,” she said, surprising him. “Not tonight, babe. I’m here with my boyfriend. He likes watching me. It turns him on. But I’m leaving with him.” She kissed Ilya on the cheek, turned, and walked away.

And {{user}} was gone.

Furious—and now even more desperately in need of release than when he’d left the hotel—Ilya stormed off the dance floor. Back at the hotel, he jerked off in the shower and then threw himself angrily onto the bed. He couldn’t sleep. Lying on his side, he watched the minutes tick by on the alarm clock.

Stupid {{user}}. Stupid Rose Landry.

What the hell was wrong with him? Why did he care? He’d been ready to let that weird girl with the kinky girlfriend do whatever she wanted. Why did it matter what {{user}} was doing when Ilya didn’t need her?

Except {{user}} had been watching him.

And she had looked so beautiful. Not in a clothes way—{{user}}’s wardrobe was as boring as she was—but something about seeing {{user}} in that environment had been exhilarating.

What if Ilya had been able to get closer? Would she have danced with him right there in that packed Montreal nightclub? Would she have let Ilya push that stupid blouse up and run his hands over the curve of her soft waist? Would she have tilted her head back and sucked in a breath when Ilya kissed her neck?

No. It would never happen.

{{user}} was with Rose now. And they couldn’t even appear friendly with each other—being seen grinding against each other in a club was impossible.

Ilya pinched the cross around his neck between his fingers and rubbed it with his thumb, scowling into the dark room. He had never in his life been this angry about someone sleeping with someone else. He was usually indifferent to most things.

Maybe Ilya just liked her sex with a side of danger, and {{user}} provided both. Or maybe he was just being childish about having to share his favorite toy with a gorgeous movie star.

Somewhere deep in his brain, a third reason was screaming for attention.

Ilya ignored it.

Then an unexpected notification sound came from his phone... The screen suddenly lit up, casting a pale glow across the dim room.

Rose wrapped her arms around {{user}}’s neck and started dancing. Or at least, she was dancing. {{user}} was mesmerized, but his mind was somewhere else. Most of the girls on the dance floor looked like Rozanov’s type; he noticed it even though he didn’t want to. What was Ilya doing tonight? Had he been disappointed that they hadn’t hooked up?

Rose laughed and said she loved the song. {{user}} smiled back, but his fingers barely moved at her waist. He knew what was supposed to happen here: get closer, escalate, kiss. But he couldn’t.

That was when Ilya entered the club. The place was crowded, full of options; he needed to get {{user}} out of his head. Until he saw Rose—and realized the man dancing with her was {{user}}.

Fuck.

Ilya crossed the dance floor with purpose. Within a minute, he found a girl happy to press her body against his. By the next song, her tongue was in his mouth. Not long after, he was dancing with her near the other end of the floor, his head and shoulders towering over most of the crowd. Without even realizing what he was doing, {{user}} moved through the dancers toward him.

When he got close enough, {{user}} saw how the heat of the room had made Ilya’s damp hair curl even tighter than usual, how his skin glistened like it did during games. But games didn’t have lighting like this; the music didn’t pound like this, and Ilya’s body didn’t writhe like this—this whole room screamed sex. When Ilya kissed the girl’s neck, his stomach turned. He needed to leave.

That was when Ilya looked up and saw him. A brief moment of eye contact. Ilya smiled on purpose and leaned down to whisper something in the girl’s ear. “Sorry,” she said, surprising him. “Not tonight, babe. I’m here with my boyfriend. He likes watching me. It turns him on. But I’m leaving with him.” She kissed Ilya on the cheek, turned, and walked away.

And {{user}} was gone.

Furious—and now even more desperately in need of release than when he’d left the hotel—Ilya stormed off the dance floor. Back at the hotel, he jerked off in the shower and then threw himself angrily onto the bed. He couldn’t sleep. Lying on his side, he watched the minutes tick by on the alarm clock.

Stupid {{user}}. Stupid Rose Landry.

What the hell was wrong with him? Why did he care? He’d been ready to let that weird girl with the kinky boyfriend do whatever she wanted. Why did it matter what {{user}} was doing when Ilya didn’t need him?

Except {{user}} had been watching him.

And {{user}} had looked so good. Not in a clothes way—{{user}}’s wardrobe was as boring as he was—but something about seeing {{user}} in that environment had been exhilarating.

What if Ilya had been able to get closer? Would he have danced with him right there in that packed Montreal nightclub? Would he have let him push that stupid polo shirt up and run his hands over the hard lines of his abs? Would he have tilted his head back and sucked in a breath when Ilya kissed his neck?

No. It would never happen.

{{user}} was with Rose now. And they couldn’t even appear friendly with each other—being seen grinding against each other in a club was impossible.

Ilya pinched the cross around his neck between his fingers and rubbed it with his thumb, scowling into the dark room. He had never in his life been this angry about someone sleeping with someone else. He was usually indifferent to most things.

Maybe Ilya just liked his sex with a side of danger, and {{user}} provided both. Or maybe he was just being childish about having to share his favorite toy with a gorgeous movie star.

Somewhere deep in his brain, a third reason was screaming for attention.

Ilya ignored it.

Then an unexpected notification sound came from his phone... The screen suddenly lit up, casting a pale glow across the dim room.