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Svetlana almost kills Ilya when he comes home with a Pagani. Overrated, she tells him, expensive for no reason, impossible to get replacement parts. She tries to sell him on an Aston-Martin instead, says she will do him a favour and take the Pagani off his hands for more money than it is worth because she has clients even stupider than he is, and this is when Ilya realizes the anger is pure, unfiltered jealousy.
Shane, if you ask Ilya, knows very little about cars. Probably he could differentiate between a Bugatti and a Tesla if his life depended on it, but Ilya wouldn’t risk it. He drives a Land Rover and thinks this makes him sophisticated. And he refuses to have sex in the car. No, you freak, he always says, adoringly, I’m not fucking you in my car. And then when Ilya suggests the obvious alternative, And definitely not in one of your monstrosities, Jesus.
Fucking Shane in the Spyder is one of Ilya’s greatest objectives in life. Possibly greater than winning more Cups than any man in world history.
“Why,” Shane groans, when Ilya brings it up again. They are going to the foundation’s highest plate-price fundraiser dinner of the year. Ilya will drive the Porsche, because he is a fancy man with so so so so so much money to donate to an important cause. So much money that he can even spare a few hundred thousand dollars for his baby blue Porsche 718 Spyder which is his sentimental pride and joy, even though the Pagani is obviously much more expensive and beautiful and has made Svetlana mad at him which means it is one of his best purchases to date.
But he digresses. “No one will know,” Ilya whines, imagining it. Shane wearing his nice tuxedo, shirt unbuttoned, fly open, sweating in the passenger seat while Ilya fondles him. Or maybe Shane will lean over the gear shift and suck his cock while Ilya pulls his hair, watching the arch of his back as he bends over. Or they will park somewhere out of the way and Shane will sprawl over the hood, naked, rubbing fingerprints and assprints into the custom paint job.
“No,” Shane says sternly, and fixes his bowtie. He looks stunning, of course, even as he tugs at his collar awkwardly. Ilya imagines a younger Shane at his first public event, itching in a suit Yuna bought for him, and smiles.
He bends down to tie his shoes and Ilya can’t resist walking over to press up against his ass. “You’re gross,” Shane complains, but he still wiggles back into Ilya, so there you have it.
Yuna managed to book out an extremely luxe, extremely Spanish restaurant for the dinner. Ilya didn’t even know they had places like this in Ottawa. The walls are a very chic white stone, paintings on the walls that are probably obscenely expensive, and dim lighting that is perfect for highlighting the unbelievable cleavage of every woman in the room. He feels a little bit like a movie star.
The foundation is named after his mother, which means Ilya is the star of the show and Shane is the arm candy. He loves that phrase. “You are perfect arm candy,” he whispers in Shane’s ear as they get drinks from the bar, mingling before dinner is served. “Like sugar baby.”
“What the fuck,” Shane hisses, looking around. No one is watching them, which deeply grieves Ilya, since he’s certain they have some of the best asses in the room. Sad that tuxedos are not as good at showing this off as slinky evening gowns.
Ilya laughs a little. He leans against the bar, sipping his gin and tonic, surveying the room. Shane goes off to make nice with the donors and say hello to his mother. Ilya loves Yuna. In 2014, she bullied Shane into doing a Calvin Klein ad, which means Ilya owes her his life.
Ilya circles the room, watching Shane out of the corner of his eye. He looks competent and assured. Deadly, even. Ilya remembers watching one of the James Bond movies, the one with Mads Mikkelsen, and can’t help but think of it now—Shane, golden and softened in luxury lighting but lethal in his own way, that machine of a body hidden under the trappings of wealth.
He tunes back into the conversation. One of the funders with the biggest pockets—Pasternak, Ilya thinks is her last name—has taken up learning Russian as a hobby, so Ilya accommodates her and makes terrible, stilted conversation with her in his first language.
Ilya and Shane get to sit next to each other during the sit-down courses. They field questions about their rivalry and their newfound friendship. Mostly, everyone at the table seems content to use the event as an excuse to show off how rich they are to their dates and social circle, and Shane and Ilya just sit in the middle of it. Yuna namedrops like it’s her job, which Ilya supposes it is, and Ilya sneaks a hand onto Shane’s thigh and lasts almost ten seconds before Shane subtly threatens to stab his hand with a fork.
Really, he spends most of the evening watching Shane make conversation with rich men who want to feel masculine by talking shop with hockey players. He sounds powerful, and smart, and awful. He says, in his deepest voice, You know how hockey guys are, and Totally, Mr. Thomson, I’ll mention that to Coach. The tension in his spine twists and tightens to a point of brutality.
Ilya himself mostly deals with women who find him very exotic and tragic. He tries to tell himself that he’s playing a part, which almost works. He tries to focus on the absurd opulence of being surrounded by fawning gorgeous women with a net worth double or triple his own. This is very fun, he tells himself, watching Shane’s shoulders hike up to his shoulders.
So in the end, their luxury dinner is not very delightful at all, but Shane looks sexy, and they raise about three million dollars for the foundation, which is not nothing. Still, Ilya itches to lay hands on something as himself, and most especially, to take Shane apart until he no longer has the rictus smile on his face that arises when he talks to old white men in suits.
“Please,” Ilya says in the car ride home, wind blowing through their hair, after ten minutes of trying to engage Shane in conversation and then, eventually, to convince Shane to have sex in the car.
“No.”
“But I was so good,” he whines, hands shifting on the wheel, and Shane almost, almost smiles at him. His mouth twitches, which Ilya takes as a good sign. “You looked very fashionable, very competent. Hard to focus on mission with you distracting me. I should get a reward.”
“I distracted you?” Shane laughs, a little. Ilya grins and relaxes. Finally. “What, with the tux I’ve been wearing since 2012?”
Ilya glances over to the passenger seat. Shane looks very, very good in the seat of his gorgeous, sexy convertible. “It fits you very well. Better now, maybe.”
Shane rolls his eyes.
“I am serious,” Ilya insists, “you look like a girl from James Bond. Dangerous and beautiful.”
Shane snorts. “Is James Bond even popular in Russia?”
“How long I have lived in America. You think I don’t know who James Bond is?”
“Jesus,” Shane says, “sorry for trying to be culturally sensitive or whatever.”
“What the fuck is culturally sensitive?” Ilya looks back at Shane. The streetlights flash over his face, pale yellow and nighttime flashing over his face. His bowtie is off, finally. His throat invites Ilya’s teeth. His thighs are spread, fabric of his pants pulling over the slight bulge of his cock. If only he wasn’t driving. “Did one of the PR interns tell you this?”
Laughing, Shane says, fondly enough, “You are so fucking annoying, Jesus Christ.”
Ilya turns back to the road. He thinks of Shane’s thighs. “Is it culturally sensitive to tell you I want you to squirt all over the leather interior?”
“Fuck,” Shane hisses, shocked. “Jesus.”
“I will tell cleaner that my hot girl lets me fuck her raw,” Ilya continues, on a roll. He can see it already, Shane squirming, cock twitching and rubbing precome into his expensive pants. Leaving a little puddle of sweat and come on the seat. His voice lowers. “That she gets so hungry for me we cannot even make it home. We have to fuck in the car, wet, leaking everywhere.”
He hears the click of Shane’s throat as he swallows. “You can’t tell people that,” he says, shaky.
“No?” Ilya glances back again. Shane is red, mouth parted. His thighs are just a little further apart. The bulge is just a little bigger. God, Ilya wants to wreck him. “I cannot say she wants me so bad she will let me bend her over the back of my car—”
“Jesus, Ilya—”
“—let me fuck her on the road even though her nice dress will get ruined, will smell like exhaust pipe—”
“I hate you,” Shane says.
Ilya reaches over without looking and palms over Shane’s dick. Shane’s breath hitches, a little moan caught in the back of his throat. Ilya squeezes, and he breathes out, fuck, and Ilya’s cock hardens so fast he almost gets dizzy. Fuck, he’s driving. He releases Shane and settles back into his seat. “I will fuck you in the garage, yes?” he asks.
Shane sighs. And then, he acquiesces. “Yeah,” he says, longsuffering. “You’re gross.”
Ilya grins.
Ilya’s garage is large and cold. A little impersonal. The only things he has here are for the maintenance of his vehicles—air pumps, cleaning supplies, a toolbox in the corner. It feels more like a professional mechanic’s garage than a home garage, because Ilya has not yet been fully domesticated and he really does need the space for his six cars.
“We should fuck in all the cars,” Ilya says. They haven’t gotten out of the Spyder yet, although the engine is off. The garage is quiet in comparison to the past twenty minutes of road and engine rumbling underneath them. Everything smells a little bit like rubber. “Not in one night, of course. Too much effort. But we should have a checklist.”
“You have an obsession,” Shane chides, but he lets Ilya touch him anyway. Ilya reaches over the long line of the gear shift, presses Shane back into the seat by his collarbone, and Shane exhales at the contact.
“Very pretty,” Ilya murmurs, looking at the stretch of him, a moving, breathing man inside the rolling, rounded edges of his car. Everything aerodynamic, precision-engineered, luxurious, expensive. Ilya’s always had a taste for ruining perfect things. “Unbutton your shirt.”
He watches, greedily, as Shane starts at the top, looking back at him. Their eyes meet for a long moment, and then Ilya looks back down, follows his hands all the way down his torso.
Shane presses his palms against the tops of his thighs when he’s finished, because he is very well-behaved.
Silently, Ilya reaches over and sets his hand against Shane’s chest, bare skin on skin, hot under the cool sleek of his shirt. He feels the movement of his breath, looks at his fingers splayed out against Shane’s collarbones, thumb brushing the one closer to Ilya. Then he trails down, thumbnail catching at Shane’s nipple. “Shit,” Shane breathes, and Ilya presses into the skin, squeezes his pec. “Oh, shit.”
“Mm.” Ilya’s hand wanders further down, heel of his palm dragging against Shane’s ribs. Shane is already hard in his pants. “Take off your pants.”
He releases him while Shane fumbles with his pants, toes off his shoes, bare ass against the leather, fuck. Ilya can imagine the press of the leather ridging into his skin. God, he hopes there’s a mark. “Fuck,” Ilya breathes, “come here.”
He helps Shane maneuver across the seats to sit in Ilya’s lap, back brushing the bottom of the steering wheel, knees pressed tight against Ilya’s thighs, almost claustrophobic even with the open top and the rolled-down window. Ilya looks up at him, and he looks so good, shirt open, the line of his hips peeking through. “Shit, Hollander—”
“Are you just gonna look at me?” Shane grinds down, and Ilya sees stars. “Do I need to do everything myself around—”
“No,” Ilya snaps, unzipping himself and pulling his cock out. He didn’t wear underwear because he hates to ruin the line of a suit. And then he steadies Shane with one hand and pulls out the lube from the central compartment because he is a man who is always prepared for his dreams to be fulfilled.
As he slicks his cock, he asks Shane, “Are you still—”
“Yeah, just slow— fuck—” Shane gasps, as Ilya presses in gently, so very gently, because Shane is still loose from when they fucked this morning. Ah, fuck. He’s so tight, so hot inside, Jesus—
“Pretty,” Ilya breathes, as Shane settles onto him, around him, everything strung to the highest tension. Ilya leans forward to kiss the skin under Shane’s ribs, and then stretches up to kiss him, tasting him, spit trailing between their mouths. “Oh, you are pretty.”
“Uh huh,” Shane replies, half-aware, riding Ilya the way he likes best. Ilya just watches him. Gorgeous, gorgeous man, thighs rippling as he moves on Ilya’s cock, stomach tensing with the movement of it. Ilya pushes his shirt back to reveal his shoulders, his collarbone dotted with sweat, oh God.
The smell of it, sweat and come and rubber— and Shane’s body is hot, hot under his hands, but the garage is cold, and goosebumps follow Ilya’s hand as it trails across Shane’s chest. “I think you were made for this,” Ilya says, low. Shane nods and grinds harder, faster, fuck. “You love to get fucked.”
“Love when you fuck me,” Shane replies, and Ilya has to reward him for that, pushes himself up to bite across his ribs, leave a mark on his chest. “Ah, fuck— Ilya—”
“So good,” Ilya murmurs, drunk on it, pressing his hips up into Shane. He can’t get much leverage like this, but he doesn’t need it, ready to come in a minute anyway.
And then he thinks— if this is the only time we’re going to fuck in the car, it better be worth it. “Wait,” Ilya says, and Shane pauses, clenching around him. Fuck. “Wait, I want— I want to bend you over the door and fuck you like that.”
“You want to what—”
Ilya grins at Shane’s scandalized, almost embarrassed tone. Now he is even more convinced. “Yes, yes, get up, I need to see your come on the paint—”
“You are such a fucking freak,” but Shane gets out of the car anyway, which is how Ilya knows it’s true love. He closes the door, makes Shane take his shirt off, and pushes him down, hands against the windowsill. Ilya just looks at him.
It’s a gorgeous picture. Shane, naked, biceps twitching with cold or tension, that soft skin pebbling in the cold of the garage, head hanging over the light blue of Ilya’s convertible. He looks like a pinup.
Ilya presses into him like that, slow, watching his cock push in, arousal sending him into tunnel vision. Christ, he looks good, he feels good. “Hot for me,” Ilya grits out, as Shane whines under him, hands trembling against the door. “You let me— fuck, I fuck you anywhere, anywhere I want—”
“Yeah, yeah— oh, fuck—”
Ilya pulls back, swallows, and then thrusts again, harder, faster this time, watching the jiggle of Shane’s ass. He grits his teeth, the feeling of it too good, fuck—
“I’m gonna— fuck, Ilya—”
Ilya reaches around to stroke him, fast, bends over to feel Shane’s heat against his chest, “You— fuck, fuck, come, all over my fucking car, like a slut—”
“Shit, Ilya—” and Shane tightens around him, so fucking tight, Jesus, spills all over Ilya’s hand and the floor and yes, the fucking car.
While Shane catches his breath, Ilya pulls out, suddenly possessed by an idea. He feels insane. He’s so hard he’s almost dizzy with it.
“Lick it up,” Ilya says, feeling possessed.
Shane pants. He looks over his shoulder incredulously. Ilya loves how shocked he looks. “What?”
“Go on,” Ilya says, voice low, crowding up against Shane’s back to feel the heat of him. “Unless you want my cleaner to ask questions? Maybe he will figure out who it is. He will say, Mr Rozanov, this young lady you tell me about, fucking her over the side of your car… it is not Shane Hollander, is it? It cannot be that you fucked Shane Hollander until he came all over your forty-thousand dollar custom paint—”
“You are so fucking annoying,” Shane spits, face red, but he gets on the ground easy enough when Ilya pushes him there.
Ilya feels— huge. Towering. He puts his hand in Shane’s hair and pushes him towards the door, and Shane— goes.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Clean it for me,” Ilya rasps, and Shane does. He opens his mouth, and stretches out his perfect, pink tongue, lapping up his own come, and Ilya— fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.
“You missed,” Ilya says, voice too taut to even finish the sentence, and Shane follows Ilya’s grip up to the handle, licks into the indentation of it, a trail of spit where his come used to be. Everything shining and clean, for Ilya. Oh, God. He can’t even hear, eardrums muffled probably from all the fucking blood in his body going down to his dick.
When it’s done, Ilya grits out, “Good,” and he opens the car and shoves Shane into the driver’s seat, on his back, legs splayed out on the concrete of his garage floor, his own come caught in the hair on his stomach, his dick. And Ilya sets one foot on the ground and his other knee on the seat next to Shane and has to jerk himself off there, fuck he’s going to come, “Oh, fuck—”
“You gonna come?” Shane asks, easy and teasing, naked all over Ilya’s expensive everything. He moves a bit against the seat, obviously just trying to get comfortable, and Ilya almost gets a nosebleed from the movement of his hips. “C’mon, Rozanov—”
“Fuck,” Ilya bites out, coming all over Shane’s stomach, his chest. Jesus fucking Christ. He breathes there for a second, two seconds.
And then he kisses Shane on the forehead. His beautiful, beautiful man.
“The car is very sexy, yes?” Ilya asks.
Shane rolls his eyes, the little brat. “Not sure I really see the appeal.”
Ilya gapes at him. The riding, the licking— and then he sees the twinkle in Shane’s eyes, and the little twitch of his dick, and grins. “Oh? Really?” Ilya pulls Shane up just enough to flip him over, pushes his face into the seat, stomach pressed against he leather, smearing their come all over it. “I sit here every day,” Ilya hisses in his ear. Shane moans shakily. “Does it smell like me? Does it smell like expensive leather and my cock? Isn’t that your favourite smell, Hollander?”
“Oh God, oh God,” Shane whines, and Ilya shoves two fingers into his mouth just to watch the stretch of his fat lips around it. Muffled, he tries, “Ilya—”
“You’re hard again, aren’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Shane nods anyway, eyebrows creased with it. “You said you don’t see the appeal. But here you are, hard from smelling the seat of my car.”
“Jesus—”
“Should wear dress next time,” Ilya says, fucking his fingers into Shane’s mouth, watching his spit pool in the leather below him. Shane’s hips are moving, now, tiny little aborted thrusts, awkward from the way he’s splayed out, half-falling out of the car. Helpless. Christ. “Sexy little dress, slit up to your hip. Suck my dick while I’m in the driver’s seat.”
“I would,” Shane says, mouth full.
“Of course you would. My perfect girl. Slut, just for me. Pretty and dangerous.” Ilya kisses his forehead and takes his hand out of Shane’s mouth to jerk him off, wet with Shane’s drool, fast and rough. “Beautiful, too,” he murmurs, and Shane whines high in his throat, almost crying with it. “Too expensive for me to afford, but mine anyway. Yes?”
“Yeah, yes,” Shane breathes, “yours, all yours.”
“Come now, pretty girl,” Ilya says, and Shane tenses, comes all over the seat, dripping down the side to the floor, a tiny, wet sound that sends Ilya’s ears ringing.
Eventually, Ilya helps Shane put his shirt and his underwear and his pants back on, and even his socks, too. “You are okay?” he asks, kissing Shane after every button of his shirt, smoothing his hands over his shoulders.
“Yeah,” Shane says. “That was hot. So fucking gross, though.”
Ilya grins. “You liked it.”
“Maybe.”
Ilya makes sure the garage door is locked and herds Shane over to the door leading inside, carrying his shoes. “You are so beautiful, so sexy,” Ilya says, dropping kisses all over the back of Shane’s neck while he fumbles with the keys. “Maybe next time you will wash my car. With wet T-shirt, like your soda commercial.”
“You’re a perv.”
“You like it.”
“Yeah,” Shane sighs, unlocking the door finally. He turns around and kisses Ilya, then, a tender thing, all full of love. Ilya closes his eyes, basks in it. “Unfortunately, I do.”