Chapter Text
Shane
“I fucking love an all-star game…” I think that’s what Ilya says against my lips, but the deafening roar of desire pounding in my ears keeps me from being sure.
“Try winning next time, it makes it even better” I try to sound confident, but I’m breathless, too impatient to get what I’ve been waiting for for three weeks.
“You talk too much, Hollander.” He kisses me like he means to shut me up, then adds, his voice dropping three octaves lower, “It’s good thing the speed contest was earlier… After tonight your legs won’t be of much use to you.”
“I’d still be half a sec fast-...Fuck Ilya…” Every bit of my comeback dies in my throat when his hand finds my cock without warning. A satisfied smile curls over his lips as he presses in closer, rubbing his own boner against mine.
We still haven’t even got our pants off, yet, both of us too eager to touch after he’d spent the whole night watching me from the other side of the room. I’d almost felt bad for the poor rookie who’d looked so excited to talk to me. I’d nodded, smiled when I had to, but my mind had been somewhere else entirely. Mostly on how to hide what was pressing hard against my fly.
My back is pinned to the hotel room door. Out in the hallway, beyond the thick wooden barrier, our drunk teammates are still shouting. The danger of it turns me on, my want building under Ilya’s hands. “Are you going to do something about it, or are you slow at that too?” His gaze darkens.
“So impatient for me…” Ilya whispers, dropping to his knees. Fucking finally.
The second his lips meet the tip of my dick, I know I am done for. Every bit of want, need and desire that have been building up over the last few weeks escape in a low guttural moan. My head tips back, nearly knocking against the door. Ilya’s hands tighten on my ass, taking me deeper. I grab at his blond curls without meaning to. It’s all so intense I need something to ground me, to keep from coming apart. “Ilya… stop… I’m so…” His free hand comes back to my mouth, muffling the sound coming out of me. “Jesus Christ, Shane. You want the whole building to know it’s you?” He is still stroking me, but the comment helped me regain enough willpower to pull him back up. We kiss, our foreheads colliding. We both strip down our pants without pulling apart.
He leads me to the bed, the back of my legs hitting the frame. I am almost crashing onto the mattress from the weight of his body against mine. “Let me take care of you first,” I manage to choke out. He nods against me, taking a deep breath. There’s something so unbelievably sexy about seeing Ilya lose his shit. There’s something even more gratifying at being the reason for it.
I take my time, my fingertips tracing their way until they hit a thin line of hair, “Now you wanna be slow?” he says, though there’s no heat behind it, solely frustration that goes away the second I free him from his boxer. I start with my tongue, tracing the outline of his boner. Buried into my hair, Ilya’s hands are more pressing. Ten years ago, in a setting quite similar to this one, I would have never had the nerve to make him wait it out. Everything was fast, rushed, incredibly great but guided by the fear of it ending. It was different now. We had the whole night. We had our whole lives. The image of a graying Rozanov flashes through my mind, and I can’t help smiling stupidly as my gaze drops to the ring glinting at his throat. The moment my mouth closes around him, his whole body tenses. His muscles, shaped by an afternoon at the rink, stand out even more under the dim light of the bedside lamp.
“Shane, fuck…” Whatever self-control he had left is officially gone. I press my fingers into his thighs and pick up the pace. His eyes flutter back helplessly. He’s close…So…
“Ilya,” I manage to utter, his gaze finds me, frustrated, turned-on. I am not the one to make him beg. I’ve never been.
“Shane, please.”
“No…It’s not…” By now, I’ve stopped moving completely. My hands are still on his thighs, but the desperate urge to feed the fire burning through me has been replaced by something colder.
I don’t know how to explain it to him. My tongue feels heavy, my head still thick with the intensity of it, my stomach twisted up by a weird feeling. My brain seems to have forgotten how to build a proper sentence. So instead, I just reach for his hand. He lets me guide it where I want it, though not without a teasing comment.
“Left all that stamina on the ice, Hollander? Do I need to finish the job myself?”
I ignore it and position his hand right where I need it to be and apply a slight pressure on it. “Here, do you feel it?”
It seems small, I wouldn’t have noticed it if my fingers weren’t wandering there. “Is nothing.” Ilya says unphased.
“But you feel it, don’t you?”
I can almost hear the sarcastic come back about how he didn’t know I was into medical play. Somehow it doesn’t leave his lips. He just looks at me, tenderly probably trying to soothe my worried state.
“I do,” Ilya manages to pull me back up so we’re at eye level, “You…” he leaves a couple of kisses down my torso, “...Worry too much.”
“And you clearly don’t worry enough.” He seems to want to continue exploring the rest of my body, his head disappearing into my neck, softly biting it. “You should get it checked.”
“Is small, Shane.” he protests softly, as he stops his movement to finally get a good look at me. “Ok. ok. I get it checked out.”
“Good.” I say inhaling loudly, “Tomorrow.”
“No, Shane. I was going to put pants on over this hard-on and go ask concierge for medical advice.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do for the past fifteen minutes but my boyfriend…”
“Fiancé.” I cut him. He rolls his eyes but can’t suppress a smile. It still feels surreal.
“My fiancé is too boring.”
“I am not boring. I just care about you, that’s all.”
“I know.” Ilya says, pressing his lips to my forehead lovingly. “If only you could care as much about my dick…”.
I scoff, keeping my eyes closed for a second longer and breathing him in. He’s still only half-hard, but I know from experience it will take me less than a minute to get him there again. So I let my hand drift down and start stroking him,purposefully. His breathing roughens almost immediately. His fingers tug at my hair, like he’s trying to hold himself together. I don’t stop until he comes apart against my stomach.
Fuck he is beautiful. Breathless, riding the waves of pleasure crashing upon him, mine.
His head falls back against the mattress with a dull thud, mouth parted, chest heaving. For a second, I just stare at him, still stroking him lazily through the aftershocks, wishing I could keep him exactly like this.
When the orgasm seems to die down, Ilya reaches for me, “Come here”. On the wall, our shadows blur together until they look less like two bodies and more like a single mass of black. The yellow glow from the bedside lamp lights his face, catching in his eyes so brightly I could almost believe we’re standing in golden hour. I have to fight the urge to trace his features with my fingertips.
Outside, the noise has started to die down. The guys must’ve gone back to their rooms by now. Which means I’m free to leave too. The prospect doesn’t exactly fill me with joy, and that familiar frustration settles in me all over again.
“Wha… what are you doing?” My voice comes out less steady than I’d like. He catches me completely off guard. Then again, I should’ve known he wasn’t about to leave me like this.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Drawing. Obviously.” He lifts an eyebrow with a casualness completely at odds with the movement of his fingers below.
His eyes stay fixed on mine, intense, searching my face for a reaction.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, echoing my exact words.
If only he knew half the things I thought about him.
He moves with precision. It has been a long time since either of us hesitated, since we had to guess what the other wanted or how to give it.
Who am I kidding, Ilya Rozanov always knew.
Our bodies are the kind that stopped belonging only to themselves a long time ago. The kind that surrendered to the inexplicable connection between us, something that existed far beyond touch.
“Is it good?”
For a second my brain doesn't catch why it wouldn’t be. Mainly because it has never not been. I think it’s one of his sarcastic comments again. The ones I’ve gotten better at deciphering, but still find challenging when exhausted.
“Yeah, of course it is.” I assure him, I pull him to me with my hand at the back of his neck. My tongue meets his, as if to make my point for me.
“Shane, you’re not…”
I lower my head, dragging my eyes away from his face. My cock is soft in his hand.
“Fuck…”
I pull back slightly, and he stops to look at me. This has never happened. If anything, my problem is always the other way around.
“I’m sorry… I must be tired…”
Or terrified. Completely terrified, ever since I felt that tiny shape shifting under my fingers as I touched his warm skin.
“Is okay. Is fine.”
There is no judgment in his voice, no pressure, but I still can’t help feeling guilty. I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for weeks, and now I’m ruining it.
The sheets rustle under his weight as he stretches out beneath the duvet.
“We don’t have to do anything, Shane.” He pats the space beside him. “Being near you is enough.”
“You’ve been near me all day,” I point out.
His hand settles on my waist, and my back fits against his chest.
“And you’ve been glued to Hayden. Do you realize what kind of torture I went through just to be with you?”
“Must have been horrible.”
“Fucking unbearable,” he insists.