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Shane’s spent their weeks apart trying not to think about what to say. Everything he does think of sounds either too needy or too flippant, none of it feels right. He has no idea how their next secret meet-up will go, or even if Rozanov wants to meet up again. He runs through a thousand scenarios in his mind, and still, still, as always, Ilya surprises him.
The moment the hotel room door closes behind them, he turns to Shane.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, softly and at once. Shane’s mind goes blank, his heart swelling almost troublingly quick in his chest. “Been bad at texting. And I was stressed out last time, I know. Distracted by my own shit.” He sighs, his strong hands warm and grounding on Shane’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to bring that to you.”
“It’s okay,” Shane says.
I want you to bring it to me, Shane doesn’t say. I want all of it. I want you to talk to me. I want to hold you through your bad days and celebrate your wins with you, instead of pretending I’m not rooting for you. I want to know about your family, your home life.
I want to know you.
The quiet between them starts to feel thick with everything Shane’s not saying, so he shoves at Ilya, cracking half a smile.
“I already know you’re an asshole,” Shane says.
Ilya grins crookedly, shoving back, but there’s something bright in that cocky, handsome face that takes Shane right back to that night.
Without really meaning to, he blurts out:
“We didn’t even kiss.”
His gut twists with shame and embarrassment, but also relief—it’s clearly been bothering him. And when Ilya’s surprised gaze narrows to something hotter, when instead of flinching away he reaches for Shane, Shane has a moment to be grateful he did end up saying it, because the kiss that follows is the best one yet.
That tongue, that perfect, terrible tongue that brought Shane off in less than a minute—it’s on Shane’s throat again, then his jaw, then slick and sure in his mouth. Ilya moans softly into him, pressing their bodies together, and kisses him deep, and hot, and perfect. Slow and tender with a thrum of urgency all the while, his hands shifting to Shane’s waist, where he’d held him as he fucked him so good last time.
Ilya kisses him and not only is Shane alight with pleasure and relief, he feels present. Everything, everything, everything else falls away, all the pressure and chaos of their lives. There is only this moment and this moment is a good one. Better than anything, better than winning. The way a really good day on the ice feels, only better, closer, hotter. Simpler somehow, in some ways, though in a thousand others utterly not.
It feels simple, here in his arms.
“You’re right,” Ilya says. Shane huffs, trying not to sound as half-hysterical as he feels, arching a brow. “I know, it’s rare.”
“You asshole,” Shane says, kissing him again, blissed out of his mind.
“Actually,” Ilya says, moving his big hand lower, “it’s your asshole I’m thinking about.”
Fuck.
“That’s a terrible line,” Shane says hoarsely.
Ilya drags his other hand through Shane’s hair, grinding their hips together, giving him that world-shifting kiss again.
“Is it going to work?” Ilya’s voice is a rich, low rumble.
“Fuck you,” Shane says, panting.
“Then it is a good line,” Ilya says, and Shane groans, grabbing at him, getting lost in him all over again.
They’re on the bed in nothing but briefs, Shane making sure Ilya sheds every item of clothing he does this time, for fairness.
“You like kissing me.” Ilya doesn’t say it like a question.
“Yes,” Shane answers anyway. Ilya doesn’t say anything else, only kisses Shane hungrier, deeper, slower, his hands palming Shane’s throat and chest like he’s missed every inch of him. “I—I take it it’s mutual?”
Ilya hesitates, but only for a moment. Shane can tell he’s gathering his words, translating them. “You can trust me, Hollander. You don’t have to wait for me to tell you, when you know what you do to me.” He blinks at Shane, his lust-strung gaze earnest. Ilya grabs Shane’s hand, brings it to the cock straining wet against his briefs. “You know,” Ilya repeats, his voice like crushed velvet, “what you do to me.”
Shane nods, swallowing hard. He wraps his hand around Ilya’s length, gratified when Ilya swears and throbs for him. “Yeah,” he says, raspy. “Why don’t you remind me, though?”
Ilya growls, and grins, and pounces.
When they’re both naked, Ilya slips two fingers into Shane’s mouth and Shane sucks automatically, rutting against him, eyes rolling back. Ilya kisses him again, hungrily, greedily, and then he’s grabbing Shane’s ass, spreading him, rubbing his spit-slick fingers to Shane’s hole.
Shane cries out, rocking into him. So many nights with his dildo, dreaming, desperate for this. Ilya toys with his hole and kisses him senseless, Shane clinging to the man’s soft hair to keep from touching his own throbbing erection.
“How about here?” Ilya asks, breathing heavy. “Can I kiss you here?” He curls his fingers meaningfully, and Shane’s vision damn near whites out.
“I—” he starts.
“I want to.” Ilya licks the shell of Shane’s ear with his strong, wet tongue. “I think you’ll like it. I’ll stop if you don’t. Is it okay?”
“I’m—” Shane feels somewhere between painfully horny and about to cry, for some reason. Pretty par for the course with Rozanov. “I mean, I haven’t—I wasn’t, uh, prepared for—”
Ilya groans, rocking that beautiful cock against Shane’s thigh.
“It’s okay. I want to taste you. Do you trust me?”
Jesus Christ.
Shane manages a nod.
Ilya pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, to check in, and that is enough to send all Shane’s anxieties far, far away.
“Do you want this?” Ilya asks. “Do you like the idea? I can just fuck you.”
“I like the idea,” Shane grins. He swallows. “You’ll…still fuck me though, yeah? After?”
Ilya grits his teeth, breathing heavy.
“Yes, Hollander,” he murmurs, rubbing Shane’s hole again. “I’m fucking you tonight.”
Fuck.
Ilya presses him into the pillows and kisses his way down Shane’s body. Slow, almost reverential. Like every wet dream Shane’s tried not to have about him, all rolled together in one. His hot tongue on Shane’s skin, his strong, bold hands on Shane’s chest. He doesn’t suck his dick, and thank God because Shane wants this to last, but he meets Shane’s eyes as he gives it one long, wet, torturous lick, from base to tip.
“Fuck, Rozy.”
Ilya laps a bead of precum, sucks the head just for a moment, and pulls off with an obscene hum.
“On your stomach,” he says, and Shane obeys.
He buries his hot face in the pillow when Ilya spreads his cheeks.
“You’re so pretty,” Ilya says, sounding almost annoyed about it. And then he kisses Shane’s hole open-mouthed, and Shane cries out. “Taste pretty too.” Ilya hums in approval. Kneads Shane’s ass cheeks, coaxes him to his knees. Wraps a loose hand around Shane’s dick and eats him out from behind.
Shane’s entire body thrums so loud with want he wonders if he’s ever truly been turned on before. This is so much more. Every time, with Ilya. So, so much more.
Ilya does eat his ass like he kisses, or maybe how he sucks dick or fucks, whatever, the point is he’s fucking good at it and like everything else he does it makes Shane go stupid with desire.
He licks Shane slow at first. Long, thick drags of the flat of his tongue, sucking at his balls, his taint, grazing his teeth tantalizingly along the curve of Shane’s ass. He laps at him like he’s mapping him, teasing at Shane’s most intimate furls, moaning encouragingly when Shane clenches for him, rocks his hips, arches his back.
“Do you like?” Ilya asks, panting, sounding almost unsure.
Shane lets out a sound that’s almost a sob.
“I think you could make me come like this,” Shane gasps, as Ilya buries his face in Shane’s ass again. Ilya chuckles warmly, licking into him bolder this time. “No, I know you could. Fuck. Fuck.” Shane sobs into the pillow and Ilya goes quiet, save for the slick, filthy sounds of his mouth.
When he pulls back at last, Shane’s somewhere between boneless and strung zip-tight, a wet, needy mess. He hears Ilya get the condom and lube, shivering at the tear of plastic, the click of the bottle.
He expects Ilya to take him just like that, on all fours. But Ilya rolls him over instead, rearranging the pillows to position Shane in a comfortable missionary again, hitching his trembling legs up. His lips are shiny and swollen from eating Shane out, and he’s unmistakably blissed out by it. He kisses Shane without hesitation, and the kiss is infinitely hotter now that his tongue has been fucking inside him.
“Maybe next time I make you come just from licking your hole, yeah?” Ilya goes to give his usual cocky grin, but it shifts into something beautiful and earnest as he presses his dick to Shane’s entrance. Shane arches, reaching for him, and Ilya gives him what he needs, sinking in to the hilt. “Tonight I want to feel you come on my cock again.”
Shane swears, and gives in to Ilya’s perfect, powerful thrusts.
“Please,” he says, and Ilya groans, kisses him, and fucks him so, so good.
Shane tries to tear his eyes away, but Ilya grabs him by the jaw, makes him watch Ilya’s pleasure as he draws out and rocks back in. Doesn’t let Shane hide how much he likes it, needs it, never wants it to stop.
“You’re so pretty when I’m fucking you,” Ilya mutters, thrusting deep. “So pretty all the time. But ridiculous, when I have you like this.”
Shane’s laugh comes out tangled in a gasp, pleasure building in a place within him that only Ilya ever reaches.
“You’re one to talk,” he chokes out. “You get hotter every time I see you. Asshole.”
He expects something snarky spat back. But Ilya keeps his pace, leans up to kiss him, instead.
“Glad you like it,” he says quietly. Shane’s cheeks go even hotter.
“Fuck,” he says, and then there’s nothing but the perfect rhythm of Ilya’s cock.
When it’s over, when Ilya’s showered and settled back in Shane’s arms for the few precious moments before he leaves, Shane’s fuzzy, post-coital thoughts go from bliss, to anxiety, to—
He snorts a laugh.
“Oh my God.”
Ilya’s been lazily tracing the lines of muscle on Shane’s forearm. He squeezes gently.
“What?”
Shane buries his face in his free hand.
”Next time we’re on the ice,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“And,” Shane continues, feeling insane, “I tell you to—kiss my ass—”
Ilya freezes. “Oh my God.”
“Is this what I’m going to be thinking of?!”
Ilya chokes a laugh, more surprised than Shane’s maybe ever seen him. Shane’s cracking up now.
“Hollander.”
“No seriously,” Shane wheezes, “what the hell. Did you do that on purpose?”
“If anything that will distract me more than you!”
“Okay maybe serves you right then, getting you back for that locker room dick pic—”
Ilya shoves him, shaking his head with laughter.
“You monster,” he says.
“You like it,” Shane returns, and Ilya kisses him, still laughing.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”