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Ilya isn't sure of many things, but he knows Shane Hollander is going to be the death of him. This affair was doomed from the start, and dragging it on is only asking for trouble. The problem is that any rationality or ideas of ending things vanish under the weight of Hollander's pretty brown eyes and freckles. Still, there are worse vices. Danger has never been a good deterrent, which is why he texts Hollander his room number after the game. He nurses a glass of vodka while he waits. Games are never as much fun without Hollander. He's the only player who can challenge Ilya the way he needs.
There's a quiet knock a few minutes later, and Hollander slips inside like his ass is on fire. "Hi.”
“Hello.” Ilya leans in for a kiss, only to be thwarted by a hand on his chest.
“Wait.” Hollander turns and triple-locks the door—even sliding the chain into place. “Anyone could’ve walked in.”
“This is my room.”
“Which everyone on the Raiders knows.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “You think too much.”
“Maybe you don’t think enough.”
Ilya glares at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. “You are always so paranoid.”
Hollander scowls. “We’re in a hotel full of sports journalists and hockey players.”
“Paranoid,” Ilya repeats. “You stress too much.” He grabs Hollander’s chin and angles his head until their eyes meet. “Here, you give it to me.”
“What, just like that?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else while you’re at it? A cure for world hunger?”
Ilya gives him a shove. “You trust me?” Hollander hesitates, and he pretends it doesn’t sting. He scrambles to rephrase the question. “You have fun with me, yes?”
This time, the answer is immediate. “Yes.”
“Then you trust I know what you like.”
Hollander reddens. “I guess so.”
“Good. I would not hurt you.” Not unless you asked.
“I know.” Hollander looks as surprised as Ilya at the sentiment.
Ilya drags him into a kiss that verges on desperate. "Now trust." He’s never craved another person this badly before—to the point of distraction. His hands rest on Hollander‘s hips, fingers overlaying the slender waist that haunts him in his dreams. “For example, when we are alone, you will take your clothes off.”
“What? Why?”
“When you are here, you are mine.”
Hollander licks his lips, and Ilya wants to follow the trail of his tongue. “And that’s supposed to help me relax?”
“I know you will relax.” Ilya walks backwards, thumbs digging into the other man’s hips until he follows. “I even closed the curtains.”
“Wow. How thoughtful.”
“Yes.” Ilya steps away and leans against the suite’s pitiful excuse for a desk. He gestures at Hollander’s form. “We are alone.”
Hollander fixes him with a decidedly unimpressed look before nimble fingers begin undressing. The single-minded devotion to all tasks is equal parts irritating and arousing, which perfectly describes Hollander in general. Ilya likes everything about his physique, but the other man’s pectoral muscles might be his favorite. They’re proof of Hollander’s strength but still manage to fit perfectly in his hand. Ilya lets his eyes roam over his body, smirking when he sees Hollander’s already half-hard.
“Turn around,” he says. He loops his belt into a cuff and pulls it tight around Hollander’s hands, tying them behind his back. “In the washroom, there is a mat. Kneel on it.” The look of bemused confusion is almost adorable. “I am busy. Wait for me there.”
“I can leave if you have stuff to do.”
“Did I say to leave?” Ilya asks, voice sharpening.
Hollander’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry.”
Ilya shushes him. “Do not apologize. Trust me. Yes?”
“Yes, sir,” Hollander murmurs.
The address nearly undoes him. “Leave the lights off. And the door closed.”
Ilya doesn’t let himself watch as Hollander climbs to his feet, turning back to the latest brand contact like it holds the answers to the universe. The language is unnecessarily convoluted and he’d decided to sign days ago, but it makes a good pretense at work. The illusion has to be believable. Ilya is rarely a patient man, but for Hollander, he is willing to pretend. With their profession, anything that might leave visible marks or handicaps is out of bounds. Even below the collar isn’t a safe bet—too many communal showers have taught him that lesson the hard way.
Ilya doodles in the margins of the contract, keeping one eye on the clock. He doesn’t have a specific length of time in mind; however long it takes for Hollander to transition from restless fidgeting to that in-between place where he finally lets his mind drift. There’s a vulnerability when he’s there that Ilya treasures more than most people. He’s never witnessed something so beautiful yet so deadly. It’s like a dog biting down on a stick of dynamite; they are going to explode together.
He can count the number of people who have trusted him on one hand. His family might need him, but that’s a universe away from trust. It may not extend beyond the bedroom, but Ilya’s greatest utility has always been his body, whether it’s for hockey or sex.
He strains for any noises from the washroom. If Hollander is moving, he’s doing a good job at keeping quiet. Ilya palms himself over the front of his trousers, sucking in a gasp between his teeth. He’s been hard since he texted ‘Jane’ his room number. He strokes himself for a few minutes, imagining Hollander naked and hard a couple of meters away. The jagged way he says Ilya’s name when he’s close. The way his nails dig into Ilya’s back when he comes. The way he clenches around Ilya’s cock like he wants to hold him there forever.
He holds off for as long as he can, telling himself the anticipation will only make it sweeter, before he can’t stand it any longer. If he doesn’t touch Hollander now, he’s afraid he might die.
True to his orders, Hollander is kneeling when he opens the door. His head is bowed, eyes closed, mouth relaxed and ever-so-slightly upturned. The curve of his neck is lovely, and his cock is fully erect. Any traces of his earlier nerves seem to have settled into a kind of serenity.
“Did you move?” Ilya asks.
“No, sir,” Hollander says quietly.
“Good boy.” Ilya ruffles his hair. “Always so patient.” Hollander leans into his touch, and Ilya almost takes him then and there. But the washroom is hardly comfortable, even with the mat. “Follow.”
It takes Hollander a little longer with his hands out of commission. Ilya doesn’t move to help. The bedroom is covered in a surprisingly plush carpet and Hollander kneels in front of him. Ilya takes his time getting undressed, preening under the weight of his stare. He’s always had a bit of flair for exhibitionism.
“Here, you are mine,” he says. He wraps a hand around his cock. “Your time is mine. Your body is mine. I say when you move. When you touch your dick. Do you understand? You have no control. Here, I decide.” Hollander shifts in place, listing closer in a silent plea. “Use your words.”
“Can I please suck your dick?” Hollander’s voice is raspier than usual. Ilya wonders if he sounds the same when he wakes up. “Please?”
Ilya tangled his fingers in his hair, rubbing the head of his cock against Hollander’s cheek. A perverted, possessive part of him wants to know what his face would look like covered in come. Before he can dwell on it for too long, Hollander swallows him with a whine that echoes through Ilya’s entire body.
“That’s it,” he says, fighting to keep his eyes open. He doesn’t want to lose a second of this—the shape of Hollander’s mouth around his shaft, the way his cheeks hollow when he takes him deeper, the moan like he could get off from the sheer act of giving head. “Relax.”
He locks his fingers around the back of the other man’s head and pulls him forward until Hollander is pressed flat against his stomach, cock buried in his throat. “Fuck,” Ilya gasps, rocking into the tight warmth. “You feel so fucking good.”
Hollander gags around the intrusion but makes no move to push him away. On the contrary, he meets Ilya’s gaze through his lashes, dark eyes swimming with tears but stubborn as ever. Even now, he refuses to back down. Ilya adjusts his hold until he can brush his hair away from his forehead.
“Good boy,” and then, before he catches himself, “My good boy.”
Hollander shudders and finally lets himself go limp, letting Ilya maneuver him like little more than a doll. He fucks into Hollander’s mouth like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do—and what a glorious way to go. This infuriating, brilliant boy offering his body and trust like he could ever be worthy of either. Hollander’s tongue presses against the underside of his cock and he swears he sees stars.
“All mine.” Ilya is rambling now, and this is why he tries not to talk too much. “Fucking perfect, Hollander. You beautiful bastard.” Ilya hates him. He thinks he might be falling in love.
Hollander’s throat convulses around him and then he’s coming harder than he has in months—only anchored to his body in the places where they’re touching. Ilya isn’t sure he’s speaking English anymore (he isn’t sure it’s an earthly language), but Hollander is humming around him like he’s the best meal he’s ever had and drinks him down like it’s dessert.
Ilya’s ears are ringing when he finally returns to Earth. He gently pulls his cock free, and the obscene pop almost makes him hard again. Hollander is a beautiful mess. His entire face is flushed, and his cheeks are damp with tears. Whatever product he’d put in his hair has made it stand on end from Ilya’s hands. He collapses against the bed and bends down to capture Hollander’s mouth with his own.
“You can come,” he says, kissing the underside of his jaw. “But no hands.”
Hollander sputters. Somehow, this is where he seems to draw the line. “You want me to hump your leg like I’m…like some kind of fucking dog?” His voice is hoarse but no less indignant because of it.
Ilya shrugs, sitting on the end of the bed. “Your choice.” Hollander’s mouth opens and closes a few times. Were he a different man, it might be endearing. Ilya decides to call his bluff. “Suit yourself.”
Hollander wets his lips. “No. Wait.”
Because he isn’t a total asshole, Ilya applies a generous amount of lube to the shaft of Hollander’s cock. He can’t resist dragging his thumb over the slit as he pulls away and the other man shudders beneath his touch. He leans back on the mattress, leaving one of his legs between Hollander’s thighs. “Go on.”
Slowly, almost painfully so, Hollander begins to move. He slides the length of his shaft up Ilya’s shin, lube and pre-cum dampening his leg. His cock is warm and heavy against Ilya’s skin. The angle can’t afford much friction, but Hollander doesn’t seem to mind. Ilya has never had someone use this part of his body before. There’s something animalistic about it—unadulterated lust and desperation that makes his mouth dry.
“That’s better,” he murmurs. He cards his fingers through Hollander’s hair, mesmerized by the scrunch of his forehead and the way his mouth falls open with each whimper. “So pretty.” He’s heard other players sling variations of the adjective at the other man, but it’s an accurate observation. Hollander is prettiest like this, though, eyes glazed with pleasure as he ruts against Ilya like he can’t get enough.
“Let go,” Ilya says. He cradles the side of Hollander’s face. “I want to see.”
"Rozanov.”
He likes the way Hollander says his name—even better like this. His name has never felt more his than when it's gasped from the other man's mouth. He wonders what his first name would sound like, especially in that same breathless moan. Perhaps it’s for the best he’ll never know.
Hollander slumps against him, cheek sweaty and warm where it presses against his leg. Ilya loosens the belt and slips it free. The leather will probably smell like Hollander for the foreseeable future. He finds that he doesn't hate the idea.
Ilya massages his wrists, watching for any signs of discomfort. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Hollander says, though he doesn’t pull away.
“I have cream.”
“It’s fine, really. It doesn’t hurt.”
Ilya rubs his thumb over his pulse point before letting go. “I need to shower.”
Hollander wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”
“Your fault.” Ilya gives a gentle push until he’s sprawled across the bed. Dressing while covered in lube is a gross sensation. Someone as fastidious as Hollander definitely won’t like it. “Stay here.” He runs a washcloth under warm water and starts to clean the other man’s abdomen.
“You don’t have to do that,” Hollander protests.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “No shit.” Once he’s sure he’s gotten everything, he wipes his leg down and throws the rag in the sink. He steals one of the glasses by the coffee maker and fills it with water. “Drink,” he says. Hollander’s fingers graze his in the exchange. “For your throat.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, sharper than he means. The warm appreciation written across Hollander’s face makes his skin crawl. It’s nothing more than dopamine and oxytocin. For someone with Hollander‘s inexperience, it’s no wonder he’s misplacing the endorphins. It doesn’t mean anything.
Ilya settles beside him and starts the timer that always looms in these stolen moments of afterglow. He opens the nightstand and fishes out a cigarette, ignoring the disapproving side eye. It’s not as though it’s a secret.
“Have you done this kind of thing before?” Hollander asks.
“What thing?”
“You know what I mean.”
So he does. “Yes. Or, a little.”
“It’s…it’s normal, then?”
Ilya shrugs, searching for the appropriate words in English. Even if he could find them, their existence would reveal too much. “Does it matter? You like it.”
“What about you?”
“I like it.” Really, he likes it because the person in question is Shane Hollander. It wouldn’t feel nearly as exhilarating or rewarding if it were someone else. Ilya has always appreciated competence. “Nothing else matters.” Hollander seems placated by his answer, enough not to continue asking, at least. Ilya sticks the butt of his cigarette in the remnants of yesterday’s vodka. “You are feeling okay?”
“Yes,” Hollander says, smiling. His thumb presses against Ilya’s jaw as he pulls him into a kiss. It’s so sweet it makes Ilya’s teeth ache.
(It’s too sweet to last. The rot will set in.)
“I have an early flight,” he says brusquely.
Something flickers across Hollander‘s face, too fast to catch. “Yeah, me too.”
Ilya watches as he redresses and pretends part of him isn’t dying inside. He wants to hold the other man until his alarm goes off. He wishes he were anyone else and that the afterglow could last forever.
"Goodnight," Hollander says.
"Night."
There might be worse vices, but Ilya hasn't found any that hurt quite so much.