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His coat is already folded, draped over his arm where it won't crease. He knocks on the door, glances over his shoulder. He keeps his face flat and blank. Nothing's happening here. Nothing. Nothing is happening here.
It's been three months. Two texts from Russia within ten days of Vegas, then nothing. Shane spent the summer chewing on the memory of Rozanov's face when he spread his legs. If he thinks about it when he's got a finger or two stretching his rim, it makes his stomach descend into static. He can teeter on the edge of coming just from his dildo if he laser focuses on Ilya's smile, if he remembers how pleased he was at the already tender-red glisten of it that night.
The door opens.
Rozanov's hair is still damp from his shower. Shane's is too—if his hotel wasn't on the other side of town, he'd have showered there, teased himself with fingers and soap, let the hope build in his belly so that it wasn't quite as fevered when he knocked on the door. Instead, he cleaned off the sweat at the stadium, and wore his game day suit (and Reeboks, mom, yes) to Rozanov's house.
The house is nice. He watched the video tour Boston Magazine did on the tail of the cup, so he technically already knew that, but he wasn't quite prepared for how nice it is in person: airy and clean and modern, even now, like no one lives there.
There are a lot of windows. There is also, he knows, a staffed gatehouse and walls that are probably twelve feet high. He lets Rozanov press him into the wall, and doesn't argue back.
"Get on your knees," he says, and Shane goes.
Ilya's joggers are hanging off of his hips, and when Shane tugs them down and presses his face into his cock, the smell is almost too clean. He moves his nose into the crease of Rozy's leg, mouths over to his balls, draws one in between his lips and sucks.
Rozanov's hands go to Shane's hair and he groans, "Hollander, yes."
Then Shane groans. He didn't know how much he was missing his name in Rozanov's mouth.
Ilya's hips stutter forward, and Shane's hand steadies against one of them. He brings his other hand to Rozanov's cock and whines at the slide of the texture of Rozy's balls over his tongue as he lets them go. He moves his mouth to the length of Rozy's cock, and starts in on it. He knows he's gotten better at this, but it barely matters with Rozanov's fingers in his hair, his palm against Shane's cheek, and his cock heavy against Shane's tongue.
"Mmm, yes. Come here," Ilya's hands on Shane's head bring him up, and he presses his fingers into Shane's mouth. "Are you feeling generous tonight, Hollander? Want to give me everything I ask for?"
Shane moves his tongue against the pads of Rozanov's fingers, slides it over the sides, and closes his lips to draw them further in.
"Hmm, I think you are feeling generous, yes?"
Shane nods.
"Good. You have showered?"
Shane nods.
"You have showered well?"
Shane's eyes narrow, his tongue still mobile against Rozanov's fingers. He cups his hand around Ilya's cock and squeezes. He's not entirely sure Rozanov understands what goes into being ready to fuck—being comfortable with it. And, of course Shane is ready. But he doesn't nod. Yet.
"Turn around," Ilya says, and his fingers tug against Shane's lips. He tucks his thumb under Shane's chin and doesn't let his fingers move a centimetre as Shane turns to face the wall. Rozanov's other hand makes quick work of Shane's fly, and instead of reaching in, he slides his hand around Shane's hip, over the meat of his ass and into the cleft.
"Is okay?" he asks. Shane isn't sure, but he thinks maybe Rozanov's accent is stronger off of three months in Russia. It makes Shane dizzy, hearing his voice, soft and insistent, in his ear.
Shane nods, and Ilya's fingers press against his hole. Gently, not thrusting, not yet, just pressing, soft. Shane feels himself relax, feels it from his neck to his knees.
Rozanov pushes him into the wall, keeps him standing as his voice gets deeper, more feral, in Shane's ear. "If you have showered well, I will fuck you twice. First with my tongue. Then with my cock. I will fuck you until you forget your name."
Shane's forehead is against the wall, and his mouth is slack. Rozanov's fingers are pressing into his tongue, palm cupping his jaw. He's not sure he's holding any part of himself anymore, pinned between Ilya and the wall like a fly.
"You want this?" Ilya asks.
Shane nods, or tries to.
Ilya draws his fingers out of Shane's mouth, down his neck, over his chest. "Say it."
"I want it. Fuck, Rozanov. Yes, I want it."
Rozanov backs off a bit, just enough that Shane can feel his feet under him again. Then his hands are gone, and the weight and warmth of him are gone, too.
"Come," Ilya says.
And Shane needs a moment to get his balance back, okay, sue him.
By the time he tracks Ilya's footsteps up the stairs and into the bedroom, he's completely hard, and he can't seem to catch his breath.
Rozanov's shirt is off, and his pants and socks, and even so, Shane knows he must look twenty times more wanton: mouth slack, chest heaving.
"Oh, you like this idea, Hollander. You have never had a mouth there?"
He feels a little dizzy, like he's taken a particularly unexpected hit. "You know I haven't," he snipes back.
"I think you will like," Rozanov says. He sprawls out on the bed, pushes himself up against the pillows.
Shane looks at him. He's so fucking beautiful. Every freckle and mole makes Shane want to lick him, makes him want to follow the trail of marks with his mouth, makes him feel insane with the way he couldn't possibly catalogue them all, the way he wants to.
"You want to be dressed, during?" Rozanov asks.
"Oh, fuck you," Shane says, and he reaches for his buttons, tugs them out, undoes his cuffs, slides his shirt off and starts to crease it in the middle, starts to move his hands in the comfortable geometries of folding the shirt and then his cock twitches and he's looking down at Rozanov's shirt and he just…lets go. Drops his shirt on the floor, shoves his pants down over his hips, his knees, catches his boxers with them, steps on a tangle of sock and pant leg like he's wearing jeans and not his fucking twenty-thousand dollar Rubinacci.
He stumbles onto the bed. "How…?"
"Knees and chest" Rozanov says, and comes up to bully Shane into the shape he's seeking. Shane can hardly see anything, can only sense Ilya moving behind him, his shoulder pressing into the inside of Shane's thigh, his hands on Shane's ass, kneading and pressing, then his thumbs prying Shane open.
"You are ready?" Ilya asks.
"Yes," Shane groans. He can feel Rozanov's breath, hot and wet against his hole, he feels like he might come just from this.
"And you did shower well?"
Shane can hear the smile in his voice, the laugh. He wants to laugh too, but he feels too desperate for that. Instead he says "Fuck you," and presses his ass back to where he can feel Ilya's face waiting.
Ilya moans into him, the vibrations of his lips, and the wet, and the hot, and Shane can't. He has nothing left to feel. This is it, the whole thing, the whole universe, exploding inside him, the big bang. He clenches, briefly, then relaxes entirely. Ilya's arm comes around his waist, stabilizes the angle, and Shane feels himself dripping, dripping, dripping against the bed, his cock twitching and brushing against Ilya's arm, but it's nothing to the way Ilya's mouth feels against his hole, the way his tongue is so thick, has it always been this thick? Surely it's nothing like a cock, but…maybe it is.
Ilya pulls back and tugs against his rim, holds both thumbs alongside his hole and pulls. Shane groans. He couldn't even try to look now, if he wanted to. Couldn't see anything at all. Not that he has any desire to change a single thing about what's happening at this moment.
"Look at you, Hollander," Ilya says. The air hitting his hole is a little cold, an electrifying contrast. He shivers against Ilya's thumbs, squeezes, feels the pull, the resist. "Look at you taking it so pretty." Ilya leans in again, licks a stripe over Shane's hole, and then spits.
"Oh god," Shane moans.
He can feel it: the slide, the drip of Rozanov's spit coating him, and then his tongue is back, gentler now, alongside his thumbs, alongside the full galaxy, the entire milky way, everything that is and was and has ever been.
He can't control his breathing, he's gasping, panting, reaching back behind him to tangle his fingers in Ilya's hair, to have something to hold on to, but he can't quite reach. He feels the brush of Ilya's curls against his fingers, arches his back more, strains to reach. He needs to hold something. He needs to hold on. He's floating away.
Ilya's hand reaches for his, grasps, squeezes, and he comes.
His hips spasm, his moan wild, uncontained. Rozanov's tongue is in his ass, his thumb pressed all the way in alongside it. Shane's hand is clenching, his breathing ragged, the inside of his skull alight with a kind of pleasure he's never felt. The world leaving him behind, leaving him gasping.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Mmm, yes," Ilya says. His thumb is still inside Shane, pulsing in and out gently, easing him through the last moments of pleasure before he's oversensitive and done. "I think you liked it."
Shane is boneless. He can't find a single thought in his head, let alone something worthy of response. Then, Rozanov starts sliding his thumb out, and Shane feels bereft—empty and alone and…
"Get in me."
"What?"
"Get in me. Fuck, I need you." He whimpers
Ilya thumb stops on Shane's rim, barely breaching him, and for a moment, he is uncharacteristically silent, then "But you are…"
"Please."
"Okay." There's the sound of movement that Shane doesn't try to track: Ilya's hand on his hip, a drawer, a click, a bitten-back moan. Then the head of Ilya's cock, pressing in, pressing and pressing.
"What do you need?" Ilya asks as his hips hit Shane's ass.
"Fuck me," Shane says, and there's no way he can keep a whine from threading through his voice. "Fuck me, please."
And he does. He does it gently, brutally, unerringly. He rolls Shane to the side and plants a foot on the floor and uses the leverage to keep his hips moving in a steady pulse. It's impossible to feel everything Shane is feeling, and eventually he stops trying. He just melts into the sounds of Rozanov's voice saying all kinds of filthy, lovely things; the constant shift and pressure and glide of his skin, the bite of cold, new lube being spread over Ilya's cock between thrusts.
All the while, even as Rozanov moves his legs, moves his body, he doesn't dislodge himself from Shane. When Shane's bent in half on his back, only partially aware of how he got there, Ilya's tongue and fingers trading time with his mouth, he's lost entirely.
"Are you close, Hollander?" Ilya asks, rough and quiet in Shane's ear, "Twice? Should be easy for you."
And maybe Shane should feel bad about how Ilya can play him like a fiddle, but when he collapses into his second orgasm, it's impossible to second-guess anything that feels that good.
Ilya comes soon after, his lips seeking Shane's, his hands clenching against Shane's cheek, against his thigh.
He shifts his hand to hold the base of his cock, but doesn't pull back, just waits, mouthing up Shane's chest as he goes soft inside of him.
It's slow, but each shift of skin, every slide of latex against lube, the twitching of Shane's hole where Ilya is still waiting, unreasonably patient, for Shane to let him go, sends a shiver of pleasure up Shane's spine.
"You were feeling very generous, I think," Rozanov says, and Shane chokes out a laugh.
"Yeah," he says, a bit more sardonic than he means to be. "I'm a real giver."
"This is not right way of seeing it, Hollander," Rozanov says, smugly, drawing Shane into another devouring kiss. "We both give. You give me your ass, I give you my cock. We are very good at sharing."
Rozanov's cock slips out as Shane laughs, and he misses it immediately, but he doesn't feel bereft this time. He feels sated, brimming over with whatever it is that Ilya gives him.
"I wish you were a little bit better at sharing the puck," he says, and Rozanov laughs.
"I share with Andre. You are on wrong team."
And Shane can't argue that, even though he's never once before thought of the Metros as the wrong team for him.
Ilya, usually all motion and action after they fuck, continues to lie half on top of Shane. He shifts his hips enough to slip off the condom, and tosses it in the general direction of the nightstand.
The exhaustion from the game hits Shane all at once, then, and he wishes he could fall asleep here, blanketed in Rozanov's warmth and weight, but he can't. He shifts his hips, rolls out his shoulders, and Ilya leans to the side, props his head up on his hand.
"You will shower?"
Shane is covered in his own cum, but he doesn't want to let go of the lassitude of being fucked within an inch of his life. "I'll grab a washcloth," he says. "I gotta get back."
His pants and shirt are draped over the end of the bed when he comes out of the bathroom, and Ilya's back in his joggers, the waistband riding low over the deep dents in his hips.
He follows Shane to the front door, and flips the lock open.
Shane is about to walk out when Ilya's hand on his waist stops him. He lets himself get drawn into a kiss, fast and heated, and then Ilya presses something into his hand.
He's down the drive, waiting for his cab, when he looks at it and immediately shoves it into his suit pocket.
Jane: What the fuck is this?
Lily: Buttplug.
Jane: I know that.
Jane: Why did you give it to me?
Lily: For next time you are feeling generous.
Shane feels his face heat with the idea. The cab pulls up then, and he slides in.
He thinks about when he'll see Rozanov next. They have three more games against each other this season. And there's the All Star game. Playoffs, most likely. The cup.
He thinks again about Rozy's face after the awards, how it wasn't just want written there, how it was something bigger, something more. Something he wants to see again.
He knows he's in too deep, but he's never been a quitter.
Jane: Ok.
Lily: You will be feeling generous in December?
Jane: We'll see.