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Ilya learns how easy Hollander is like this: with Ilya on top of him, nipping down his smooth chest, seeking every mole and wayward freckle, cataloguing with his tongue and teeth. They’ve been fooling around in Hollander’s massive bed in Hollander’s massive apartment for the better part of an evening, Ilya rolling out of bed to raid the fridge between rimming him agonizingly with the lightest kitten licks he can manage, sucking Hollander’s fingers while jacking him slow and tight, holding Hollander’s hair and fucking his mouth.
And now they’re here, and Hollander’s writhing underneath—practically humping the hipbone Ilya’s got pressed between his legs, those sweet desperate sounds he makes getting louder and louder, and he reaches up to hook his fingers around the slats of the headboard some interior designer picked out for him. Arches his back; when Ilya pauses to look up at him, he’s already wearing that knit-browed halfway-to-coming face, bottom lip tucked into his teeth.
He’s so easy, Ilya thinks. Too, too easy to get him just where Ilya wants him, squirming and begging and practically holding his ass open after about two minutes of foreplay. It’s like riding the exercise bike with the resistance turned all the way down. He’s wheeling forward far too fast to dig up the deep, satisfying muscle-burn, that pleasure of earning it.
Ilya flattens a hand over Hollander’s warm soft stomach. Kid’s a fucking furnace; he’ll wince and arch at the chill shock of Ilya’s cold skin.
He does wince, right on cue, and his fingers seize around the headboard, knuckles curling sharp. Without thinking, Ilya reaches his other hand up and gathers Hollander’s wrists, pinning them where they’re stacked atop the five thousand pillows. Like this, he’s got Hollander in his grip from tip to toe. His wrists, belly, hips, all stuck steady under Ilya’s weight, and it’s not like Ilya’s never been on top before, but he’s never quite held Hollander down this way, and he’s definitely never seen Hollander go this still, this suddenly.
Something in Ilya’s stomach tightens, gnaws.
He dips down, gets his nose into that soft juncture at the top of Hollander’s shoulder. “Look at you,” he says. Runs his teeth up the line of a tendon and whispers into his neck, “Are you going sweet on me now, Hollander?”
Hollander says nothing, just whines small and kittenish from the base of his throat. His wrists have gone gentle in Ilya’s grasp, whole body unwound from the near-orgasm tension of a few moments ago. It’s new. Hollander’s easy, yes, but he likes to pretend, likes backtalk and raising an eyebrow. Not now.
There it is, that endorphin high coming on, mixed dizzy with the sick tug in Ilya’s stomach. He’s getting something out of Hollander now, pushing a limit the same way he pushes his own when he finds the edges of what his body can do on the ice. It’s head-spinning; he feels drunk, Hollander looks drunk under him, lashes fluttering lazily, and Ilya can’t do anything but what he wants.
“Turn over,” he orders, and kneels up over Hollander just enough to give him space to comply, wrists rotating in Ilya’s loosened grip as he goes face-down without a word, settling his hips between Ilya’s knees, loosing a long breath out as his face sinks into the pillow.
Ilya settles a hand to the back of Hollander’s neck now, mirrors the grip he’s got on his wrists. His skin is so soft everywhere; the man must bathe in moisturizer or something, because Ilya’s never seen any other hockey player this supple all over.
Hollander’s pulse thrums beneath his fingers, warm and alive and waiting. Ilya strokes with his thumb, tracing down the line of a tendon. Spreads his hand over Hollander’s throat until his fingertips find the firm swell of Hollander’s windpipe. Hollander’s throat works under his hand, breath catching even as he’s melted under Ilya.
He’s so fragile, Ilya thinks, fucking ridiculously because he’s seen Hollander dodge punches, spit blood from his mouth, uncover deep purpling bruises like they’re nothing. Hockey shit. But now, in his hands, Ilya feels like he could snap Hollander in two, stretched thin and needy as he is. Ilya wants to. It carves out the core of him, how he wants to.
Sasha never made him hungry like this. Sasha was the hunter of the two of them: luring Ilya in, showing him just how, exactly, to have gay sex, having bright ideas about a new position in which Ilya could pound him into the mattress. Power bottoming, Ilya’s heard it called over here. No mistake, he liked it, liked fucking Sasha and feeling big and powerful and like he was doing something to please him, satisfy him. But this—Shane Hollander—
This kid came to him knowing nothing, or as good as, and he acts like it’s the first time in his life he hasn’t known exactly what to do, which it probably is. It’s a blood rush to Ilya’s head every time he gets to issue an instruction, every time he gets to find a new thing Hollander likes.
Now: Ilya’s hand, Hollander’s back. Palm sliding down, down, skidding over the light sweat Hollander’s broken until he reaches the still-wet crease of his ass and thumbs it open, stroking at the spit-matted hair there. “You like when I touch you here,” Ilya says. Hollander gives him a moaning hum, so Ilya goes on: “You like when I lick you, get your pussy all wet.” He pushes his thumb against Hollander’s hole, still unfucked for the night. It twitches under his touch. “Tell me.”
“I do,” Hollander says into the pillow, low and sluggish. “Please, I—”
Ilya’s hands move on their own, his grip on Hollander’s wrists clamping bruise-tight, his other hand lacing into Hollander’s hair. He yanks, jerking Hollander’s head up until his face is inches from Ilya’s above him. Hollander’s eyes are glassy, his lips bitten-wet.
“Tell me,” again. “All about it, Hollander.”
“Please,” Hollander whispers. Half-moaned. “I like it, I want—”
“Want what.” Ilya’s fingers tighten in his hair.
“Your cock,” Hollander says, babbling now, words slurring slightly. “Cock, your cock, I like your cock, I like it in me, I think about it every time I look at you, please, I—”
He’s half out of his mind. Ilya presses Hollander’s face back into the pillow and holds it down. He lowers his forehead onto Hollander’s shoulder blade a moment and rests there, feels the rise and fall of his breath, steady and slow. Ilya could live here, bowing to Hollander’s hot skin, this soft creature pliant beneath him. He could crawl inside everything he wants to do to Hollander, a cave diver plummeting into the yawn of aching need.
Focus up. There’s no lube. There might be lube, but he doesn’t want to let go of Hollander for even a second to rummage in the nightstand. He slots his cock, instead, into the warm cleft of Hollander’s ass. Ilya’s barely given a thought to how hard he’s been for the last half hour or so, but the pressure and drag against Hollander’s skin is such a sweet relief that he hears himself loose a low growling moan into Hollander’s back.
It’s not comfortable; the thin sheen of his own drying spit isn’t nearly enough to slick the way as he fucks into the space between Hollander’s perfect little round asscheeks. But it feels base and animal in a way that’s right for how Ilya wants Hollander right now—ragged-edged, dirty, the aching rub physical as it is mental.
Ilya thinks of that first, soft kiss in Hollander’s hotel room years ago. He’d seen that fragility then, too, and met it with gentleness. He feels like a wholly different person here, now, rutting at Hollander, gripping him like prey. When did his want turn into this animal thing? Is this who he really is? Was he always this way, underneath?
Ilya allows his eyes to squeeze shut. Gives himself over. The thrust of his cock turns quicker, sloppier, the head of it catching on Hollander’s entrance every few slides of his hips. He’s drooling at the tip now, slicking the way, and if he’s letting himself follow his basest instincts would it be so bad to let himself press in, just a fraction, just enough—
He grips himself; aims. Circles the head around the puckered skin, spreading precome where Hollander’s twitching, wanting.
“Let me—”
“Whatever you want, Rozanov, please,” Hollander says, shaky, muffled.
Ilya feels Hollander pushing against him, bearing down, slackening the way. He’d coached Hollander through this motion for the first time in this same bed, on these same pillows. How different the air feels now, charged and alive and tense instead of syrup-thick.
When Ilya breaches him, Hollander seizes beneath, body going hard and tense in an instant. He makes this sound, low and wounded. Cold shock blooms in Ilya’s hands.
“You need me to st—”
“No,” Hollander bites out, short sharp breath of a word. “No, just—give me—just a second—”
There’s need, still, under the pain in his voice, and it makes the hungry thing in Ilya’s gut uncurl, rear its head. Hollander’s so tight, tight, tight around the head of his cock and Ilya’s worst self wants to shove down into it anyways: hold Hollander’s squirming body down through the hurt and take. He wouldn’t, he doesn’t, but the acid curdles in his stomach anyways.
Hollander’s wrists are taut in his grip now, and Ilya spits in his other hand and gets it around himself. Squeezes. There’s little leverage to be had like this, but he’s somehow so close to the edge already, and he pistons his hips into his hand, letting reality narrow to the aching point where Hollander clutches at him.
When he comes, spurting over Hollander’s raw skin, he dips his nose into Hollander’s sweat-matted hair and whines low and long, the sound coming from somewhere deep, deep in his chest.
–
It’s dead quiet after. Ilya buttons his shirt with unsteady fingers while Hollander pulls the wet-streaked sheets off the bed. His wrists are splotched an angry red. Ilya hadn’t even touched him in the end, just held his hips and had him rub himself off into the mattress while Ilya kissed and licked down his sweaty back, unable to bear the distinct possibility of reaching under Hollander’s torso to find him soft.
Ilya can hardly look at his face. Hollander had done an awful job hiding his wince when he clambered off the bed. He’ll be sore in his plane seat tomorrow.
“Listen,” Hollander says, breaking the silence as he pours himself water in the kitchen. He looks up at Ilya, and his eyes are clear and level, but he starts stammering. “It’s—do you want to—I just.”
Ilya cannot. Not ever, but especially not now, when they’re both still rubbed-raw and stinging. “I am going now.” He picks up his keys.
Hollander’s mouth opens. Closes again. He chews at his lip. “Okay. I’ll—I’ll text you.”
Ilya won’t answer.