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The hand is too soft, the touch too tentative.
Shane drops his forehead down on the pillow, closing his eyes. Maybe if he tries hard enough he can pretend the voice is deeper and less smooth around consonants.
“You’re so hot,” the man pants, an LA lilt to it instead of the Russian accent Shane has been missing for months. The lack of it makes Shane’s eyes sting, which is incredibly fucking embarrassing, but Matt, the guy currently trying to finger Shane’s ass, takes it as a compliment on his efforts, so whatever. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you. Was all I could think about when I first saw you tonight.”
“Yeah?” Shane asks in an attempt to finally get into this. He hasn’t managed to for the last twenty minutes, but maybe a little dirty talk will help.
“Yeah,” Matt says, and then falls silent.
Well. So much for dirty talk. A familiar voice inside his head purrs, Not as good as me, huh, Hollander? Have I ruined you for everyone else?, and finally Shane’s dick twitches. He breathes out, imagines the weight of Ilya’s body on top of his, his necklace digging into the space between Shane’s shoulder blades as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the nape of Shane’s neck.
“That’s it,” Matt murmurs. His fingers keep straying from Shane’s prostate, which is annoying and definitely not helping Shane’s situation; his dick has softened again, which happens sometimes, but he won’t get hard again if Matt continues to completely miss the most erogenous spot inside his body. When Ilya fingers him, it’s constant pressure, easy and playful, and it always ends with Shane’s thighs shaking and his mouth begging to be filled.
Shane should probably be worried about his brain’s inability to shut up about Ilya Rozanov.
“Can you blow me?” Shane asks because this isn’t working and even if he were stretched enough, the thought of Matt putting his dick anywhere close to his hole makes him feel sick.
“Sure,” Matt says, and proceeds to give Shane the most boring blowjob he’s ever had. Or maybe he’s just not a cocky Russian with an unfairly talented tongue, beautiful golden skin and sly blue-green eyes.
Two minutes later, Shane comes to the thought of Ilya on his knees for him in the shower and has to dig his teeth into his bottom lip so hard it hurts to keep Ilya’s name from spilling out of his mouth.
***
Apparently, five beers are enough for Shane to completely lose his marbles and decide that texting Ilya Rozanov at almost four in the morning is a good idea.
Shane
(3:56 a.m.) Fuck you
The response comes shortly after.
Lily
(3:57 a.m.) ?
Shane
(3:58 a.m.) You’re pissing me off
Lily
(3:59 a.m.) what did I do
Shane locks his phone and tries to collect himself. Ilya didn’t do anything because he’s all the way across the globe in fucking Russia and Shane still can’t get him out of his head. But Shane had five beers and he’s curious. Or maybe masochistic.
Shane
(3:59 a.m.) Are you sleeping with anyone in Russia?
Lily
(4:02 a.m.) why? you miss me?
Shane
(4:02 a.m.) No. Of course not
(4:02 a.m.) just wondering
Lily
(4:05 a.m.) 😘
Shane
(4:07 a.m.) Fuck off
Lily
(4:08 a.m.) don’t be boring Hollander
(4:08 a.m.) just tell me you want my dick
Shane
(4:08 a.m.) you’re such a fucking asshole
(4:08 a.m.) I tried hooking up with someone tonight
Shane stares at his phone for six long minutes in which he seriously contemplates just flinging it out of his window before it finally lights up with Ilya’s response.
Lily
(4:14 a.m.) tried?
Shane
(4:14 a.m.) Yes, tried
(4:14 a.m.) It wasn’t as good
Lily
(4:14 a.m.) you mean it wasn’t as good as is with me?
(4:14 a.m.) I’m not surprised. Your pretty dick loves me 😉
Shane
(4:15 a.m.) god
Lily
(4:15 a.m.) is fine
(4:15 a.m.) you can tell him I will blow you in three weeks after I scored four goals against you and made your goalie cry
(4:15 a.m.) try not to torture him with other men who don’t know what they’re doing until then
Shane stares at the texts. Three weeks. He can wait three weeks. It’s just twenty-one days. They’ll have passed before he knows it and then Ilya will be within touching distance and… Shane swears.
He opens his browser and searches for images of Ilya Rozanov. It’s mostly just photos taken of him at pressers and during games, with shit lighting that somehow doesn’t take away from his beauty at all. There’s a photo of Ilya at face-off, a smirk on his face, and Shane knows it’d been directed at him. Another photo of Ilya with a bloody nose. A photo of Ilya getting into an opposing player’s face.
Shane feels his dick twitch and wonders what’s wrong with him. Twenty-one days is a long time.
Shane
(4:21 a.m.) You won’t win. Fuck you.
Lily
(4:21 a.m.) we’ll see
(4:21 a.m.) [Image.png]
Shane’s heart stumbles in his chest. Unfortunately Ilya’s too smart to send a photo with his face in it — Shane does kind of miss the sharp cut of his jaw, his teasing smile, the golden curls falling into his forehead — but this is nice, too; Ilya’s spread out on a couch, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, with his fingers under the waistband and the palm of his hand resting on his abs. The tips of his fingers are probably just grazing the root of his cock.
Shane feels his mouth water, which is confirmation enough that he is genuinely losing his mind.
Shane
(4:23 a.m.) I wish you were here
Fuck, that sounds way too intimate considering he’s responding to a fucking nude. Well, something close to it anyway. He quickly types out a second text.
Shane
(4:24 a.m.) so you could fuck me
Lily
(4:25 a.m.) yes
(4:25 a.m.) send me a photo of you so I can jerk off
Shane has never sent anyone a racy photo of himself. He looks down the length of his body and frowns. He’s hard and he’s wearing white Calvins, which he thinks Ilya would appreciate mostly because the fabric is a little damp where it clings to the tip of his dick. Is that embarrassing to send? Ilya always comments on how wet Shane gets, so maybe not.
Shane
(4:26 a.m.) what?
Lily
(4:26 a.m.) a photo of you, Hollander
(4:26 a.m.) I want to jerk off
Shane
(4:27 a.m.) can you stop saying my name?
(4:27 a.m.) that kinda defeats the purpose of us using other names
Lily
(4:28 a.m.) you think someone will be reading this conversation?
(4:28 a.m.) they would have died from boredom by the time they got here because you’re being a prude
Shane
(4:28 a.m.) I’m not a prude!
Lily
(4:29 a.m.) fine
(4:29 a.m.) Jane, please send me a photo of your wet pussy so I can jerk off
Shane covers his face with a hand. His skin is hot to the touch.
Shane
(4:29 a.m.) that’s not gonna do it for me
Lily
(4:30 a.m.) oh my god ok
(4:30 a.m.) here, look
(4:30 a.m.) [Image.png]
(4:30 a.m.) is not so difficult, see?
Shane’s blush deepens immediately when he opens the photo. Ilya’s strong hand is wrapped around his hard dick, the fine hairs across the back of his hand golden in the dim lighting. His right leg is bent at the knee and resting against the backrest of his couch. Shane’s eyes shift from the muscle of his thigh to the flushed tip of his dick to his strong lower arm and then to the dark hair trailing down from his navel.
Lily
(4:32 a.m.) that doing it for you?
Shane
(4:33 a.m.) You know it is
(4:33 a.m.) okay give me a sec
Shane pulls his underwear down and gives himself a few firm strokes. Even this is better than the blowjob he’d received two hours ago. He tries to angle his phone in a way that makes his dick look good, flexes his stomach a little so his abs are more prominent, and takes a photo. He makes himself send it before he can think about what he’s doing too much and chicken out.
His mother would kill him if she knew he was sending dick pics to Ilya Rozanov. Actually, Shane would kill himself if his mother knew he was sending dick pics to Ilya Rozanov.
He shakes his head, and stares back at his phone. Ilya’s typing, but there’s no new text yet. It takes another minute until one plops up on his screen.
Lily
(4:35 a.m.) your dick is so pretty, Hollander
(4:35 a.m.) wish you could give him a kiss from me
(4:35 a.m.) or can you do that?
(4:35 a.m.) i know you do yoga
Shane snorts. He’s not that flexible, which he knows, because he has tried. Not that he’d ever tell Ilya that, though.
Shane
(4:36 a.m.) no I don't think I can suck my own dick
Lily
(4:37 a.m.) ok then I’ll do it for you
All of a sudden, Shane’s phone starts vibrating in his hand. He’s too shocked to see Ilya’s name on the screen to even consider not answering his call.
“Hollander,” Ilya drawls. “Are you even jerking off?”
“Yes,” Shane says, blinking at the ceiling. He tightens his hand around the base of his dick, squeezing, because he can hear that Ilya, on the other end of the line, definitely is as well.
“You’re not doing it fast enough,” Ilya complains, which makes Shane raise his eyebrows because Ilya asking him to speed up can only mean one thing.
“Are you close?”
“Yes, Hollander,” Ilya says. “We’ve been talking about our dicks and how I’m the only one who can get you off. Yes, I’m close.”
Shane breathes out on a laugh. He runs his thumb over the tip of his dick, spreading the moisture there. “Shit. Okay.”
“Do you have lube,” Ilya asks, “or are you wet enough on your own?”
Shane closes his eyes. He can hear the glide of Ilya’s hand over his skin as he strokes himself. It makes heat pool in the pit of Shane’s stomach.
“Wet enough,” Shane admits breathlessly. His face is still burning.
Ilya moans in response. “Fuck. Hollander, you—”
“I was thinking about you,” Shane pants. He’s getting close, too. “While I was— you know. I kept thinking about you. That is why I was pissed.”
“Were you?” Ilya purrs.
“Yeah.” Shane waits for the cold stab of shame, but it never happens. “I wanted you so much. No one else— it’s just you.”
Ilya’s breath hitches as he comes. Shane clings to the broken moans he lets out and, two quick strokes later, feels himself spill over his hand. His orgasm washes over him, causing him to tip his head back against the pillow and his eyes to squeeze shut. He’s only vaguely aware of the sounds he’s making, and can’t bring himself to care if they’re high and whiny.
“God,” Ilya says, a few moments later. “No idea how I’m going to survive three weeks without getting to fuck you.”
“Focus on hockey,” Shane suggests, “so I’ll at least have to put in a little effort to score against you.”
Ilya snorts. “Who won MVP again?”
“Yeah, last season, dude,” Shane says. “You’re not going to win anything this season.”
“We’ll see, Hollander. Sleep well.”
Shane hums. “Yeah, you too.”
Ilya’s the one who hangs up, but ten minutes later he sends Shane a text.
Lily
(4:59 a.m.) were you looking for a hookup today or are you trying to date?