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Miles is a little shit who likes to stir the pot whenever he can, mainly his target is Shane because Shane’s smoking hot and doesn’t even know it. He’s not mean about it because they’re friends, and Rose would skin him alive if he dared to hurt her precious little Shane. He just likes to mess with Shane in harmless ways. The poor boy is so sweetly naive that it makes it all too easy.
Case in point, Miles and Rose are taking Shane out shopping, and Miles has a plan. There’s a pool party coming up to celebrate their graduation, and as one of Shane’s closest friends, he wants Shane to show off that tight little body he’s rocking, show those assholes that like to call him a ‘defective omega’ that he’s a hot piece of ass. Because Shane is. They’re only mad that an omega can skate circles around them and has more talent in his pinky finger than they do in their entire miserable bodies.
So, Miles has a plan.
They’re at the mall. With summer in full swing, there are aisles of swim shorts, speedos, and gaudy tropical shirts, even though they live in central Canada. Miles finds the item easily, because he, of course, has a pair in burgundy, and holds it out to Shane, pretending to think it over.
“Yeah, you should definitely wear this.”
Shane looks up from where he’s browsing t-shirts and tilts his head. “That’s… short. Isn’t it?”
“Nah, it’s what’s fashionable now,” Miles nods. It isn’t a total lie. People do buy it, just not usually their peers.
“Oh,” Shane says with a nod of his own, complete trust in Miles because that’s who he is. He has no reason to think otherwise, and this is for his own good, so Miles doesn’t feel too bad about the half-truth. He takes the hanger from Miles. “I’ll go try it on.”
Rose finds him while Shane is in the dressing room. She’s animatedly showing her new bikini when Shane steps out in the shortest powder blue swim shorts in the store. It’s not too tight, but it curves his ass in the best way.
“Holy shit,” Rose breathes out.
“What?” Shane’s ears go pink. “Do I look weird? I’m not sure…” He tugs at the hem. “I can pull it off.”
“Honey, you’re pulling it off right now,” Miles enthuses before taking Shane’s hand in his and making the omega twirl with a flourish. “You look hot as fuck.”
Shane’s ears get even redder. “Okay, but—”
“No, no, no but’s! Live a little, Hollander, it’s our last pool party before you go off to the NHL,” Miles says.
“I haven’t even been drafted yet,” Shane objects.
Miles gives him a look, as if it isn’t a given at this point, before shoving Shane back into the dressing room. “You’re buying it.”
Once Shane’s back in, Rose elbows Miles hard in the stomach. “What are you scheming?”
Miles smirks, taps his nose. “Trust me. It’s all part of the plan. Besides, he looks good, doesn’t he?”
Rose rolls her eyes. “Of course he does. But it’s a little…” She waves her hand around to make her point. “Besides,” she fixes Miles with another scowl. “What if some knot-head alpha tries to hit on him?”
“Babe, that’s the plan,” Miles says with a snort. He’s protective of Shane—they both are, that’s their baby doll—but the kid’s thought about nothing other than hockey for eighteen years. Miles is convinced Shane came out of the womb in full hockey gear, so he deserves a little fun.
Rose arches her brow at Miles; her silent but piercing gaze makes him crack a little.
“C’mon. I just want to give Shane a memorable farewell,” Miles says, sincere. “Show those jealous pricks that he’s not only NHL’s next superstar but also a hot ass omega they couldn’t even dream of touching.”
Rose’s eyes lighten up, chuckling under her breath, and shakes her head. “If this all goes to hell, I’m holding you accountable.”
“It won’t,” Miles smirks.
+++
Ilya couldn’t wait for the tournament to start. They arrived early last week, and he’s so bored out of his mind. There’s nothing to do in Ottawa, and Svetlana’s all the way in LA. He spends his days training, going for runs, hitting up bars with Misha, and watching mindless Canadian TV—it’s fucking torture.
So, when the girl Misha’s been hooking up with invites them to a pool party, Ilya jumps at the chance, anything for a break from his dreary routine and the sweltering heat.
“Ready for next week?” asks Misha, not bothering to look up from his phone.
Ilya shrugs, looking out the window as the city of Ottawa whirs past. “Sure.”
“Of course, the great Ilya Rozanov wouldn’t be nervous.” He pockets his phone and turns to smirk at Ilya. “You gonna take us all the way to the finals?”
Ilya grits his teeth and smiles, cocksure as ever. “That is a given, no?”
Misha guffaws and slaps Ilya hard on the back. He goes on to drone about what the tournament will be like, how it’ll prepare them for playing in the NHL versus back in Russia, but Ilya’s not paying attention anymore. He doesn’t want to think about Russia. He doesn’t want to think about the pressure of how he has to be the best, and he definitely doesn’t want to think about the twinge of nervous anticipation in the pit of his stomach.
Fuck.
“So this is a Canadian pool party?” Misha stops at the entrance. They’re at someone’s house, somewhere outside of central Ottawa, in a neighbourhood lined with identical-looking houses. There’s a cobblestone pathway from the driveway that leads around back where they’d been instructed to follow, but even without directions, the ringing sound of laughter is indicator enough.
“Guess so,” he says as he follows Misha, who is immediately accosted by a tall, slender beta with big blue eyes and curly blonde hair. She waves at Ilya in greeting before pulling Misha over to her friends.
“Guys, this is Misha,” the girl says, pulling Misha down so she can sit on his lap. “And this is Ilya.” Ilya nods in greeting as he takes the other empty seat. “He’s single.”
The girls giggle, offering greetings and eyeing him with interest. He cringes.
Ilya isn’t above hooking up. Sex is easy; it’s uncomplicated. He’s had a pretty active sex life since he presented as an alpha. While there’s always plenty of willing people around to fuck if he wanted to, he doesn’t find anyone here particularly interesting.
“So, you’re also a hockey player?” the beta closest to him asks.
“Yes,” he says, not elaborating further. He angles his body away so he can have a better vantage point of the pool. People are shouting and pushing each other in. It looks fun, so it pisses Ilya off. He wants to be on the ice.
“Are you any good?” she persists. The question is innocuous but it makes Ilya bristle. Of course, he’s fucking good.
Misha scoffs loudly. “This is Ilya Rozanov! He is best!”
The alpha opposite Ilya snorts with a challenging smirk. “Isn’t that Shane Hollander?”
“No!” Misha looks more offended than Ilya. “Omega cannot be better than alpha. It is… biology, yes?” He tickles the beta sitting on his lap, making her giggle obnoxiously.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he snaps.
He has yet to meet this Shane Hollander but he has no doubts that he’s better, not because he is an alpha but because Ilya is Ilya. He will not be bested by a Canadian.
Thankfully, the conversation changes, flowing into summer plans, and Ilya immediately tunes out. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. With the tournament right around the corner, he is more irritable than usual, the anticipation itching under his skin.
Ilya watches as some kind of competition starts in the pool. People are diving in, trying to form the biggest splash. Or at least that’s what Ilya thinks is happening. He’s not too positive, and he really doesn’t care. He’s already planning his escape in the next ten minutes. Misha can do whatever the hell he wants. Ilya isn’t obligated to babysit the older Russian.
Suddenly, there’s a commotion at the entrance. Loud nonsensical cheering, then, “Hollander’s here!” Ilya watches as the crowd parts, revealing a young man with black hair, dark eyes, and the tiniest, most revealing shorts he’s ever seen outside of Europe. It’s not as if he’s never seen men in tiny shorts before. But Hollander is the only one here wearing them, and his legs—fuck. Pale muscular thighs peek through the blue shorts, tapering up to a slim waist and broad shoulders. As Ilya’s eyes return to the man’s face, he notices a smattering of dark freckles across his nose and along his cheekbones, and now, all he can think about is tracing each freckle with his tongue.
“That is Hollander?” Misha makes a condescending noise. “He looks… small.”
Unbidden, Ilya lets out a low growl, reverberating from his chest. All four pairs of eyes stare back at him in shock. He snaps, “I’m hungry.” Without another word, he stands and stalks off to where people are filtering into the house, in the opposite direction of the barbecue grill.
Ilya has never seen Shane Hollander before. Never felt the need to look him up. Why would he? He would see him eventually on the ice, the only place that mattered. But god, now he wished he’d been prepared for it. For how fucking pretty the other man is.
Swearing under his breath, Ilya finds the bathroom and locks himself inside.
+++
Shane should not have listened to Miles. The shorts are too fucking short. He knew that when he tried it on, knew it when he saw himself in the mirror, and yet when faced with Miles and Rose’s praises, he couldn’t help listening to them.
He pulls at the hem.
“Stop twitching,” Miles says, grabbing Shane’s hand. “You look hot!”
He doesn’t want to look hot. Shane hates attention for his looks. Being an omega is bad enough, with everyone’s preconceived judgments about him; the last thing he needs is to play into the stereotype of ‘seductive omega’ or whatever people like to think.
But it is his last pool party with these people. He could try to have fun.
Miles and Rose link arms with him on either side and start dragging him forward to where most of his classmates are milling around. Some of his former teammates are there, but they never liked him much. Shane is indifferent, personally. As long as they play with him, he doesn’t care what they think about an omega as their captain. They can rightly fuck off.
Except they’re staring at him strangely now. It’s unnerving.
“You guys made it!” squeals one of Miles and Rose’s friends. Shane smiles awkwardly, accepting a hug. He’s hung out with her before, but the truth is he’s on the ice more often than not. He rarely sees anyone besides Miles and Rose, and that’s because Rose lives down the street and Miles just comes and goes wherever he pleases. They basically adopted him in kindergarten and never let go.
“You look gooood, Hollander!” she winks. Her name’s Amelia, he reminds himself. They’ve never had classes together, so his memories of her are vague at best. Rose likes to joke that the only way he’ll remember anyone is if they’ve got a hockey puck attached to their forehead. She’s not entirely wrong. Hockey is just that important to him.
Abruptly, Shane smells it. Alpha pheromones. It’s thick and pungent, like someone had sprayed too much cologne, mixed with the smell of dirty, three-week-old socks. The scent curls around him like a dense haze.
“Shane,” a gruff voice murmurs by his ear. Shane digs his nails into his thighs to stop the visceral reaction as he turns towards the alpha. David. He’s an alpha from a nearby town, someone Shane’s played hockey against most of his life, but ever since he presented as an omega, David’s gaze has started feeling much more weighted.
“David,” Shane acknowledges with a nod. “I didn’t expect to see you at our grad party.”
The alpha shrugs, eyes roaming over Shane salaciously. “Well, I had to say congratulations.”
You really didn’t, Shane thinks, but he buries his ire under a polite smile. “Thank you.”
“You look good,” he smiles, but it’s unnerving, not at all charming. “New wardrobe?” he asks, grazing his hand at the waistband of Shane’s shorts. He bites his tongue before he can tell the alpha to fuck off. “It’s a shame you have to be all covered up for hockey,” David continues, like he can’t tell Shane’s uncomfortable—or maybe he simply doesn’t care. It’s not the first time an alpha has ignored an omega’s comfort for their own pleasure.
The pungent smell thickens abruptly as David moves even closer into Shane’s personal space.
Why isn’t he wearing scent blockers? Shane gags, hand clamped over his mouth. “Ugh…”
At the sound, Miles turns away from his conversation with Amelia and glances at him worriedly. Upon noticing David, he scowls. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have your own grad party to go to?” Miles then sneers, “What, no friends?”
“Nice to see you again, Miles,” David smiles, smarmy as usual, his alpha scent souring in acridity with his mood.
Shane’s stomach roils in protest. This asshole knows exactly what he’s doing, not wearing scent blockers. Is this why he came today? To come onto Shane? He’s tried before but he’s never been so upfront before.
“Miles,” Shane says, nauseous, gripping onto his friend’s elbow. Miles turns toward him, concerned, but he shakes his head, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom, okay? I’ll be right back…”
Miles looks like he wants to say something, but with David right there, he only nods and squeezes Shane’s hand.
As he pushes through the crowd, Shane feels eyes on him, sliding over his body. It might be the shorts, or it might be that, for many people here, this is the first time they’ve seen him at a party. The omega captain of Canada’s junior hockey team is a spectacle for them, someone to gossip about.
Ugh, he feels sick.
Shane grabs the bathroom door just as it swings open, sending him stumbling backwards. A hand snatches out to grab him by the arm to prevent his fall.
“Sorry,” Shane looks up, catching light blue eyes staring back at him. “Um…” The man is still holding him, and Shane’s surprised to find he doesn’t hate it, even though he’s clearly an alpha. A very familiar-looking alpha.
“Ilya Rozanov?” Shane gasps, eyes wide. “You are, aren’t you?”
He lets Shane go and stands up straight. “Yes.”
What are you doing at my graduation party? Shane wants to ask, but instead, what comes out is, “You’re amazing on the ice!”
Ilya arches a brow. “I know.”
Shane smiles, offering his hand. “I’m Shane. Uh… Shane Hollander. It’s really nice to meet you.”
Ilya looks at his proffered hand, smirks, then shakes it.
When Ilya doesn’t say anything in return, Shane hurriedly thinks of something else to say, anything to keep the alpha there. He’s watched every game he could find of Ilya’s, marvelling at the other man’s strength and tenacity. There’s no one here that plays half as good as Ilya—well, no one but Shane.
“We’re playing you next week.” Shane inwardly winces at his very obvious statement. “Is this your first time in Canada?” he adds with a hopeful tone. Something about the alpha makes Shane feel at ease, a stark contrast to David.
“Yes,” Ilya says, that intriguing smirk still in place. “You are captain, yes?”
Shane nods profusely. “I am. Um… you are too, right? So, we’ll see each—”
“Who cares how good he is at hockey! He’s just an omega slut. Did you see what he wore today?”
The mortification is instantaneous. He feels it warm up from his chest to his cheeks like a brand across his pale skin. Shane ducks his head, fingers clenching into fists by his side.
“All he needs is a good alpha to fuck him.”
“Yeah, dude. I give it a year before he gets knocked up and quits.”
Shane feels the tears well up, unbidden and pathetic. He’s not even that upset at their words. They’re all things he’s heard before. He’s angry because they had to say that in front of Ilya, the last person Shane would ever want to think lowly of him. For once, he wanted to be seen as someone’s equal, measured by his prowess as a player, not as an omega. But now, surely, Ilya must think awfully of him, especially if he starts crying. Shane has to hold it in. He can’t cry because of some assholes’ words.
Shane turns his head, chest heaving, as he glances to the side. I need to get out of here, he thinks.
Before Shane can run away, Ilya grabs his wrist and pulls him back into the bathroom, leaning past him to lock the door. He puts his hands on Shane’s shoulders. “Breathe, Hollander.” When Shane doesn’t look at him, he feels rough fingers tugging his chin up. Ilya’s eyes are so blue—and steady. “They are assholes. Why listen?”
“I’m not,” Shane replies, indignant.
Ilya snorts. “You are. You’re panicking.”
“Fuck off,” Shane snaps as he pulls his chin from Ilya’s grip. After a few moments, he exhales shakily. “I’ve always known what they think of me. It’s not new.” It isn’t. It’s just annoying and something he never wanted the alpha before him to hear.
“Probably not,” Ilya concedes as he drops his hands. “Is it…” He waves a hand as if to encompass everything they just heard. “Normal here?”
Shane shrugs. “Male omegas don’t usually play sports at this level. Well, not contact sports like hockey, so some people still think it’s wrong.”
“Wrong,” Ilya repeats with a slow nod. “But they are assholes, yes?”
Shane laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, they’re assholes.”
Ilya gives him a smile, more of his usual smirk than anything else, but it doesn’t stop Shane’s heart from picking up speed once again. There’s something about this alpha that makes every nerve in Shane’s body go haywire. I wonder what he smells like…
“I heard you are good too,” Ilya says eventually. “Not as good as me,” his smile is now a full-on smirk, “but good.”
Shane shoves his shoulder with a huff of laughter. “Fuck you. I’ll kick your ass next week.”
“You can try, Hollander,” Ilya replies. “But you will fail.”
For a moment, they stand there, smiling at one another, and it feels right, like this is something they do all the time. Shane’s never been attracted to an alpha before. Frankly, he’s never really been attracted to anyone before. Shane kissed Rose once when they were thirteen, but that had been a disaster. Ilya Rozanov, however, is attractive. He has eyes the colour of the sky with brown hair that curls over his forehead like some kind of Grecian God. Even his gaudy red shirt is attractive on him, pulled taut across broad shoulders and unbuttoned enough to show a sliver of dark curls Shane suddenly has the desire to touch. The man is hot, and it doesn’t help that he’s kind too. Not many alphas would take the time out to help talk down a strange omega from a panic attack. Shane is being pulled into the man’s orbit, and he’s unable and unwilling to do anything but sway ever closer.
“You’re staring,” Ilya points out.
“So are you.”
“Hmmm,” the alpha hums, moving closer. He taps at Shane’s neck. “You wearing scent blocker?” Shane nods, mute, incapable of doing much else. His breath hitches when Ilya’s thumb rubs over Shane’s scent gland. Once satisfied, Ilya steps into his personal space and drops his face to the junction between Shane’s neck and shoulder. He lets out a low groan. “You smell like… pryaniki.”
“Wh—” Shane bites his bottom lip when he feels Ilya’s nose run up his throat. “What’s that?”
“Is Russian dessert,” Ilya murmurs. He drags the flat of his tongue over Shane’s scent gland, drawing out a moan from the omega. “Is sweet.” He does it again. “And spicy.” Then, he latches blunt teeth to Shane’s neck. “Delicious.”
“I… um, I was told I—fuck,” Shane curses when Ilya’s hands wind around his waist, pulling him flush against his chest. “That I smell like gingerbread cookies.”
Ilya suddenly pulls back, brows arched and mouth downturned in confusion. “What the fuck is gingerbread cookies?”
Blushing, Shane tries to explain, “You usually have it at Christmas. It’s got ginger, cinnamon, and—”
“Hollander, Hollander,” Ilya shakes his head. He takes him by the chin again, a thumb pressed hard against Shane’s bottom lip. “Shut up.”
Ilya kisses like he expects—aggressive, dominating, like he’s trying to leave his mark on Shane’s lips. A bruising claim to appease the possessiveness all alphas instinctively display, and Shane’s omega responds in turn, surging up to meet him, each push met with a pull. He wants, more than he’s ever wanted anyone in his life. The need is there in the heat spreading throughout his body, simmering underneath his skin, desperate for more, desperate for Ilya to just touch him. Shane’s not sure if it’s instinct, an unclaimed omega with a compatible alpha, or if it’s Ilya Rozanov, himself. A man so inscrutable, Shane wants to crack him open and peer inside his head to find all of the answers to his questions.
But the way they move together, the way their lips have found a rhythmic dance, it quiets the thoughts in Shane’s head. When normally anxious if he’s doing things right, all Shane can focus on is the way Ilya’s broad shoulders tense under his fingers; the way Ilya groans into Shane’s mouth, the huffs of warm breath when they part to breathe, before Ilya’s teeth find purchase along the edge of Shane’s jaw.
“R-Rozanov,” he gasps out, trying to hold him off for a moment. At Ilya’s questioning gaze, he flushes pink. “I want to smell you too.” The alpha laughs, gives a small nod, before he rubs a thumb over his scent gland.
Immediately, Ilya’s rich, smoky notes rise up around them, blending with Shane’s own spicy, sweet scent. The air is so thick with their combined pheromones that Shane can taste it on his tongue. It makes his head feel heavy, sticky like thick, syrupy honey.
Ilya’s hand drops from his face to his bare thigh, bringing it up so Shane has it hooked around Ilya’s waist. “Your shorts,” the alpha growls, a deep reverberating sound that vibrates against Shane’s chest. “Off,” he says at the same time his fingers dip beneath the hem, curling around the inside of his thigh, so close to where Shane’s already so achingly hard.
Shane moans as he thuds his head back against the door. “M-Maybe we shouldn’t…” He knows this is a bad idea. There are people outside. Anyone could hear them.
But when Ilya’s hand fully cups Shane’s bare ass, he forgets why that’s even an issue. “Rosanov, fuck.”
“Yes, fuck,” he pulls back, smirking, as his blue eyes watch Shane with amusement. “Is what I’d like.”
“Asshole,” Shane glares at him, holding onto his last vestiges of mental clarity. “We shouldn’t do this here.”
Ilya tilts his head, a poor imitation of innocence. “No? You don’t want this?” He highlights his point with a press of his forefinger to Shane’s hole, already so ready for him with slick coating his thighs. “I think you are a liar, Hollander.” He circles the rim with the barest pressure, drawing out the most needy whimper Shane’s probably ever uttered in his life. He’s not the most experienced, not from lack of opportunity, but being an omega comes with a proverbial train of issues. He can’t just sleep with people because he wants to—and frankly, Shane has never really wanted to. At least till now.
Shane’s cheeks are hot with embarrassment, but before he can voice his insecurities, Ilya kisses him soundly, a loud smack. “You want this. Say it.”
He can’t. It feels like an admittance, a loss on his end. He doesn’t ever want to lose to Ilya.
But he does want. He wants Ilya so badly, his whole body is trembling with it.
“Condoms,” Shane abruptly says. “We have to—”
Ilya rolls his eyes as he lets go of Shane, much to his disappointment, and grabs a wallet from the back of his jeans. He hastily pulls out a small square package, then throws the wallet towards the sink. “Happy?”
Before Shane can come up with another excuse, Ilya drops to his knees, dragging up Shane’s shirt to press an open-mouthed kiss right above his waistband. “Stop thinking so much, Hollander,” Ilya says in between nips to his skin, turning it pink with his teeth. Shane whimpers, eyes closed. “Just… feel.”
It’s hard to argue with that when Ilya pulls Shane’s swim shorts down to his knees and places another kiss right on the inside of his thigh. Frankly, it’s hard to think at all when every one of his senses is consumed by Ilya Rozanov.
Shane opens his eyes to catch Ilya staring straight back at him. He holds his gaze as he slowly leans forward and takes hold of Shane’s hips, pressing the flat of his tongue on the underside of Shane’s cock, then taking him into his mouth. Shane cries out, fingers flying into Ilya’s soft curls. “Oh my god, Ilya,” he gasps. This only serves to encourage the man, as Ilya takes him further down his throat.
Pleasure curls with heat in the pit of Shane’s stomach. It’s been a while for him, and he knows he’s not going to last very long, not when the very sight of Ilya giving him a blowjob is the stuff of every omega’s fantasy. Here is a strong, virile alpha with eyes like the summer sky, who has been heralded as Russia’s future Olympic hope—and okay, maybe not every omega cares about the hockey capabilities of an alpha but Shane can’t deny that Ilya’s prodigious talent isn’t as much of a turn on as the man’s looks, or pheromones, or that cocky attitude that makes his omega whimper in submission.
Ilya strokes along the curve of Shane’s ass, a slow, torturous path until he finds what he’s searching for, already so wet and ready for him. He groans in appreciation when his fingers slide smoothly in between Shane’s cheeks. Ilya uses one hand to pull him open while the other circles Shane’s entrance with the gentle pad of his finger. In tandem, Ilya doubles his efforts to lick and suck his cock until Shane is a mewling mess, crying and moaning, so unbearably close he wants to scream in frustration.
“Ilya, fuck, Ilya, I can’t—” he cuts himself off with a loud moan. “Please, please, please.”
When Ilya’s finger finally enters him, Shane bucks his hips so hard, Ilya grunts with a choked-off sound. Shane’s eyes widen. “Shit, are you okay? I’m so sorry!” He cradles Ilya’s face and tries to pull him off, but the other man’s eyes are dark and determined.
He hollows his cheeks around Shane before drawing back with a lewd pop. Ilya stands up and tugs Shane into his chest, kissing him roughly, his arousal so potent in the air. “I can’t wait,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s lips. “Tell me I can. Tell me, Shane.”
His heart flutters at the sound of his name coming from Ilya’s lips. It feels foreign, seductive even, when spoken with that thick Russian accent. Shane nods. “I do… I want you too.”
Ilya smiles. It’s not a smirk. It’s not teasing. It’s a true, genuine smile, and it takes Shane’s breath away. Ilya looks young, boyish. He’s beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” Shane blurts out. He blushes. “Um…”
“You are beautiful,” Ilya says with conviction. He runs his thumb across Shane’s cheekbones. “Your freckles are beautiful.” He kisses his lips. “Your lips are beautiful.”
Shane thinks that if he blushes even more than he is now, he might actually self-combust into flames. So, he does the only thing he can think of to get Ilya to stop, which is grab his jeans and start to unbutton them.
Ilya laughs, a bright, melodic ring, but he doesn’t do anything to stop Shane. Even when Shane clumsily misses a button with his shaking fingers, Ilya just watches him. It’s unnerving but kind of hot. Everything about Ilya is hot. It’s unfair.
When Shane finally manages to get Ilya’s jeans open, he’s struck by his inexperience, now unsure of what he should be doing next. Should he also give Ilya a blowjob? Or does Ilya want to go straight into sex? What’s the protocol here?
“Ty takoy milyy,” Ilya chuckles, taking Shane’s hands in his. At his questioning gaze, he translates, “You are very cute.” He kisses Shane’s hands, once on his left knuckles and a second time on his right. “Take your clothes off and turn around.”
Shane complies, quickly pulling his shirt over his head and kicking the powder-blue shorts off, before folding them and placing them on the counter.
While facing the door, he hears rustling from behind him. Shane can’t help but glance behind him, his spicy, sweet notes spiking with lust as soon as he takes in the sight of defined abs tapering into thick, corded muscles framing a very hard and very large cock. Shit, Shane thinks, suddenly worried all over again.
“Relax,” Ilya says as he presses a kiss to the dip between his shoulders. “I will not hurt you.”
“I know that,” Shane quickly says because, surprisingly, he does trust the other man. “I’ve uh… never done this before.”
Ilya’s pheromones curl around Shane, scenting calm, warmth, and fondness. The effect is immediate. His anxiety and worry easily deflate, leaving Shane pliant to the alpha’s whims. Ilya places a gentle hand on his hip, earning him a soft hum of approval.
Calloused hands scrape softly against Shane’s overheated skin as they move over the expanse of his lower back, but it’s grounding. Shane doesn’t hate the way it feels. At this point, Ilya could do anything to him and he’d welcome it, which should be worrying for someone as regimented as Shane, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s desperate to feel Ilya, a heavy weight against his back, pressing into him, wild and reckless. He wants to see the alpha lose control. Shane has been hit on most of his life. As an omega and a prominent up-and-coming hockey player, it’s inevitable. People want him. But he doesn’t think anyone’s ever made him feel as wanted as Ilya.
Gasping, Shane feels Ilya’s thumb press into the furl of his hole. He arches his back, seeking out Ilya’s touch, needing more. The time for teasing is gone. Shane has been on the edge for too long. “Ilya,” he whines, embarrassment forgotten, “I’m ready. Please.”
With how much slick he’s produced in the past however long, Shane’s positive he doesn’t need much preparation. He just needs Ilya to get on with it.
Ilya responds by thrusting two fingers into the tight, wet warmth of his body, the sudden intrusion making Shane cry out. “Fuck,” Ilya groans as he pushes in even deeper. It’s nowhere near as big as the dildo Shane has hidden underneath his socks and old uniforms, but somehow, it’s a lot more. Every pressure, every sensation—it sparks electricity up Shane’s spine, skittering and expanding across his shoulder before ending in tingles at the tip of his fingers. Maybe it’s the lack of control, of being at the mercy of an alpha, that has Shane moaning and gasping in wanton, shameless delirium.
When Ilya pushes in a third finger, the new angle brushes over his prostate. Shane jerks so hard that he hits his forehead into the door with a loud thud.
Ilya laughs. “Easy,” the man says, rubbing his shoulder with his free hand. “No need to hurt yourself for me.”
“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane grouses, scowling, though Ilya can’t even see him. “Just…” He inhales deeply and forces himself to say it, “Just fuck me.”
Ilya laughs again, but then suddenly, his fingers are gone, leaving Shane empty and arching back in search of him. That’s when he hears the telltale rip of a condom packet, and before long, Shane feels the head of Ilya’s cock at his entrance. There’s a hand on his shoulder as Ilya bends forward to cover his body over Shane’s, front to back. Ilya kisses the back of his neck, right over his scent gland, making Shane shudder violently from overstimulation.
“Ready?”
“Yes, fuck, I’ve been ready,” Shane snaps—though, it’s without heat. His voice is hoarse. There’s nothing but desperation and impatience in his tone, and if Ilya couldn’t tell from that alone, he most certainly would by the heady, cloying scent of arousal in the air.
Finally, finally, Ilya slides in, inch by torturously slow inch, but the pain-pleasure that starbursts through Shane’s body has him clenching down. Ilya bites his shoulder. “You have to relax,” he says with an apologetic swipe of his tongue. He peppers kisses up the column of his throat. “Yes, like that. Good. Good omega.”
Shane’s breath hitches at the praise, feeling the pain bleed into only pleasure, hyperfocused on the feel of Ilya pressing into him until he bottoms out, the back of his thighs pressed against Shane’s ass.
“Fuck, Shane,” he grits out. “You feel so good. So perfect.” Shane twitches. “You like that?” He punctuates his question by grinding into him. “Mhmmm… you want to be good for me, yes?”
Shane moans, nails digging into the wood of the door. “Yes, yes, p-please just move.”
Ilya pulls almost all the way back out before thrusting in again, the sound of skin slapping against skin so lewd in the small bathroom. They both groan in unison. For all his teasing, Ilya isn’t as unaffected. Shane can smell the alpha’s lust, thick in the air, mixing with his own pheromones. As if reading his mind, Ilya grunts out, “You smell good. So fucking good,” as he thrusts back into Shane so hard and fast, he struggles to catch his breath. Little fucked out sounds are all that he can manage right now.
“Shane, Shane,” Ilya moans, wrapping his hand around Shane’s throat, as his rhythm picks up.
It takes a moment for Shane to gather his bearings as he’s being pushed harder and harder into the door to gasp out, “Stop. Ilya, wait, please.”
Ilya immediately stops. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Shane pulls away, cringing at the sound of Ilya’s cock sliding out of him. He shakes his head. “Are you okay?” Ilya asks, caressing his cheek when Shane turns his head to face him.
Shane inhales shakily. “No, no, it’s just…” He doesn’t know how to say it without feeling a little pathetic. He’s a damned athlete, but for some reason, getting fucked standing up against a door is too much for his body to handle. “Can we… um, change positions?”
Ilya looks at him for a moment before bursting into full-bellied laughter. He holds Shane’s face in between his large hands and kisses him fondly. “Milyy,” he says, before nodding. He pulls Shane by the hand towards the toilet and kicks the lid closed. Ilya sits down and pats his lap with a smirk. “C’mon. Get on.”
What is he, a horse? Shane thinks, though he still finds himself obeying. Ilya doesn’t even have to use his alpha voice to get Shane to comply. Fuck, he’s so pathetic. But that’s a spiral for another day.
Shane straddles the toilet, both hands going to Ilya’s shoulder. As he begins to question what he should do next, Ilya takes him by the hips and gently guides him down.
“You want to ride me, right, Hollander?” Ilya teases, the use of his surname back. Shane doesn’t hate it either. He likes that Ilya alternates. He’s starting to notice Ilya uses ‘Hollander’ when he’s challenging Shane, and his first name when he’s being cute.
Shane rolls his eyes, but again, he’s bereft to deny anything Ilya asks of him right now. And he wants this too. They had only just gotten started. Neither of them has come yet. Shane takes Ilya’s cock in hand, then gets thoroughly distracted by the weighty girth of the alpha. Warm, wet from Shane’s slick, and—“Shane, if you keep doing that, we will be finished too soon,” Ilya warns.
Blushing, Shane quickly looks away from those all-too-perceptive eyes. He focuses back on his task, guiding the alpha to his entrance. It’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen, sexier than any porn he’s ever watched. Nothing compares to the way Ilya’s cock pushes against Shane’s hole, the way it feels when he pops past the rim and stretches out Shane’s inner walls, moulding it to his length. Shane moans, unable to look away, arching into the slide of Ilya’s cock until he’s fully seated.
Curiously, Shane clenches at the fullness, mewling at the feel of the alpha inside him.
“Fuck,” Ilya growls out, eyes lidded, watching Shane with a predatory grin. “You’re fucking amazing.”
Ilya runs his hands up Shane’s body, scratching his nails over his nipples experimentally. At the whimper from Shane, he smirks and leans forward, hot breath ghosting over him. “Move,” he says, and then latches onto a nipple, sucking it in between his teeth.
Shane’s whole body jerks forward, grinding down, but he doesn’t know what to do next. He’s never done anything like this before. What if he’s bad? What if he ends up hurting Ilya somehow? He tenses, thinking of all the ways he could fuck this up.
“Move, Shane,” Ilya commands again with the faintest hint of alpha voice.
In any other situation, Shane would be annoyed at an alpha demanding anything from him, but with Ilya, he welcomes it, delights even in the way his mind immediately quiets, his omega curling in submission to the alpha’s wants. It is more than enough to pull Shane out of his own head, and he starts to move. Tentative at first, unsure, like a baby fawn learning to walk for the first time, but the thick slide of Ilya’s cock has Shane losing all reservations. He wants this; he needs this. Shane rides Ilya with more enthusiasm than technique, chasing after the first seedling of pressure growing steadily behind his core. “Ungh, Ilya, Ilya, fuck,” he moans, throwing his head back, as he holds onto the alpha’s shoulders tightly.
“Come here.” Ilya guides Shane with a hand curled around the back of his head. “Kiss me.”
Shane easily complies, leaning forward to slot his lips against the alpha’s, sighing into the kiss. Although he tastes of ash—cigarettes, probably—there’s also a hint of sweetness, an indescribable taste that’s all Ilya.
Ilya abruptly grabs Shane by the hips and tugs him even closer. The sudden angle has Ilya’s cock driving into his prostate. “Fuuuck!” Shane gasps with a shout. His rhythm stutters out at the change, but Ilya’s hold on him is firm, fucking up into Shane with an unrelenting, almost punishing pace.
He’s close, so fucking close, the pressure building rapidly with every forceful thrust, until he hurtles over the edge with a sharp cry, spurting over his own stomach and Ilya’s, a starburst of euphoria firing through every synapse. Shane throws his head back, nails digging into Ilya’s shoulder, as he rides out waves upon waves of his orgasm. The pleasure expands from his core in fissures of electricity along his nerves, tingling throughout his body and leaving him a trembling, mewling mess. Shane unwittingly clenches around Ilya’s cock when a tremor rocks through his body at a particular bruising thrust against his oversensitive walls. Ilya growls loud and predatory as he loses control, finding his own orgasm a few seconds later with a harsh, painful snap of teeth over his scent gland. He doesn’t break skin but it’s enough to have Shane sobbing at how right it feels.
Ilya groans against Shane’s neck, nosing back and forth. “Perfect,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss. “So perfect.”
Shane can only hold onto the man, unsure of what else to do. There’s a plethora of emotions running through his mind and he can’t parse through any of them right now. He feels raw, exposed—yet he doesn’t hate it either, not when Ilya has his arms around him, mouthing at his scent gland and whispering sweet nonsense against his skin.
“We should get cleaned up,” Shane eventually says when he feels his cum start to dry, pulling at the hairs on his stomach. But although he is the one to suggest it, he doesn’t move. Ilya chuckles; it has Shane tilting his head in confusion. “What?”
“I did not expect you to…” Ilya considers his next words for a moment before smirking, “hit it and quit it, Hollander.”
Shane blanches. “No! That’s not—I wasn’t going to…” He gripes with embarrassment. “You’re an asshole.”
Ilya grins, reaching up to stroke the rough pad of his thumb along Shane’s cheekbones. “I love your freckles.”
It’s pathetic how Shane’s heart flutters instantly. “Shut up.”
“I do,” Ilya says, genuine. His blue eyes twinkle but not with his usual mischief. It’s fond. “You are pretty.”
Shane rolls his eyes and uses one hand on Ilya’s shoulder to push up. The feeling of Ilya sliding out of him elicits a drawn out moan that has Ilya’s scent spiking with lust once more. Shane hits him on the shoulder. “Stop that. We need to get out of here,” he says, brain finally resetting and realising they’re still in the bathroom of someone else’s house.
Ilya laughs. “Okay, okay, little omega, we will clean.”
As Shane stands on wobbly legs, he scowls. “Not little.” He may be shorter than Ilya but he is no less as muscular. He knows because he’s worked hard enough on being the best of the very best. Still, the teasing endearment doesn’t piss him off as much as it would had someone like David said it. What is it about Ilya Rozanov that has Shane so wrapped around his fingers?
Shane turns away first to grab his clothes by the sink.
Laughter rings out from behind him again, and then, he feels hands sliding around his waist and a soft kiss placed on his shoulder in apology. “Yes, yes, you are Shane Hollander. Canada’s future star.” He drops another kiss. “But do they know how sexy you moan for me? Hmmm?” Instinctively, he bares his neck for the alpha. “How good of an omega you are for me?” He feels teeth nipping at his scent gland, and his omega whines with want, with the need to be claimed by this alpha. “Only for me, yes?”
Shane hums, eyes closed, and totally under his spell. “Yes.”
His eyes fly open when he feels fingers on his chin angling his head as Ilya draws him in for an impassioned kiss. It’s all tongue and little nips to his bottom lip, before Ilya is pulling away, smiling. He smacks Shane’s ass. “Okay, now, get dressed.”
Dazed, Shane can only nod, robotically pulling on his clothes. What the fuck was that?
Once they’re both cleaned up and dressed, Shane feels a sudden aching sadness, that this will be a shameful secret they both keep close to heart, never to see the light of day again. He understands though, if that is to be the case. Shane’s the only omega in the league. He has to work twice as hard as any other alpha or beta. Being with an alpha, even if they are mated, would only make him appear like a stereotype of his gender. And Ilya probably wouldn’t want that either. Why would he want to be linked to an omega? Not when his career is also just beginning. They don’t even know each other.
This was a mistake.
Shane pushes away the emptiness in his chest, averting his eyes away from Ilya’s gaze. “Um… I should go,” he says quietly. “It was nice to meet you.” What the fuck, Shane? He cringes at himself, feeling so stupid.
His hand is on the doorknob, determined not to cry over something that was clearly a one-time thing, but then Ilya is caging him against the wall, one hand against the door to prevent it from opening. “Shane,” he says. “Give me your phone.”
Shane whirls around, eyes wide and stinging. “What?”
“Your phone. You have one, yes?” Ilya asks, amused.
“Yes, of course I do,” Shane nods. He pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it over. Ilya takes it and quickly types something. Satisfied, he hands it back. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you my number,” Ilya shrugs but there’s a touch of vulnerability to his expression now, something Shane hasn’t seen before and he feels pulled once more into the alpha’s gravity. “Will you text me?”
“Why?” The question is out before he can stop himself.
Ilya exhales slowly. “I don’t have sex with omegas. It is too,” his brows furrow for a moment, “complicated.”
Hurt isn’t enough to encompass the sudden whooshing in his chest as all his breath leaves him, his omega whimpering pathetically from the alpha’s rejection. Shane’s eyes well up once more. He grits his teeth to prevent himself from begging for Ilya to say something, anything else.
“Yebat,” Ilya groans under his breath before reaching for Shane but he turns his head, avoiding the man’s touch. “No, no, Shane,” he coaxes softly. “Look at me, please.”
Shane obeys, though his brain is screaming for him to run away.
“I don’t have sex with omegas,” Ilya repeats. “Because it is all the same. Alphas, betas, omegas—they smell like nothing to me.” He reaches for Shane again, thumb stroking along his jaw. “But you, Shane Hollander. You smell like home. Do you understand?”
He thinks he does because it’s the same for him. Alphas have always smelled gross to Shane. He’d assumed they always smelled like the inside of a locker room because they’re hockey players. But Ilya’s scent is nothing like that. It’s as intoxicating as it is familiar, seductive as it is comforting. Shane could bury his face in the crook of the man’s neck and not surface for days.
“I think so,” Shane says quietly. “Does that mean you… uh, and me?”
“I don’t know,” Ilya answers honestly. “But we can try, no?”
Shane’s smile is beatific, mixed with relief and awe. “Yeah, yes. We can try.”
“Good,” Ilya chuckles before kissing Shane softly. “Now, go. Text me later.”
Shane takes a fistful of Ilya’s shirt and pulls him in for another kiss. “Okay,” he murmurs against the alpha’s lips. “See you?”
“Next week,” Ilya nods. “When I kick your ass.”
Shane snorts, opening the door to the bathroom. “You wish, Rozanov.”
Laughter rings out from behind him as he leaves. “Bye, Hollander.”
Fuck, I’m so screwed, he thinks, smiling.