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Fuck. Shane has never wanted to throw his stick more in his entire life. The crowd goes crazy, the hometown fans cheering for their victorious team.
Just like their captain. Fuck
Rozanov actually roars when the puck hits the net. One second left on the clock and his goal just broke the hard fought tie Shane had been hoping to crush during overtime.
2-1. Bears Win. No overtime. No shoot out. And now Shane will have to wear Rozanov's jersey to bed.
They'd agreed, sort of. A friendly wager between the two of them. Overly friendly. More of a joke than anything.
But by the way Rozanov is celebrating, Shane doesn't think the asshole will be letting him off the hook. Not for this one.
Shane swallows, face flushing as their eyes meet through the crowd of Rozanov's teammates. Hazel eyes dark, his pupils dilating. Rozanov winks at him.
Fuck. Why did the smug asshole have to be so hot?!
They line up for handshakes, captains at the end of the line, like always, at least for them. But this time Rozanov drags him in. A cocky smirk twisting at his lips and his free hand clapping Shane on the shoulder. Anyone watching would assume he was being an ass, like usual, whispering something snarky in his ear, goading him.
They're not wrong, of course, but Shane has to bite back a moan when he speaks.
"10 o'clock," Rozanov orders, accent thick. He whispers something else in Russian. Shane rolls his shoulders back to hide the shiver running up his spine.
He's already so fucking hard, and, to make it worse, Rozanov can tell, his fingers twitching in Shane's hand before they skate apart. Rozanov must be hard too though. Has to be.
Thinking about that does not help though. Only makes it worse, in fact. His mouth actually starts watering when he pictures what comes next. What Rozanov will do when Shane arrives at his apartment.
Shane makes sure he is the first in the shower, head bowed to the tile with cold water pouring down his body. His dick is soft now, but his heart is still racing. His nerves buzzing with anticipation.
Fuck! He actually wants to wear the fucking jersey doesn't he?
-.-.-
Stripping off his jersey from the game, Ilya grins to himself. He holds it in his hands after, looking over the fabric. All the details embroidered on top.
Hollander will look gorgeous in it. The contrasting colors highlighting his tan skin, his blush bringing out those pretty freckles. Ilya is rock hard just thinking about it.
The adrenaline from the game means he's not the only one and no one says a word when Ilya rushes through his shower.
Marlow does raise an eyebrow when Ilya waves off all their invites to go out. He shoves his game jersey into his bag to go home and grins up at his friend.
"I have private celebration planned," Ilya says and the locker room fills with a chorus of wolf whistles. Several hands clap at his back when Ilya makes his way out of the locker room. He laughs, a grin splitting across his face.
When he catches sight of the Metros while they're loading onto their bus. Ilya drives a bit slower, searching for Hollander.
It's easy to pick him out. Ilya would know that ass anywhere and he lets himself indulge for a moment, watching him climb up the steps. Muscles moving beneath his tight pants.
Ilya wonders if he wore them just for him. Not like Hollander to wear anything stylish, or flattering, but there he is. Black slacks cutting around his hips beautifully, cupping that gorgeous ass perfectly.
His cock throbs between his legs and Ilya forces his gaze back onto the road. He'll have that ass in his hands soon enough.
Hollander will look so pretty, wearing his name, his number. Ilya owns that ass. He knows it. Hollander doesn't date, doesn't fuck around. He belongs to Ilya. Only him.
And tonight, Hollander will know it too.
When he gets home, Ilya sets to work. He'd had the apartment cleaned that morning. Groceries delivered. His fridge stocked with Hollander's silly ginger ale.
The words he'd whispered during their handshake rise up in his mind again. Ilya smirks to himself, changing into something more comfortable, with easier access.
"I will fuck you until dawn."
For once, they have the time. The Metros won't be leaving town in the morning. Not until tomorrow evening in fact.
Ilya can take his time, so he will. Every second of it.
-.-.-
Shane uses the code Rozanov gave him to enter the penthouse apartment and the first thing he sees is the jersey. Its waiting for him, hanging on a hook beside the door.
The last time he'd been there, Rozanov hadn't even had hooks by his door.
"Change first," Rozanov calls out to him from down the hall. The kitchen, Shane's pretty sure. His chuckle carries down the hall beautifully, "Want to see you in it all night, Hollander."
With a groan, Shane does as he's bid. He toes off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, replacing the jersey on the hook.
Instantly, his mind conjures up memories from his last visit. His throat bobs. Rozanov has a bench now too, so he takes a seat, takes his time folding his shirt.
Last time, he'd dropped his jacket on the floor and nearly forgotten it on the way out in the morning. He had forgotten his clothes, in his panic, rushing back to the hotel in borrowed sweats after waking up to Rozanov's kisses. His gentle touch.
Shane reaches for the jersey. He'll be staying the night again, that much was clear. Certain. A given.
He'll spend the night. Again. In Rozanov's jersey. Shane's gut twists.
As he's dragging the damn thing over his head, Shane inhales the heavy musk of Rozanov's scent. His sweat. Shane muffles a moan, biting at his bottom lip.
"Fuck," Shane curses under his breath, cheeks burning as he asks, "Is this the one you wore today?" Another barking laugh echoes down the hallway.
Of course Rozanov would make him wear a used jersey. His game winning jersey. The fucking asshole.
Shane's dick swells against his will, straining against the fabric of his pants.
So he gives in and strips the rest of the way, folding all of his clothes to pile neatly on the bench. Everything but his briefs.
"Alright, I'm wearing it," Shane huffs and pads his way, barefoot, down the hall, wearing just his underwear and the jersey.
He finds Rozanov in the kitchen, just as he expected, but not exactly as he expected. Rozanov is cooking. Standing at the cooktop in just a pair of sweats, the waistband rolled down.
Utterly obscene, his entire chest on full display. His tattoo. Stupid necklace sitting atop his collarbone while he stirs something. Cooks. Actually cooks.
"You eat yet?" Rozanov asks, turning his head to look at Shane. His gaze sweeps over him and his eyes darken, more gold than green. Shane flushes at his obvious hunger, and not for food.
"No?" Shane coughs, rubbing absently at his neck. The cooktop clicks off. Rozanov crowds him against the nearest wall. He hasn't even touched him yet and Shane is panting, breaths short.
Eyebrows arch, Rozanov smirks, "Hot and bothered already, Hollander?" Hands graze down his sides and Shane shivers, back arching. Rozanov grabs his hips.
Their mouths finally crash together. Shane can't hold back a moan when Ilya's tongue slips into his mouth. He knows all the tricks. The sensitive spots.
Rozanov holds nothing back, sucking the very air from his lungs. Shane clings to him. He fists his hands in Ilya's curls, dragging him closer, holding him tight.
"So eager for me," Ilya groans, nipping at Shane's bottom lip. He rocks his hips forward, pressing Shane against the wall.
A mouth descending on his throat, Shane hears himself whine. He's so hard already. He wants Rozanov to fuck him, right now, against the wall.
"Fuck!" Shane curses again, legs spreading a bit wider as hands squeeze at his ass. Their hips slotting together. He's not the only one hard.
"Want you in my jersey," Rozanov growls, scrapping his teeth over Shane's throat, "Nothing else." He shoves the briefs down, squeezing at Shane's bare cheeks. "You are all mine tonight. Mine."
He pulls back then. Ilya. Rozanov. Shane shakes himself, leaning against the wall. His legs trembling a bit.
The crooked smile he wants to hate flashes at him when Rozanov back tracks into the kitchen again. He winks at Shane, "Eat first. You will need energy, for what I have planned."
So fucking smug. Shane glares at him, head falling back as he struggles to catch his breath, to calm down. Focus.
His head always goes a bit fuzzy when Ilya kisses him. Rozanov. Shane takes a slow breath and tries not to think about the last time he was in this apartment. Their long night together. Nearly a whole day.
Rozanov had called him Shane. Once. The two of them on his couch, Shane in his lap. Their fucking desperate in a new way. Not rushed or hurried, almost surreal as they leisurely moved from room to room. Bout after bout of mindblowing sex.
He'd spent the night. They'd never done that before. They'd never called each other by their first names either, but Rozanov had started it and now Shane... now Shane found himself slipping up.
Everyone calls him Rozanov. Roz. Not Ilya. Even though it rolls off the tongue so perfectly. Simple and sweet. Shane's breathing picks up. His head spinning, thinking. Panicking.
What if he slipped up in front of other people? How the fuck would he explain why he calls Rozanov by his first name? Why it falls so easily from his lips?
"Ugh," Rozanov groans, "You're thinking too much, Hollander!" He throws something at him and Shane snaps to attention. Blinking slowly, he stares down at the dry broccolli on the floor.
Shane arches a brow and looks up at the man in front of him. The amusement bright in his eyes, nearly as golden as Rozanov's dark curls. Every shade of green dancing in the kitchen light.
He takes breath, biting at his bottom lip, and shrugs, "So make my brain shut up, Rozanov."
A smirk twitches at Ilya's lips. His crooked smile spreading wide. An arm rises and Rozanov beckons him over, a wide gesture that Shane can't help but stumble his way into, burying himself in Ilya's side.
Fingers brush through his hair and Ilya kisses the top of his head, "So adorable, your little freak outs." Shane huffs, shoving at him lightly. The arm draped over his shoulders keeps Shane tucked in close though.
Its awkward, their bodies slotted together, but not moving. Not pushing or pulling to get closer. Rozanov cooks with one hand and rubs circles over Shane's back with the other. Yet another affectionate gesture.
Shane has no idea what to do with his own hands. His thoughts only grow louder, more insistent, and his next breath is gasping.
"Later, I fuck you so good the only thing you can think is my name, as you scream for me," Rozanov whispers in his ear and Shane shivers.
He hides a blush in Ilya's collarbone and his gaze locks on the gold chain he shares the space with, the small gold cross Rozanov never takes off.
For a moment, his head is quiet. Almost silent, with Rozanov's thumb swiping over the back of his neck. He noses at the cross, swallowing hard.
The reality of the situation hits him then. They're standing in the middle of Rozanov's kitchen, just holding each other.
Shane is standing in the middle of Rozanov's kitchen in nothing but the other man's jersey. His underwear abandoned in a pile several steps away. His cock drooling against his stomach, sticking to the fabric of Ilya's used jersey.
It's gross. Disgusting. They're in a kitchen. Rozanov is fucking cooking.
But its also so hot. His dick pulsing when Shane rocks against Ilya's hip, seeking friction as he grinds on him. It earns him a click of Rozanov's tongue and a hand squeezing at his ass again.
With a groan, Shane drops to his knees. He doesn't want to think right now, doesn't want to consider all the ways this is stupid and reckless and just a really bad idea.
The only surefire way to turn his brain off is this. He nuzzles at the bulge in Rozanov's sweats, smirking when Ilya curses above him. Shane places open-mouthed kisses over the fabric and savors the soft rumble of Russian as it leaves Rozanov's lips.
When Shane has this dick in his mouth, everything else stops, the world narrowing to just them. Shane works his jaw wider, mouthing at Rozanov's cock. He tugs down the waistband of the sweats and sucks the head into his mouth.
He hums, sinking down, lips wrapped tight around the shaft. Fuck. Shane likes this, loves this, loves sucking dick. Ilya's dick. Thick and heavy in his mouth, on his tongue.
Why the fuck does he do anything else?
Tongue flicking over the tip, swiping at the slit, licking up the precum leaking out, Shane actually moans. He shifts closer, grinding his own cock down against Ilya's foot, humping the asshole's leg like a damn dog.
Shane doesn't care, not then. His hands gripping tight to strong hips, firm muscles. Ilya will fuck him harder after this. Maybe even soon.
A fantasy flashes in his head, his body bent over the counter next to the stove, Ilya fucking into him. Hard. Fast. Losing himself in it, in Shane.
"Stop," Ilya rasps out, hand fisting in Shane's hair. Shane whines when he's dragged off and Ilya teases him, letting them tip rest against his bottom lip.
"Ilya~" Shane groans. His voice cracks, mouth hanging open. He doesn't lean in again though. The hand in his hair holds him back, a tight fist.
Ilya tucks himself away before pulling on Shane's hair, tugging him to his feet. A hand cups his face, grip firm on his jaw.
"Impatient," Ilya nips at his bottom lip. Shane leans in, expecting a kiss. Ilya's mouth descends on his jaw instead. His lips light as they kiss their way up to his ear, almost tender. Teeth ghost over the lobe when Ilya whispers, "Sit on the counter."
Shane does. He takes one quick look back and then jumps up, perching himself on the edge of the counter beside the cook top. For a second, he gets distracted.
At first glance, the food looks good. It certainly smells good, and there's nothing in it Shane can't eat.
He startles when Ilya presses a cold can into his hand. Shane blinks at it, then looks up at Ilya, arching a brow.
"Drink," Ilya orders, smirking when Shane actually does it. A hand rises to cup his face, Ilya's thumb drags across his bottom lip as Shane swallows his first gulp.
It's cold on his throat, the bubbles fizzing, replacing the salty taste of Ilya's dick with the sharp tang of ginger ale.
"Let me take care of you," Ilya drawls, his voice thick. Husky. Shane shivers and leans into the touch. "I will be rough with you later, I want to be gentle now." The hand pulls back slowly, Ilya stroking his fingers down Shane's jaw.
Shane swallows, throat bobbing. He nods and leans into him even more. Their foreheads pressing together as Shane takes steadying breaths. Ilya grazes another hand up, rising into Shane's hair again, cupping the back of his head.
"No more thinking tonight," Ilya demands, nosing at Shane's cheek, "You are good here, with me. Only me. No worries."
"I'll try," Shane hums and his head drops to Ilya's shoulder. His eyes fluttering closed. He sips at his ginger ale, just listening to Ilya breathe as he cooks. Cooks for him.
No way Ilya Rozanov passes on red meat after a game like theirs for no reason.
The thought makes Shane smile. He ignores the twist in his gut, the anxiety in the back of his head asking what it means.
Ilya told him to stop thinking, so that's what he's going to do. For now.
-.-.-
Finishing dinner takes much longer than it should with Hollander sitting on the counter. He clings to Ilya the entire time, like an octopus or a koala, with Ilya's jersey hanging loose around his body, fabric pooling in his lap.
Obviously, Ilya is fine with this. Entirely unbothered. Hollander's head a pleasant weight on his shoulder. His breathing warm on Ilya's throat, slow and even. Not at all distracting.
He flips the chicken in his pan, basting slowly with one hand, hoping the pan won't move. His other hand is very busy. His fingers brushing through Shane's hair.
When Ilya finally has to move, to cross the kitchen for plates, Hollander actually pouts. His nose wrinkling and a quiet huff slipping past slightly puckered lips.
It is nice, seeing him so expressive. Openly expressive. Unguarded. A rarity. One that usually takes much more effort.
"Time to eat," Ilya tells him, returning to perhaps his very favorite place in the world, between Shane Hollander's legs. They spread wider when Ilya pushes in.
"This is becoming a habit, you feeding me when I come here," Shane murmurs, cheeks flushing a pretty pink as he looks up at Ilya through his lashes. A nervous smile twitches at Shane's lips before Ilya claims them in another kiss.
The kiss is more heated than he intended, mouths crashing together, tongues dueling. Hollander can never just let him win, not even in this.
An arm wraps around his neck, another his waist. Hands gropping wildly. Shane presses into him like any breath of air between them is personally offensive. His fingers clawing at Ilya's back.
Ilya's hands settle on Shane's hips, grip firm as he holds him tight. It is easy, picking him up, carrying him to the table. Hollander wraps his legs around Ilya's waist on instinct. His own personal octopus curling around him, clinging to him.
For a moment, he considers skipping the food, laying Shane out on his table instead, feasting on his pretty Canadian lover.
But the game had been vicious, high impact. Ilya has several bruises blooming on his abdomen and he plans to spend a while kissing Hollander's matching set later.
They need to fuel up, before they do anything strenuous, and Ilya wants to take his time. See just how long he can draw this out.
He keeps Shane in his lap instead, trading long kisses between bites of food, groping at the body beneath his jersey. Hollander grows impatient with their slow pace though. He's already wet, cock leaking profusely between their bodies.
"Rozanov, please~" Shane whines, nipping at Ilya's bottom lip. His face flush with color. Wide eyes stare into his - dark and glossy - full of a desire Hollander will not voice, not without prompting.
"Please what?" Ilya smirks. He tilts his head, kissing up Shane's jaw. His fingers rising on the opposite side as his knuckles graze over Shane's bobbing throat.
Hips roll. Hollander grinding against him. One hand, a quick squeeze at his ass, and Shane stills. He bites at his bottom lip when Ilya mouths at his throat.
Nipping at Shane's ear, Ilya hums, "What do you want Hollander? Tell me, I will give."
"You," Shane gasps out, back arching. His eyes squeeze shut as he begs, "Fuck, Rozanov, please fuck me!" His head lulls to the side, providing Ilya better access to his long neck.
It's amazing, how needy Shane gets, how quickly he gives in when Ilya kisses his neck, mouthing at the long column of tan flesh. Shane whines.
"Fuck, I need you now!" Shane trembles in his lap, nearly vibrating with need. His voice low and breathy, "I need you inside me, Ilya, need you to fuck me."
The sound of his name on Shane's lips has Ilya standing, lifting Shane into the air.
"Don't worry, I'm gonna fuck you" Ilya drawls, claiming Shane's mouth in another heated kiss, tongue tracing lines over the roof of his mouth as Shane moans.
Hands fist in his hair and Ilya slams Hollander against at least two walls, getting distracted on his way to the bedroom. He claims Shane's lips again and again. Heated kisses, slipping his tongue inside, savoring the warmth, the moist heat opening for him, letting him in. Shane moaning for him as their bodies mold together.
Fuck. Shane isn't the only one who needs this, needs it now. Ilya scrambles for the lube the moment they hit the bed. Shane turns on his stomach, back already arching, presenting his ass like the fucking gift it is.
"Up here, sweetheart," Ilya flops onto his back and pats at his chest, "Let me have that pretty cock while I open you up."
Face already red, Shane goes nearly crimson crawling over Ilya's body. The blush covers every inch of his chest, and even his ears burn with it, but Hollander doesn't back down from a challenge.
Knees dig into the mattress on either side of his head and Shane grabs for the headboard as he settles right where Ilya asked him to. Ilya grins, pressing a chaste kiss right to the tip.
"Tell me, when you're close," Ilya orders as he palms at Shane's thighs. His head falls forward when Ilya takes his weeping cock into his mouth. Shane whines.
"Fuck, I'm already close!" Shane trembles, legs spreading wider. Ilya has a handful of his ass in each palm. He squeezes at the firm muscles before letting a single finger dip between the cheeks.
Always so tense, his Shane, so anxious. Shane gasps when Ilya circles his rim, coating the tight ring with lube.
He's careful not to suck on Shane as he works him open. The hard length heavy in his mouth, the tip pressing against the soft palate. Precum drips onto his tongue and Shane starts to rock his hips, fucking Ilya's face slowly.
Hard as fuck, Ilya enjoys the view his position grants him. The expression twisting at Shane's face, the flush of his skin, every inch of him red and wanting. Shane is practically sitting on his face, supporting himself on the headboard. Ilya's jersey nearly hanging off one shoulder as he tries to fuck himself on Ilya's fingers.
Gorgeous. Shane is gorgeous, and his. In this moment, with Ilya's name across his back and on his lips, Shane is unquestionably his.
It's slow work, getting Shane to relax. He hums softly and Shane shudders, mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut. He whines Ilya's name, begging for him.
"Oh fuck," Shane gasps, dick pulsing in Ilya's mouth before he chokes out, "Gonna come~"
Ilya pulls off immediately. He springs up, knocking Shane onto his back so Ilya can scramble over him. Hands fisting in his own jersey, Ilya claims Shane's mouth once more, iliciting a low moan.
"Gonna fuck you all night," Ilya pants against Shane's mouth, "Until dawn." He groans, stealing another kiss before finally pulling away to grab a condom.
"Fuck me now!" Shane demands, back arching up off the bed when Ilya returns. Utterly frantic after being denied his release, clawing at Ilya's shoulders until their mouths slot together again.
His own hands are clumsy, tugging down his sweats and rolling on the condom. Ilya's focus split between wanting nothing more than to bury himself in Shane's body and the all consuming distraction of kissing him.
Shane's hands are in his hair, on his shoulders, clawing at him haphazardly. Their kiss is clumsy, desperate, mouths hanging open as they trade brraths back and and forth. Their bodies rutting against each other, frantic and useless.
Useless until Ilya finally lines himself up at least, pressing the head of his cock to Shane's rim.
"Yes!" Shane groans. His hips twitch and his head falls back, "Jesus Christ, Rozanov, fuck me already!" Ilya chuckles. He presses a kiss to his cheek.
"Whatever you want, sweetheart," Ilya drawls before he does just that. One powerful thrust, aimed just right, and Shane's gone.
A sharp inhale and a loud moan the only warning before his orgasm rips through his body. His release splashing against their chests, over Ilya's jersey. Ilya stills, fully seated in his ass while Shane clenches around him, over and over as his body writhes from the pleasure.
"Look at you," Ilya purrs, mouthing over Shane's throat, "Coming on my cock so good, so pretty."
Ilya slips a hand beneath his jersey, rucking it up so he can get full access. He squeezes at Shane's chest properly before ducking his head to nip at already sensitive nipples.
"How many orgasms you think?" Ilya teases, grinning down at Shane's twitching dick, cum still dribbling down the head, "How many can I gave you before dawn?"
His own cock is throbbing, demanding attention Ilya refuses to give. He's enjoying the heat of Shane's body too much, the tight grip of his muscles as they squeeze around Ilya's shaft. Perhaps he can come like this even, just from sheathing himself in Shane's ass.
Lashes flutter as Shane stammers through an answer, hands petting at Ilya's hair and roaming over his face, his shoulders.
"6?" Hollander says, throat bobbing, "M-maybe? That's... that's one an hour and..." His cheeks are burning again, his pretty freckles far too tempting, "I've definitely never had that many so quickly."
With a hum, Ilya smirks up at him, tongue flicking over Shane's nipple. He pulls out slowly and Shane whines, right up until Ilya slams back in. Hard. Hitting his prostate again, just to feel Shane's dick twitch against his chest.
"6, yes?" Ilya clicks his tongue and rises back up to claim Shane's lips. He slips him his tongue and Shane sucks on it, greedy. "Number to beat," Ilya whispers as they breathe together, heads bowed close.
He sets a slow pace, shifting his angle to avoid overstimulating Shane. Already, he's half-hard again, his gaze glassy and unfocused.
"Feels good, yes?" Ilya checks, kissing Shane again and again, "Not too much?"
Shane shakes his head, smiling. He starts meeting Ilya's thrusts, their bodies rocking together. He fists one hand in Ilya's hair, holding him close as the other moves about, grabbing at Ilya's chest and shoulder, clawing at his back and sides.
Desperate. Shane is desperate for him and Ilya's head is spinning at the sight of it. He squeezes at Shane's thigh and gropes at his chest, increasing the rhythm of his thrusts. He groans before licking in to Shane's mouth again.
"Maybe I'll go for a hat trick," Ilya jokes, biting at Shane's bottom lip, "You are hard again, I could make you come yes? Three times even, before I finish."
"Fuck yes!" Shane pants against his lips, moaning when Ilya's thrusts come faster and faster. The room filled with the loud slap of their bodies coming together again and again, Shane's begging joining it in a chorus that sets Ilya's head on fire.
Its amazing, fucking Shane. Different, than with anyone else. Better. So much better.
He doesn't want to stop. Not ever.
-.-.-
An incessant buzzing cuts through the quiet morning and Shane groans. He burrows his head into the pillow beneath his head. An arm tightens around his waist, Ilya's breath warm on the back of his neck.
It's nice, waking up in Ilya's bed. Shane smiles to himself, before finally dragging his eyes open.
The time blinks at him from the alarm clock on the bedside table. Shane groans again, squeezing his eyes shut to pretend he doesn't have to move. Not yet.
His body is sore in ways no hockey game has ever managed. Muscles aching and wrung out, his joints twinging a bit from being held in odd positions for so long.
But, fuck... it'd be so worth it. By the time he passed out, Shane couldn't think. Not at all. His mind just an unending chant of Ilya's name. Just like Ilya promised.
"I don't wanna move," Shane whines, tugging the arm around his waist tighter, using Ilya as a blanket. Hips rock forward and Shane gasps.
Ilya's half-hard and fully seated in his ass still. Face flushing, Shane vaguely remembers asking for that, begging for Ilya to stay inside him. He'd wanted to be as close as possible for as long as possible.
Fuck! He has Ilya Rozanov's dick in his ass at 10am and all Shane can think about is riding it. Riding him. Sore muscles and aching joints be damned.
He's still wearing the fucking jersey too. His nipples stinging a bit as the rough fabric shifts against his already raw skin.
A hand slips beneath and Shane hums when Ilya's warm palm massages at his chest. The touch gentle, almost innocent, until a thumb flicks over a pebbling nub.
"Should shower," Ilya whispers, nosing at Shane's hair, "You are covered in dried cum." He nips at an ear, "I barely managed to clean your ass off after the last one before you demanded my cock again."
"Shut up," Shane huffs, but his words hold absolutely no bite. He rocks back, clenching, just to hear Ilya moaned.
Another arm sneaks beneath him and Shane yelps when he finds himself on his back, still sprawled across Ilya, their bodies still connected where it counts. Ilya chuckles, squeezing at his thigh.
He mumbles something, in Russian, and Shane doesn't need to know the words to understand what Ilya is saying, what he's thinking as he rocks up into Shane's body.
With a curse, Shane scrambles up. He crawls over Ilya, stumbling in his attempts to turn around, to claim his spot again.
Ilya chokes when Shane does just that, impaling himself on Ilya's dick. Raw.
It's fucking dumb, but he'd already done it, spent what probably barely counted as a nap warming Ilya's bare cock.
So hot. Shane squeezes around him, biting at his bottom lip as grinds his hips. Ilya moans again, head falling back.
He should have grabbed the lube, or shimmied down to suck on it instead. His jaw is not nearly so sore as his ass.
"моя," Ilya mumbles. Half-lidded eyes are focused entirely on Shane, dark with arousal. Shane rolls his hips and he says it again, gasping, "моя."
"More?" Shane chuckles, trembling a bit as he picks up the pace. Ilya reaches up to cup his face and Shane sucks a thumb into his mouth. His body aches when he shifts.
Knees digging in to the mattress, Shane grabs hold of the headboard to brace himself before riding Ilya's cock. Hard, fast. A brutal pace that has Ilya choking out moans. He struggles to keep up, to match each of Shane's movements with his own.
"Gonna come for me Rozanov?" Shane breathes out, teasing him. He kisses at Ilya's palm and then tugs it down.
Ilya kneads at his chest, one pec at a time. His gaze glossy and warm. Shane ducks down to steal a kiss.
"You can, you know," Shane whispers against his lips, "Come inside me. Leave your mark deep inside." Ilya groans and Shane clenches, dragging out another.
It's heady, having him beneath him. Diffrrent than their usual. Rozanov's expression raw and focused so fully.
Last time, they'd been on the couch. Shane's hand wrapped around their cocks. Ilya crying out, pupils blown and Shane's name on his lips. Shane shudders.
"You like this?" Shane pants against his cheek. "Me in your jersey, wearing your number?" Their foreheads pressed together, Shane lets out a breathy laugh, "Want to stake your claim? Be reminded I'm yours."
"Shane~" Ilya whines and Shane savors it, hips losing their rhythm as he fucks himself on Ilya's cock. He wants him to come now, needs it. His own pleasure entirely secondary as he watches Ilya come apart underneath him. Come apart because of him.
Shane peppers his face with kisses, one hand fisting in his sweat slick curls. "Come for me, Rozanov," Shane demands, "Come inside me." He kisses him again, hard, "I need you, Ilya."
His words have the exact effect Shane had been hoping for. Throat bobbing, Shane clenches around the dick pulsing in his ass. It's not that different than when there's a condom, not for him.
Not until Ilya's come starts leaking out, tickling at his rim. He shivers and his muscles squeeze tighter. Ilya chokes on another moan, hips rising up on instinct.
"Fuck, Hollander!" Ilya huffs out, head thrown back, "Gonna fucking kill me." He groans and rolls them over, nuzzling at Shane's throat, "So fucking perfect."
Shane chuckles, petting at Ilya's hair. He lets himself sink into the mattress. His mind blank again. Except for him, for Rozanov. Ilya.
"Next time..." Shane gasps when Ilya pulls out. He drags both hands through Ilya's hair and hums, "Next time, I'm gonna make you wear my jersey."
"Only if you beat me," Ilya clicks his tongue and tugs Shane up, "You gotta earn it first." Their kisses are slower, as they stumble into the bathroom, as Ilya gently cleans him up. Cleans him out.
"I'll earn it," Shane promises him, eyelids drooping. He lets his head lull against Ilya's shoulder as the jersey is finally stripped from his body. Shane's almost sad to see it go, until Ilya drops to his knees.
Fuck. He should not have given Ilya a number. Shane has no idea how many orgasms he's had at this point, but Ilya probably does.
Whatever record Ilya's setting, Shane will just have to beat it. Next time. He'll have home ice advantage in Montreal, at his apartment.
Ilya will look good in his jersey, in his bed.
With a moan, Shane comes down Rozanov's throat one last time. He'll miss the bus to the airport if they keep getting distracted.
"Ilya?" Shane exhales, clinging to him. They finish up their shower with their foreheads pressed together, Shane staring up into bright hazel eyes, cataloguing every fleck of green he can see. He smiles at Ilya, laughing, "Will you cook for me again? I'm starving."
The smile he gets in return is blinding and Shane would give anything to stay right here, in this moment, forever.
If he happens to steal one of Rozanov's spare jerseys before he leaves, well... neither of them will comment. And Shane has plans for it, plans for them. For later.