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He doesn’t know what to do with Svetlana’s number.
He hadn’t really wanted it in the first place, but he was just so fed up with Rozanov’s—Ilya’s—Rozanov’s back-and-forth bullshit. After the ghosting and Vegas and shutting Shane out at every opportunity, he went and invited Shane to his house, all so he could wax poetic about an old flame? And then use Shane’s name like they really were something more?
No, Shane couldn’t let that go. Couldn’t admit that he wanted all of Rozanov, that he didn’t want random women from random bars. He refused to bare every bit of his heart when Rozanov wouldn’t even admit to liking him without cutting it with a joke.
So he’d impulsively asked for Svetlana’s phone number. The immediate reaction had been what he wanted—shocked, confused, defensive, the shoe finally on the other foot—but, if anything, it backfired. Because if Rozanov got over Svetlana so easily, what chance did Shane have?
But now he’s got the phone number of a beautiful woman, one that Rozanov used to fuck, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
(That’s a lie. He should delete it from his phone and try to go on with his life, Rozanov be damned. But he doesn’t want to do that.)
This is a horrible idea. He shouldn’t do it.
He texts Svetlana that evening, before he leaves Boston and during the Raiders game.
It takes almost an hour to receive a response. He spends the entirety of it pacing back and forth in his hotel room, reconsidering his phrasing and punctuation. Was that too strong? Not strong enough? He has no idea what women would find charmingly assertive versus creepy and too forward. Doesn’t really know that about men in general, either, just…
Well, just what Rozanov finds charming. Or did. That bridge has probably been burnt.
Just when he starts wondering if the number Rozanov game him was right, his phone buzzes.
Luckily, Shane already thought of his explanation for that. He adds her contact now that he knows it’s her.
Well fuck. Of course Rozanov lied to him, the fucker.
They decide to meet up in an hour, and then Shane realizes he doesn’t have any appropriate clothes. At all. When he looks up the bar, it’s a high-end cocktail lounge, and just the pictures of the outside are of an expensive-looking modern building with lots of glass and crystal. He’s got nice-but-casual, the clothes he wore to Rozanov’s, and athletic wear.
Which means he’s got two options: last-minute shopping in a city he’s not familiar with, or crowd-sourcing from the team. There’s a few guys who’re Shane’s size, and he knows that most of them are planning to go out tomorrow night but not the night before the game. They’ll tease the hell out of him, demanding details and ribbing him to death, but someone’ll have something. Probably.
He’d ask Hayden, but Hayden won’t have anything but sweats and jeans.
He pulls up the team group chat because he wouldn’t even know what to shop for.
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Montreal Metros |
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You, Comeau, double stack (connors), Drapey, Halston, Hayden, jj |
About ten seconds pass, and then the group blows up. Shane sighs. Of course.
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Montreal Metros |
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You, Comeau, double stack (connors), Drapey, Halston, Hayden, jj |
Shane sighs again. He just can’t help it. It doesn’t even take five minutes for six of his teammtes to knock on his door and subsequently flood his hotel room.
“Fucking hell guys, seriously?” Shane groans.
“Don’t say that, Cap!” JJ says. He’s got three grocery bags full of clothes—Shane checks again because ?—and lays them on Shane’s bed. Drapeau and Halston have their suitcases with them. “She must be real special if you’re going out the night before a game.”
Shane wipes a hand down his face wearily. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No no—look, we’ve got you. We brought a bunch of shit for you to try on,” Drapeau insists. He lifts his suitcase onto the bed and unzips it.
What proceeds from there is twenty minutes of trying on his teammates’ clothes and getting hollered feedback from multiple of them at once. A lot of it doesn’t really fit, but it turns out he’s closest in size to Halston and Drapeau. Which unfortunately means he’s limited to their taste in club clothes.
He ends up in a pair of black slacks courtesty of Drapeau, a slightly too-big, burgundy semi-transparent collared shirt from Halston, and Comeau’s black loafers. JJ insists on him borrowing a bunch of rings. JJ also assures Shane that the oversized shit looks good and not completely ridiculous, which Shane will just have to trust because he doesn’t have much of an opinion on fashion.
“Wait wait wait,” Connors says, shouldering through the group. “Unbutton the first three buttons.”
Shane grimaces. “Really?”
Connors nods. “If you’re trying to impress this girl, then definitely. Show off what you got, and all that.”
“…Right.”
Hayden, who showed up with the team but has been mostly quiet this entire time, leans over while everyone else is distracted. “I’m surprised you’re doing this, but I’m glad, man. Are we finally gonna get to meet Boston Lily?”
Shane shoots to his feet and grabs his keys, wallet, and phone. “Alright, I’m leaving. I’ll see you before the game.”
Hayden opens his mouth, but Shane doesn’t give him the chance. He kicks everyone out of his hotel room and follows them out the door. He gets a bit more hooting and hollering as he leaves, but he does his best to ignore it and calls a cab when he gets to the lobby.
He gets to the bar about fifteen minutes early, and goes to wait at the counter. The bartender asks if he wants anything, but they don’t have ginger ale, so he just asks for one of the light beers on tap. It still tastes like the hot dog juice at the bottom of the package like all beer does.
“Shane?” a woman’s voice says from behind him.
He twists around on his barstool to find a tall, slender lightskinned woman with big red curls. She’s wearing a boxy black dress that falls just above her knees with a long, delicate-looking gold necklace and black handbag. She’s in gold heels that put her much closer to Shane’s height, and she gives him an appreciative once-over as she approaches the bar.
“Punctual,” she says, and she smirks as she says it. He’s seen that exact expression on Rozanov’s face mid-fuck.
“You look great,” he manages to get out as she sits down.
She quirks an eyebrow and opens her mouth to say something when the bartender approaches for her order.
“Stoli neat, please.” She glances at Shane’s untouched beer. “No good? I’m not a beer drinker, myself.”
He tenses up a bit and fiddles with the napkin he put under the glass. “Ah, not exactly. I don’t usually drink at all during the season. More of a ginger ale guy, I guess.”
She looks at him with open consideration, as if she’s trying to place something. Then, when the bartender comes back with her glass, she says, “Could my friend here get a Moscow Mule? Thank you.”
“Is that an inside joke?” he asks tentatively, not sure what Rozanov actually told her about the two of them.
She just laughs. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it. That’s just the name of the drink.”
“Right.” He shifts on his stool and realizes she doesn’t have an accent on her English. “How long have you been in the States?”
She scrunches up her nose and shrugs. “Technically, I was born here, but I’ve bounced back-and-forth between New England and Moscow since I was a kid.”
He nods seriously. “Vetrov ended up coaching for the Admirals, right? Rozanov mentioned that.” He absolutely did not, but Shane had recognized the name and done a bit of Googling on the cab ride over.
“Did he?” She hums. “We’ve been friends a while, but he never mentioned you were friends.”
“Well we try and play up the rivalry, you know. For press.” He hopes that came out steady enough.
She searches his face for a couple of heartbeats that he can feel in his throat but then takes a sip of her vodka. “Sure.”
That’s when his drink comes, and he’s surprised that it’s really good. “What’s in this?”
“Vodka, ginger beer, and some lime juice,” she says through a smile. “If you like Canada Dry, of all things, I figured you’d like that.”
He scoffs in faux-offense. “Hey, don’t mock the national drink of Canada.”
She turns to face him fully on her barstool and props an elbow against the counter. It’s made of what looks like solid marble, and she’s effortlessly casual, as if she spends her whole life in this kind of glamor. For all he knows, she does. She lets her eyes linger on the open V of his shirt.
“Do you wanna come back to my place?” she asks. She takes a slow sip, lips lingering on the rim of the glass and leaving a deep red lipstick print behind.
And that, more than anything, hits him like a sledgehammer to the face. She’s objectively gorgeous, knows hockey, and explicitly open to have sex, but…
He’s not into her. He doesn’t feel anything.
And really, he should call the night there. Apologize, pay for the drinks, and slink back to his hotel room before any of his teammates start blowing up the group chat with crass questions about whether he got laid, what she looked like, what they did. He should figure out what dry cleaner he’s going to tomorrow morning so he can return the clothes.
But maybe he’s just too in his head. Maybe he’s just not used to being around women like he is men, and tonight can be salvaged. He’s always been told that he’s weird, that he’s got quirks, and this could very well be one of them. He’s heard a million times from his mom, from Jackie, from the other WAGs, that men are dumb about this kind of thing, and Shane’s always been dumber about social cues than others.
(If he goes back to his hotel now, he’ll have to play Rozanov tomorrow, knowing he could have any woman he wanted in any city in the world, and Shane’s still hung up on him, ruined for anyone else.
Shane will have to pretend that he’s not already heartbroken, while Ilya will be playing just another Boston-Montreal game.)
He meets Svetlana’s intense eye contact and nods, not trusting his voice. He pays their bill, and she leads him to a sleek, black luxury SUV a couple blocks away in metered street parking.
“Is this good in the snow?” he asks, for lack of anything better to say.
Svetlana taps her fingers against the steering wheel to the faint beat of an R&B song on the radio. She says, audibly amused, “Yeah, that’s why I bought it. Why, are you more a sports car kind of guy?”
“No, Montreal gets way too much winter weather for those,” he says, as if she gives a shit about his preference in cars. “I’m sure Rozanov would disagree. He thinks I’m the most boring guy on the planet.”
He almost cringes with how bitter that came out.
Her gaze flits over to him before refocusing on the road. “Boring, hm? I guess we’ll find out.”
Oh god, he wants to crawl into a hole and die. He forces himself to laugh a little bit. “Yeah I guess so.”
The rest of the drive is silent. They pull around back of a three-story Victorian brownstone on a street lined full of them. Svetlana leads him inside and starts pulling her heels off as she makes her way to a dry bar along the far wall.
The house is pretty spacious, considering what it looked like on the outside. Shane doesn’t know Boston all that well, but this place seems to have all of its pre-war stylistic features preserved—the crown moldings, high ceilings, and wood bannister on the stairs to his far left. It even looks like the original hardwood floors, scuff marks and all. He notices the vents for central HVAC, and from the entryway, he can see just a peek of a very modern-looking kitchen off to the right, so it’s probably safe to assume the whole house has been fully updated. To his left, facing back out to the street, is a large bow bay window with the curtains drawn.
“Is my house not up to snuff?” Svetlana asks from the dry bar. She swirls a finger of what looks like whiskey around in a crystal glass.
“No, I, um. Just apreciating that you left a lot of the house’s original detailing even though it looks updated.” He shrugs a little sheepishly. “I have a couple buildings in Montreal and Ottawa.”
She laughs and sets her glass down. “Mr. Real Estate, huh?”
Shane nearly bites through his tongue in an effort not to let his reaction show on his face.
“Well how about I let you appreciate the master bedroom?” she says slyly, taking off her heels and tossing them into the far corner. She picks up her glass with one hand and beckons with the other.
Fuck it. He’s in too deep not to follow her now.
The stairs open directly into a hallway with two closed doors on the right to what he assumes are bedrooms. At the end of the hall is another door to the stairs, which Svetlana is already taking before Shane’s gotten off the first set. Once he steps off onto the third story, he notices immediately another bow bay window, this time with the curtains drawn back slightly, and that the bed is situated in the window. A custom bedframe juts out from it, and a custom mattress stretches all the way to the sill. He takes a tiny step forward to feel the navy sheets and isn’t surprised to find them cool and silky to the touch.
The whole room’s decorated in browns, navy, and cream, and every wall on this floor has been taken out. The far edge of the bedroom transitions from hardwood into the tiling of an open master bathroom. There’s a bit of a privacy wall which connects upward to the particular angle of the ceiling that protects the toilet from view of the bed, but the expansive bathtub is fully in view of the whole room.
“You really are just interested in my house, aren’t you?” Svetlana says from behind him.
He whips around, apology ready, only for her to step into his space and start unbuttoning his shirt.
She puts her lips near his ear, slowly undoing the button above his belt buckle, says, “How about we try out the bed?”
She pulls him by the belt buckle and then flips them around, backing him up into the bed until he’s forced to sit. Her hands are soft on his skin as she slides his shirt off his shoulders, gently traces his collarbones and pecs with a manicured nail. Then she leans in to kiss him.
It’s not…awful, or anything. She’s good at it, not too much tongue, good pace. She rucks up her dress so she can straddle his lap and puts a hand on the back of his neck, threading her fingers through the short hair at his nape. When she tilts her head to deepen the kiss, he lets her lead.
But after a minute or two, what with their position, it becomes glaringly obvious that he’s still soft.
When she finally pulls back, she searches his face intently. He can’t bring himself to look away, even with how awkward this is quickly becoming.
He opens his mouth to say…something, though he doesn’t know what, but before he can, she reaches a hand up to cup his face and sighs.
“If you’re not interested, you can say so,” she says. “You won’t hurt my feelings.”
“It’s not you, it’s…” He cringes. “It’s just—jet lag.”
Svetlana doesn’t bother masking how much she’s not buying that. “Montreal and Boston are in the same timezone.”
He exhales heavily. “…Right.”
“Shane,” she says, catching his gaze deliberately. “If you’re not into me, why’d you text me?”
“I—.” His heartbeat jumps into his throat. “I—what? I’m—I’m not—”
“Shane.” She looks at him with pity. “I know you’re Jane.”
For a few terrifying moments, he wants to bolt. Throw her off him and call a cab and block her number. Forget this entire fucking night happened and go back to begging scraps off Ilya Rozanov’s plate.
But he must stay silent for too long because Svetlana leans back and says, “I didn’t know before tonight, but neither of you are exactly subtle.”
“I…”
She sighs and climbs off of him. “Why’re you here, Shane?”
A question he’s been asking himself all night, and not one that has a nice answer. He shrugs tightly, but he feels like he owes her some kind of explanation. “It’s just…complicated. I’m sorry I involved you in it.”
Her expression twists into something negative that he can’t read. “Something happened between you two, then.”
“I think I want things that Ilya doesn’t,” he says around the lump in his throat.
(God, he can’t even pretend to use Ilya’s last name anymore, can he?)
She scoffs and wipes her hand across her face wearily, staring out the bay window behind the bed. “Oh I think he wants it.” Her lips thin, but she doesn’t continue.
The silence stretches long enough that he figures it’s time to leave. As he’s about to get up and call a cab, she jerks her head back to meet his eyes.
“What do you really want?” she asks strangely. “What do you need?”
“Umm, I—.” He swallows. “I don’t know.”
It feels like she’s staring into his soul. “Don’t you?”
Shane shrugs, not sure where she’s going with this, not wanting to consider the question.
She stares at him intently for a moment, then stalks forward until she’s directly in his face and he can smell her floral perfume. This close, he can see how light her eyes are—almost the same greenish hazel as Ilya’s, actually. She murmurs, in a thick Russian accent, voice pitched low, “You want me to fuck you, Hollander?”
And that? That’s not just Ilya’s accent but his demeanor coming out of Svetlana’s mouth. Before he can respond, she grabs his chin between surprisingly strong fingers and forces his head to the side to expose his throat.
Like watching an Oscar-winning actor step onto set, everything about Svetlana shifts. Still in that low accented rasp, she says, “I can make you beg on my dick til you sob, if you want it.”
His dick twitches to life.
She doesn’t miss his reaction and slips her fingers beneath his waistband, cups him over his boxer briefs. The hand on his chin gentles as she whispers, “What do you need, Hollander?”
He groans, one name repeating over and over to the pounding of his heart. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya—
Without warning, she shoves him onto his back.
“Turn over,” she orders, still accented, still as if she were someone else entirely.
He turns over, puts his face into the silk sheets where he can imagine someone else behind him.
She follows him on the bed and lays a palm against the back of his neck, pressing his face into the mattress. Straddling his ass, she leans down to scrape her teeth against the shell of his ear. “You will stay like this until I return. Don’t move, Hollander. I will know.”
He bites his lip hard to stop himself from responding. In his quest for some friction, he tries in vain to adjust himself so that his half-chub gets a little more interested.
Drawers open and shut in the room behind him, followed by some shuffling that he can’t identify. He feels completely isolated with his own heartbeat rabbit-fast in his ears, his pulse loud and hot against the sheets.
“You follow instructions beautifully,” Svetlana finally says from what sounds like the edge of the bed. He can’t help himself from twisting around to see what she’d done.
The person that looks back at him is still Svetlana, but doesn’t feel like her. She’s pulled her hair back into a low bun, and she’s wearing a black Raiders muscle tank that’s four or five sizes too big for her.
And more than all of those things, she’s got a harness around her hips with a large realistic dildo strapped into it.
He stares—swallows. “I…Svetlana—”
“Sveta,” she demands, crawling back onto the bed, agressive. “I will be fucking you, no? So call me Sveta.”
“Sveta.” Shane can’t take his eyes off her strap. How big does it look? Eight, nine inches? “Are you sure…?” He can’t finish the question.
She smirks at him, an expression that is so painfully Ilya that his dick twitches again, now mostly hard. Her lips are fuller than Ilya’s, but they convey so much of the same danger and heady anticipation. “I know what I want, Hollander, but I don’t think you do. How long will you beg for a man like my Ilyusha? Will you crawl to him, beg on the floor, for whatever he will give you?”
He flushes with confused arousal, imagining Ilya’s fingers in his mouth, watching the sway of Sveta’s strap as she moves.
“You came to me because I have fucked him, yes?” she continues, barely loud enough to be heard. “You think I could make him envy, could have something of him that is enough.”
Between one breath and the next, Sveta reaches toward his waistband and starts shimmying his pants down his legs. Shane barely has the wherewithal to help her, but lifts his hips to make it easier. She tosses them to the floor and strips his underwear next.
Her fingers grip his thighs and ass for a few moments, and he’s still mostly on his stomach but twisted around just enough to be able to look at her. She meets his eyes with a haughty kind of pity, the kind everyone gets when he’s made some social faux pas he can never correct in time.
She says, “You will never have enough of him. Is why he charms, because you can never be sated.” Her breath is hot on his back as her fingers crawl up his spine, dancing lightly along his skin.
Suddenly, he’s facedown again, one of her hands fisted in his hair and the other inbetween his shoulder blades. “Does he leave in the morning, after he has fucked you like you belong to him? Do you even care to pretend you don’t?”
“No,” he moans, muffled by the sheets and trying to chase the arousal curling in his belly.
She laughs meanly and pulls on his hair just enough to feel it. “You will let him throw you away like old toy, yes? If only to say you had once been his.”
He groans against the bed, ruts against nothing, desperate for some kind of relief or friction. Imagines more weight pinning him down, opening him up, using him until he’s needy and panting.
When Sveta reaches up to the nightstand for lube, he catches a strong whiff of her shirt and has to grab the sheets for dear life. It smells like Ilya—his cologne, his cigarettes, his sweat. He’s painfully hard knowing she’s got on Ilya’s worn shirt.
As she pulls back, he chases the shirt involuntarily, hand reaching out to grab the hem. He can’t see Sveta’s face, but there’s a pause, and then:
“Oh, Hollander. Do you always want things you think you cannot have?”
Shane keens, grits his teeth and tries to get a hand on his dick.
“None of that now,” she says. One of her hands pins his to the bed as she opens the lube with her other and uses her knee to keep him in place. “Do not touch yourself.”
“Please,” he whines. Please, Ilya, please.
There’s a pop of a cap and then Sveta’s fingers start circling his hole. “You are so needy, so wet for me. What would Ilyusha say?”
He would fuck me, he thinks deliriously. He would ask if I was okay, to relax, that I was good, so good.
“I will make you come on my fingers until you are crying for my cock,” Sveta says as she spreads his cheeks. She slowly presses a lubed finger inside, gentle in contrast to her words.
He’s not entirely sure what she has in mind until she gets her finger two knuckles deep and feels around until she brushes up against his prostate. He bites off what surely would’ve been a moan, but loses that battle when she starts massaging, sending waves of pleasure radiating up his spine. She changes her pace, switches up the direction of the motion, and he’s panting now, moaning out little ah ah ahs into the sheets.
“Louder, Hollander,” Sveta demands. She presses just right, and suddenly he’s seeing stars, his entire body shuddering with pleasure as he comes completely dry. She purrs, “So beautiful when you come for me, so pretty.”
Ilya tells me I’m pretty. He imagines Ilya milking him like this, sucking on the shell of his ear, whispering little nothings in Russian that Shane doesn’t need to understand to love. I would be his pretty little whore, as long as he’d have me.
“Are you missing him?” Sveta whispers as she lets him come down. She runs fingers down his spine, cups his ass. “Do you need him, Shane? Do you wish my fingers were his?”
He’s still rock hard and so worked up he can barely think. Maybe he says something resembling yes—because what else can he say? He wants Ilya; he wants all of him, every inch of his body and crevice of his soul. He wants so badly he’s sick with it, so badly he scares himself with its intensity.
“Он любит тебя, даже если думает, что больше не может(He loves you, even though he thinks he can’t anymore),” she says. “Но я не позволю ему продолжать убивать себя(But I won’t let him continue to kill himself).”
She pulls away from him enough to reach for the nightstand again, and he sees her pick up her phone. He can hear it ring through five times before it finally connects. Shane can’t hear who answers, but he can guess.
“Ты так груб со мной, Илья(You’re so rude to me, Ilya),” she says, tone playful. “Я делаю тебе одолжение. Я знаю, кто твоя загадочная подружка, и я сейчас с ней трахаюсь(I’m doing you a favor. I know who your mysterious girlfriend is, and I’m fucking her right now).”
There’s a pause.
“Ты мог бы трахнуть ее, если бы был здесь. Единственное, чего она хочет, это ты(You could fuck her if you were here. The only thing she wants is you).” She switches back to English but keeps the heavy accent she’s been using with Shane in bed. “Moan for my Ilyusha. He wants to hear you.”
So Shane does. He couldn’t help himself even if he wanted to.
“Что за хрень—Я иду к тебе(What the fuck—I’m coming over!)!”
Sveta tosses her phone back onto the nightstand and reaches down to grab at Shane’s right pec. She’s virtually laying on top of him, her breath hot on the side of his face. He can feel the girth of her strap against the cleft of his ass.
“I will make him watch you come,” she promises lowly, and her hand migrates up from his pec to his mouth, where she hooks two fingers over his tongue. He sucks them in obediently, rutting pathetically against the bed.
She removes her fingers, slick with his spit, and moves back down to his ass, the strap tantalizingly close to where he desperately wants it. When she presses her fingers inside him, unerringly finding that same sweet spot from earlier, she doesn’t waste time winding him up. She just hits his prostate relentlessly, punishingly, until he’s moaning loud enough they can probably hear him in the street.
Pleasure builds in his gut, throbbing up his spine and out to his fingers and toes. He’s incoherent with it, drunk on it; Ilya is coming.
Just before he comes again, she stills. He whines, tries to get her to move again, but she only drags her strap between his cheeks.
“Shh, котенок. We are waiting on him. I cannot let you come yet,” she soothes.
He cries silently, completely overwhelmed. He wants Ilya; he wants; he wants; he wants.
Sveta cards the fingers of her free hand through his hair, in turn gentle and firm—grounding and feather-light. “I know you do. You will have him, I promise this.”
Is he saying all this out loud?
Somewhere below them, a door slams open.
“Света!” Ilya shouts. “Что ты, черт возьми, делаешь(What the hell are you doing)?”
Sveta presses against his prostate again, and he shouts. “Я же тебе говорил! Я трахаю твою драгоценную подружку. А теперь поднимайся сюда, пока я не трахнул и ее(I told you! I’m fingering your precious girlfriend. Now get up here before I fuck her, too)!”
The sound of heavy footsteps echoes up the stairs, one after the other, and then there’s Ilya.
Between low yellow light from the stairs on one side, and soft moonlit haze from underneath the curtains on the other, he glows. His hair is golden, eyes wild, chest heaving even though two measly flights of stairs can’t have winded him. Shane goes to reach for him, wants those beautiful hands in his mouth, on his cock, around his heart—
He grips the sheets for dear life against another dry orgasm, Sveta’s deft fingers merciless.
Suddenly Ilya’s next to him, kneeling at the edge of the bed, gaze transfixed on him. “Мое солнышко,” he whispers reverently.
“Missed you,” Shane slurs, intoxicated by the comedown, by the city lights reflecting in Ilya’s irises. “Want you inside me.”
Ilya’s nostrils flare, and this close, Shane can see how wide his pupils have blown. “Ты можешь иметь меня(You can have me)—anything you want.” And then they’re kissing.
Shane nips at Ilya’s bottom lip, sucks his tongue, wants to swallow him whole. Ilya cradles his jaw tenderly, the pads of his fingers tracing Shane’s chin, his lips, his cheeks. It’s criminal, these light touches, in contrast to the inferno roaring in his belly.
He pulls back, gasps, “Touch me; touch me, Ilya, please touch me.”
Ilya leans forward as if to grant him his request, but Sveta grabs Ilya’s wrist first, pins it to the bed.
“You have not earned it yet, Ilyusha,” she says, and her fingers curl against Shane’s back. “Prove to me you have patience, and I may let you fuck his mouth.”
Ilya stills, visibly stunned. His mouth opens; he wets his lips. Shane wants to trace that cupid’s bow with his tongue. “You are denying me?”
“I am telling you” —Sveta growls and fully leans against Shane, tits flush against his back, to snag Ilya by the collar; her other palm splays across Shane’s nape— “to sit down and behave.”
Ilya rocks back onto his haunches, eyes darting between Shane and Sveta. He makes like he’s going to pull his arm back from her grip, but she digs her nails in and jerks her head toward the chair behind him set up next to the window sill.
When Shane realizes that Ilya will be directly in his line of sight while Sveta fucks him, he squirms against another pulse of desire, fails to bite back needy little whines.
Pupils as big as saucers, Ilya does as he’s told.
“Shane,” Sveta says, “do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, yes, please yes,” he pleads. “Need your cock.”
Ilya all but falls into his chair, breathing like he’s run a marathon. Shane can see his erection tenting his gray sweatpants, and he wants his mouth on it so badly he feels faint.
Other than for lube, Sveta doesn’t waste any time. She lines up her strap and thrusts in, opening Shane up so much wider than her fingers had. He gasps and tries not to clench, but he’s so fucking worked up that he’s not very successful. Her strap’s not as thick as Ilya’s cock, but it’s definitely longer, and he doesn’t even try to be quiet. He groans against the stretch and is about to call out for Ilya, beg for his hands or his tongue or his cock, when Sveta shoves his head back into the mattress in time with a particularly well-positioned thrust.
“Fuck!” he shouts. His cock is weeping with pre-come, staining the sheets beneath him. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
“Do you want him?” She thrusts again before he can answer her, and he nearly bites through his own tongue. “You miss him already, after whole day in his home?”
Ilya is staring at Shane like the devout stare up at the cross, lips parted but twitching, and Shane needs; he needs, but nobody will ever let him have.
Maybe hockey is all he’s allowed; maybe he used up whatever grace the universe sought to give him when he put his foot down and demanded to be a hockey player. He got more than his dreams, more than what he deserved, and so the rest will remain beyond his reaching fingers, always. Ilya is in front of him, hungry, but so far; and Sveta is taking him apart, but she isn’t Ilya.
And that’s when the tears start again, silent but unrestrained. They stream down his face steadily, soaking into the already ruined sheets. He’s overwhelmed in all the best ways, overloaded with live-wire pleasure like he’s never experienced except under Ilya’s large hands, but somehow the only person he wants is just beyond his grasp.
Just too far away, the weekend after next, the following season—always across a chasm too wide to bridge, too deep to risk falling.
“блять,” Ilya chokes out, sounding desperate, scrambling out of his chair and onto the bed.
But this time it’s Shane’s fault! Earlier today, he was the one to turn his back, to flee. He can’t hide it anymore, can’t pretend that what he wants is casual or temporary or contained. The totality of his desire sickens him, turns him out and leaves him this sobbing wreck because Ilya can see him—sees through to parts of him he hasn’t let anyone else even glimpse, parts he’d started to suspect might never have existed.
“солнышко, what is wrong?” Ilya murmurs gently, a hand coming to rest on Shane’s cheek.
What’s wrong? He’s ravenous; he’s been ravenous his whole life. He only gets to taste satisfaction in the fleeting moments Ilya Rozanov puts him on his knees, when stolen moments become, briefly, full.
“Talk to me,” Ilya pleads, and Shane realizes Sveta has stopped fucking him. “Hollander, please tell me what’s wrong.”
I fucking love you, you asshole, he can’t say. Do you want me or not? he can’t ask.
He crawls forward what little he can to mouth at Ilya’s clothed cock. He moans, “Need you in my mouth.”
“I—Hollander,” Ilya tries.
“Need your cock in my mouth,” Shane insists, wrangling what little coherency he has left. Maybe if he swallows, he won’t be so hungry.
Ilya hastily shoves his sweats and underwear down to his knees. “Of course. Whatever you want, Мое солнышко. I will do for you.”
Shane has eyes only for his cock. He gets himself up on his hands and knees, Sveta’s strap still buried in his guts, and adjusts so he can swallow Ilya down to the hilt. Ilya’s musk washes over him, his curly blond pubes tickling his nose, and it’s enough to get Ilya moving.
Ilya buries both hands in Shane’s hair to get a good grip, and then he’s setting a brutal pace. Shane practically drools against his cock, and just as he really starts using his tongue, Sveta starts fucking him again, dead on.
The crying doesn’t stop—in fact, it might get worse, but he’s having a hard time tracking anything except for Ilya’s cock in his mouth and the unrelenting abuse of his prostate. His own arousal passed overstimulating long enough ago he can barely remember what it felt like before, and his whole body is throbbing with the need to come. He can feel his heartbeat in his teeth. Every time Ilya tries to pull back, to give him some breathing room, he keens, and whatever restraint Ilya had evaporates.
Ilya says something that Shane doesn’t catch at all, and then Sveta’s hand reaches around to his neglected cock.
His knees almost go out from under him as she works his shaft. Her hand has a bit of lube on it to ease the friction, but she’s got a good enough angle that he thinks he’s about to come. He moans and pleads against Ilya’s cock, tries his damnedest to bury his face in Ilya’s pubes while breathing through his nose.
“Shane—Shane—” Ilya pants, and that’s all the warning Shane gets.
He swallows salty cum, mouthful after another, until it’s dripping down his chin, his chest, coating his lips. Even as Ilya softens in his mouth, he wants to keep his tongue around his cock and suck him through the overstimulation, but Ilya pulls out gently, like Shane might shatter into pieces. When Sveta takes her hand off his cock, he thinks he really might.
But then there’s Ilya, taking Shane’s cock in hand and kissing him. Shane tilts his head to deepen the kiss, ruts forward into Ilya’s hand as Ilya plays with his tip, twists just like he likes it.
Ilya nips at Shane’s bottom lip and jerks as Sveta hits his prostate with her strap—
When Shane comes, his whole body whites out with pleasure. He can feel it across every inch of his skin, a staticky buzz that crests and bursts. He’s flat on the bed now, even though he doesn’t remember doing it, and Sveta has pulled out. Ilya’s rubbing slow circles into his lower back.
“Ты в порядке(You’re okay),” Ilya whispers, voice syrup-thick. “Ты в порядке, солнышко. Is all okay.”
And with Ilya, like this? He is; he really is okay. If he could stay like this forever, lax and fucked out in Ilya Rozanov’s lap, he would be alright.
“You are still crying,” Ilya says from above him.
He shrugs half-heartedly. He didn’t realize he still was, but the reminder is all it takes for them to dry up.
Ilya shifts the two of them so that Shane is lying on his chest, Shane’s nose in the crook of his neck, and his hands still tracing idle patterns into Shane’s skin. Shane lets his eyes flutter closed, just basking in Ilya’s presence, in the smell of him.
“Я боюсь, что ты меня разрушишь. И что я тебе это позволю(I’m afraid that you’ll ruin me. And that I’ll let you),” Ilya says, barely audible. It doesn’t sound like he’s saying it to Shane as much as he is himself.
After a few undeterminable minutes of silence, where only the faint hum of the air conditioner and old pipes can be heard, there’s shuffling in the background and someone sitting the chair Ilya had occupied earlier. Shane assumes it’s Sveta, but he doesn’t move.
She must think he’s asleep or too out of it to pay attention because she says, in English instead of Russian, “Ilya. What’re you doing?”
Shane feels Ilya turn his head slowly, the muscles in his neck flexing. “Русский, Света, пожалуйста(Russian, Sveta, please).” There’s a pause. “Ты испытала оргазм(Did you come)?”
She sighs, long and drawn-out, exasperated even to Shane’s ear. “Я спросил тебя, серьезно ли это, а ты практически послал меня на хрен. Почему ты дала ему мой номер, если ты так о нем заботишься(I asked you if this was serious, and you all but told me to fuck off. Why would you give him my number if you care about him like this)?”
Shane can feel Ilya swallow roughly. “Я...” He clears his throat quietly and doesn’t continue.
“Ты ему вообще об этом говорил(Have you even told him)?” she says, sharp. “Потому что любой, у кого есть глаза, может сказать, что этот человек пал бы к твоим ногам, если бы ты попросил(Because anyone with eyes can tell that man would kneel at your feet if you asked).”
Shane can feel the tension coil tightly between them, and he desperately wants to know what they’re talking about, but he knows it’s not really his business. Sveta doesn’t sound very happy, though. Ilya doesn’t really either.
“Он убежал от меня, Света. Я не могу заставить его остаться(He ran from me, Sveta. I can’t make him stay).” Ilya shifts uncomfortably, fingers tightening a little against Shane’s shoulders.
“Это чушь собачья(That’s bullshit),” she snaps, voice rising. Shane feels Ilya make some gesture with his free hand, and her next words are quiet again. “Что ты ему на самом деле сказал? Потому что ты отстраняешься, когда люди пытаются сблизиться с тобой, Илья. Ты всегда так делаешь(What did you actually tell him? Because you pull back when people try to get close to you, Ilya. You always do).”
“Что это должно означать(What is that supposed to mean)?” Ilya retorts.
A heartbeat, two. “…Ты знаешь, что это значит(...You know what is means).”
Now it’s Ilya’s turn to sigh. “Света.”
“Я уже пережила это, ладно? Мне нравится то, что у нас есть сейчас. Но тебе нужно понять, чего ты хочешь. Если не сделаешь этого, ты его потеряешь(I’m over it, okay? I like what we have now. But you need to figure out what it is you want. You’re going to lose him if you don’t).”
Shane hears her get out of the chair, followed by her light footsteps on the stairs.
Ilya leans down to kiss Shane’s head, lingering a moment as if it pains him. He whispers “Простите(I’m sorry)” into Shane’s hair.
Shane, still feigning sleep, waits until Ilya’s breathing evens out and the tension has left him. They both have a game tomorrow, and Shane really shouldn’t stay.
He opens his eyes to get one last, long look at Ilya. He’s stunning lying against the dark sheets, mouth parted in sleep, moonlight leaking from around the curtains and slanting across his face. So close, his eyelashes seem to flutter as he breathes, delicate in contrast to his demeanor when he’s awake. He’s got maybe a day of stubble around his lips, and his curls are disheveled from their fucking.
There’s a hole somewhere in Shane’s chest, he’s sure of it. Maybe he was born with it, or maybe it got carved out of him young, but he’d always lived with it, and it hadn’t been that bad. Then Ilya came into his life—came into his fucking mouth—and suddenly the hole was temporarily plugged.
But Ilya kept his distance, kept signaling that he didn’t want what Shane wanted. And then he goes and does shit like this, like inviting Shane to his goddamn house, fucking him like there’s no consequences.
If Shane’s got to live with a piece of himself missing, he can’t keep getting his hopes up. He’s got to get used to it, one way or the other.
He extricates himself from Ilya’s arms slowly, carefully. Ilya must be tired because he doesn’t stir, even as Shane lays his arm back against the pillows.
Quickly and as quietly as possible, Shane redresses, ignoring the drying cum on his skin as best he can. He purposefully does not think about the smell of Ilya’s sweat when he uses Ilya’s discarded sweatpants to wipe his face. He shoves his feet into Comeau’s stupid shoes even though without socks they make his skin crawl.
He creeps down the stairs in the hope that Svetlana won’t notice him and he can make a clean getaway, but she’s drinking vodka by the dry bar when he reaches the ground floor.
“You can stay if you want,” she says.
He tries not to fidget. “No, um. That’s okay. I’ll just…go.”
She shrugs and throws back the rest of her drink. “Suit yourself. Just…” She screws off the cap on her vodka bottle but doesn’t pour. “Don’t take it too hard. That’s a road you don’t wanna go down. Trust me.”
He has no idea how to respond to that—doesn’t even want to consider the history between her and Ilya, really—so he just nods jerkily and leaves. Once the door’s closed behind him, he pulls out his phone to call a cab.
It’s cold outside, and he doesn’t have a jacket, so he paces in a small circle on the steps of Svetlana’s house. Thankfully, it only takes ten minutes for the cab to pull up, and he scrambles into the back.
As he gives the driver the address to his hotel, the guy glances at him in the rearview mirror, hesitates, then says, “You’ve, uh, got a little something…” He gestures at his own face.
For a couple of seconds, Shane has no idea what the guy is saying. He puts a hand on his cheek and finds dried cum still stuck to his chin. Humiliated, he frantically wipes his face with his sleeve, then realizes he’s ruined Halston’s fancy club shirt with Ilya Rozanov’s semen.
The cab ride lasts an eternity and is dead silent. Shane tips extra well and all but flees as soon as the car stops. He doesn’t take a real breath until the door to his hotel room locks behind him.
“Fuck,” he says to the room. “Fuck.”
And it doesn’t even matter. Best orgasm of his fucking life, and it doesn’t matter. He needs to take a shower, and set his alarm, and win a fucking hockey game tomorrow. It doesn’t fucking matter, and he needs to get over it.
He ends up waking up thirteen minutes before his alarm, rock hard, with the phantom smell of Ilya in his nose and the sheets cold.