Chapter Text
The bedside lamp in room 1410 was flickering, and Shane couldn’t get it to stop. She’d turned it off and on again to no avail, and so she’d turned it off, hoping Ilya wouldn’t try it. But then, when she stepped back, the room suddenly felt very dark, and so she’d reluctantly switched it on again. It buzzed as it flickered, like the twitch Shane sometimes got in her right eye, and Shane endured it for about thirty seconds before she sighed and flicked the switch off for the third time.
She wished she had asked Ilya what time she would come, as she’d been pacing her cramped hotel room for the past hour, anxiously anticipating her promised “knock”. Ilya had a way with words Shane was jealous of: her tone was effortlessly flirtatious, which was almost enhanced by her thick Russian accent.
Shane sat down on the side of the perfectly-made bed, wondering what Ilya would say as she entered the room. Would she tease Shane about the room, say the bed is barely big enough for two, and leave, laughing? Or would she be standing outside Shane’s door with that dark, insatiable look in her icy eyes, and kiss her without saying a word? Shane swallowed the thrill buzzing in her chest at that thought, standing up and brushing the creases out of the bedsheets. Ilya could knock right now, and Shane would answer.
Or, Shane thought, she could not. She could stay in her room, utterly silent, and wait for Ilya’s footsteps to fade. But she felt almost obligated to at least say something, about that moment in the showers …
Shane didn’t know what had come over her. It had been a mix of things: the giddiness from their exchange after the photoshoot; the holy way the light hit Ilya’s wet skin; the fact that beneath the Montreal jerseys and the branded sportswear, Shane was an eighteen year old girl, who happened to be embarrassingly horny.
It sounded silly, but she hadn’t ever experienced such a strong pull of sexual attraction before. She had actually begun to think it was one of the things other more normal people felt: after all, she’d had friends growing up who had certain tendencies to overshare about their boyfriends in … that department. Shane had lied, as she often did to fit in, about her understanding and agreement, when in truth, she didn’t really get the appeal of men anyway and she had a feeling this was usually reciprocated. In fact, all they were really capable of doing was pissing her off, which, as the captain of a womens’ hockey team, happened way too often.
Ilya didn’t hate men, Shane remembered, feeling somewhat jealous of Ilya’s natural ability to follow the norm in nearly every sense, while somehow maintaining an air of nonchalance. She’d reluctantly googled “Ilya Rozanov” an hour ago, and the images had featured a still of Ilya in a nightclub, smirking at the camera with a man dancing next to her, his hand brushing her waist. Shane wished she could have the same outlook on men, but even the phantom touch of a man’s hand on her evoked by the picture was enough to force Shane to take another shower to wash the feeling away. She’d blushed at the thought of Ilya’s piercing gaze, as she rubbed the soap onto her skin. The memory of Ilya’s scrutiny back in the showers made her feel dizzy, as she breathed in the hazy scent of aloe vera and steam.
And now Shane was flicking through TV channels to play in the background, her hair now only damp, but her skin somehow just as flushed, as she waited for Ilya to arrive. It hit her, as she furiously skipped a channel playing extremely loud straight porn, that she was probably going to lose her virginity tonight. And to Ilya Rosanov, the youngest hockey player to ever make it to the PWHL, who could be in the elevator right now, on her way.
Shane felt a jolt of panic at this realisation. She was going to have sex for the first time, fuck, maybe even orgasm for the first time, and shit, yeah alright she was panicking now. Was this what people did: invite someone over just for sex? It sounded insane, to go to such lengths to simply fulfil a bodily function. And how much better could it be than just jerking off? That sounded like a much safer option: there were no people, especially no archrivals, involved, and Shane could just pass out after instead of feeling ashamed.
However, she hadn’t actually brought her vibrator with her for fear of getting caught, but she was beginning to wish she had. Then, maybe she’d have the self-control to leave Ilya waiting outside her room. When she knocked.
Fuck, Shane was so fucking fucked. She turned the TV off, irritated by its incessant chatter, and resumed her pacing in front of the king-sized bed. She stopped, looking down at herself. Shit, was she meant to be wearing something nice? While she knew all that hockey definitely didn’t make her look bad, she also knew she wasn’t supermodel material (not like Ilya, who’d been on Teen Vogue twice). Didn’t people say stuff about suits being sexy? She bent down to rummage through her suitcase, skin tingling with discomfort under her pyjamas. What had she been thinking?
Shane frowned at herself in the small bathroom mirror. The room was still slightly misty, so Shane kept having to pull at the collar of her suit. She’d forgone the blazer, as it had felt too “business”, but the dress shirt and dark blue trousers still felt slightly odd. Shane had thought about digging out her formal shoes, but wearing shoes inside, even in a hotel room, didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right about this situation, but deep down, Shane wanted it too much to give up.
Frustrated, Shane changed back into her pyjamas, before cramming her formal clothes back into the suitcase and slamming it shut. A few seconds passed before she opened the suitcase again and carefully folded them properly. Her teammates thought she was insane for this habit, especially for even folding her dirty, sweat-soaked uniform before she put it into her laundry bag, but it was a ritual Shane couldn’t quite bring herself to break. Her mother certainly hadn’t complained about it when Shane had lived at home. She had the sudden inexplicable urge to call her, before she remembered that talking about sex with your parents was weird and awkward. Right.
She was opening the bathroom door to brush her teeth again when, suddenly, there were three short raps on the door.
Shane’s heartbeat picked up, a sharp pounding in her chest that punctuated each fresh wave of panic that washed over her. Ilya was there on the opposite side of that door, in all her 5’9’’ (according to Wikipedia) glory. Waiting. For Shane.
And maybe a stronger, less horny version of Shane would’ve let her just knock, but contrary to popular belief, Shane had never been very strong. And she was horny.
“Thought you might have chickened out.” Was Ilya’s chosen remark upon seeing Shane. She was dressed like some kind of stereotypical American playboy: a clean white wifebeater (Shane had always hated the name for those things) and baggy dark-wash Levis. Shane had the sudden urge to touch those exposed muscular shoulders, to trace every crest and fall of that sun-kissed skin with her tongue.
Ilya’s eyes raked over her, and she chose to believe libido was to blame for that look in her eyes, as if Shane were someone incredibly beautiful but endlessly interesting at the same time.
Ilya’s words caught up to Shane, and she huffed out a breath as she stepped aside to let her in.
“I’m not a chicken.” She pointed out, crossing her arms. The effect was slightly dampened by the obvious height advantage Ilya had over her: the Wikipedia page had to be lying, because Ilya had at least three inches over Shane’s 5’7 frame.
“Hm.” Ilya mused, turning to face Shane face on. And god, wasn’t that a sight? The extra height Ilya had highlighted the teasing glint in her light eyes, and the chaotic way her short blonde curls fell around her face looked almost deliberate. It reassured Shane to know Ilya had also put some effort into her appearance: at least she’d managed to get some of the etiquette for hook-ups right.
But still. Shane’s panic was yet to fade, especially as Ilya began absent-mindedly toying with her shirt sleeve.
“I don't think this is a good idea.” Shane forced out, feeling her back hit the wall. Ilya’s gaze flicked up from her wrist.
“What?” Ilya asked innocently, her touch maddeningly light on Shane’s skin. Her hand was trailing higher now, up to Shane’s elbow. Ilya put on a mock-pout, as if she were unaware of the effect she was having on her. Heat rushed to Shane’s cheeks as her touch roamed higher, until Ilya was gripping her shoulder to pin her against the wall. “This?”
A mumbled “fuck” escaped Shane’s lips as Ilya moved her other hand up to tangle her fingers in Shane’s hair. She’d expected Ilya to take the lead at this point, which was certainly proving to be true: she held Shane’s head in her hand as if she were simply correcting her hold on a hockey stick. But there was also an endearing quality to her touch; a sense of care Shane would never have associated with the formidable woman that was Ilya Rosanov. It was unmistakably charming, and Shane sucked in a breath, heartbeat caught in her throat.
Ilya leant in slowly, breath tingling on Shane’s lips, before her eyes moved up to meet Shane’s and their mouths finally met.
Shane gasped, lips parting, which Ilya seemed to take as an invitation. Her tongue was slick and agile, as if she knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. Shane felt utterly powerless beneath her, but she was surprised to find she didn’t hate it. It was nice in a way, letting Ilya push her flush against the wall with her weight and tug at her hair, sucking at her bottom lip. Ilya grinned into the kiss, and Shane realised she’d been expressing her pleasure quite loudly.
“Ilya,” Shane squeezed her eyes shut as Ilya seamlessly dragged her lips down to attack her neck, “Oh my god.”
“Is good, yes?” Ilya murmured in between kisses, moving slowly like a wave against Shane. She was using her height to her advantage, running her tongue along the arteries in Shane’s neck like a vampire desperate to taste her next meal. And Shane knew Ilya was going to lick the plate clean.
Shane wasn’t exactly sure what to do, and Ilya’s ministrations were fairly distracting: her skin was positively buzzing with feeling, her breaths coming in short, erratic pants into Ilya’s bare shoulder. She shifted slightly and felt Ilya’s hand tighten painfully in her hair, eyes flicking up without moving her mouth from her neck. Shane shivered at the shock of pain dancing across her scalp: god, was she discovering some things about herself tonight.
Shane’s thigh seemed to fit perfectly between Ilya’s legs, and a thrill of joy spread throughout Shane’s chest when Ilya groaned at the friction generated. Ilya spat out a Russian-sounding curse, gripping Shane tight as she switched their positions.
“Come here.” She commanded, leaning in again. A soft sound left her mouth, tingling on Shane’s lips, when Shane moved her thigh again, feeling the stiff denim through her plaid pyjamas. She moved so effortlessly, still completely in control as she used the wall as leverage to grind herself against Shane, panting hard into their joined mouths.
Feeling emboldened by Ilya’s response, Shane carefully broke the kiss, looking down to concentrate on loosening the buckle on Ilya’s belt. Ilya smirked when she realised what she was doing, leaning forward so their foreheads were touching. Shane’s movements were jerky and hurried as she dragged down the zip of Ilya’s fly.
“Want to see how wet I am for you, Hollander?” Ilya asked, breathlessly.
Shane looked up, wide-eyed and giddy, her muscles throbbing with energy, and smiled. And then she wordlessly dipped a hand beneath Ilya’s Calvin Kleins.
Ilya hissed at the first point of contact, hot breath fanning over Shane’s cheeks. She was wet, Shane realised, as she ran her middle and ring finger down her clit. Ilya was warmer here, more reactive: Shane could feel every shudder in her breath thrum in her fingertips. It was the hottest thing Shane had ever seen.
But it was also terrifying. What if she became one of Ilya’s “worst every hookup” stories to tell at parties? Shane pursued her lips, and deliberately slowed her hand down. Ilya frowned at her.
“I haven’t… um, done this before.” Shane said, looking down, embarrassed.
Ilya’s breath caught, and she slowly took Shane’s chin to force her to look at her. Shane’s hand froze. And Ilya’s mock-pout came back, an endeared gleam in her eyes.
“Aw, so you are little virgin girl?”
“Fuck off,” Shane snapped, cheeks flushing, “You’re worse than men.”
“Ah, she bites.” Ilya grinned as Shane rolled her eyes. She moved her hand to toy with a stray curl at the side of Shane’s face, her face turning slightly more serious as she averted her eyes to stare at the soft brown strand. “You have been with men though?”
“Um. Yeah, I mean, of course.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow, gaze moving back to meet her, as Shane cringed at herself. “Yes, very convincing Hollander.”
“Fuck off, oh my god.”
“Are those only words you know?” Ilya pressed her forehead to Shane’s again. Blue against brown. “‘Fuck off’?”
Shane fought the urge to say it again. It was some of the vocabulary she’d adopted from the other hockey players, who probably used it twice as often as her as a jeering phrase before a game.
Shane settled on the slightly weaker alternative - “shut up” -, before stepping back. Unfortunately for her, Ilya followed her, not moving her face more than an inch away from her. And in a single swift movement, she removed her shirt and threw it on the floor. Shane was shocked to notice she wasn’t wearing a bra. A smile played on Ilya’s lips when she noticed Shane’s eyeline slipping lower, browns drawn in an attempt to control herself.
“Hm. You still want me to ‘fuck off’?” Ilya mused, pulling Shane’s hips forward swiftly to leave them flush against each other. Shane yelped at the sudden contact, but Ilya could tell she was suppressing a smile. And still trying very hard not to look at her tits.
“Yes.” Shane wet her lips, looking conflicted.
Ilya squinted at her, picking up on something else in that frown, in Shane’s reluctance to maintain eye contact. Well, more reluctance than usual anyway. “There is something you want to say?”
Shane forced herself to look at Ilya, mouth parting slightly. She was kind of shocked Ilya had noticed, but she supposed it was kind of difficult to miss anything when you were this close to someone.
“Have you.. you know, with girls?” Shane bit her lip, embarrassed to be asking this question.
“Yes,” Ilya said without hesitation. Shane only realised she’d been expecting her to say no when her stomach dropped this response.
Ilya traced Shane’s freckles with the tip of her thumb. “Was with my coach’s daughter.” She continued, “In Russia.”
Shane’s mouth fell open, “Holy fuck, you do like trouble!”
“We were careful.” Ilya assured her, “Same to lose if we got caught.”
Shane nodded in understanding, skin tingling under Ilya’s touch. She smiled, teasingly. “Do you have a kink for risky hook ups then?”
“Hm, maybe.” Ilya leaned closer, looking at Shane through her long lashes. “You will help me with this?”
It was magnetic: the way Ilya was there, inches away, acting so composed but Shane could see how much she secretly wanted this in the shudder of her breath, the flush on her skin. Shane smiled, before sliding her hand back under Ilya’s boxers.
Now that Ilya knew about her inexperience, Shane felt a sort of weight lifted: there was no pressure, only trying to make Ilya feel good. Though Shane was hoping she wouldn’t be too much worse than the coach’s daughter. Ilya’s fingers had found Shane’s hair again, and she was tugging at it, matching the rhythm of Shane’s hand. She could see Ilya’s throat working to swallow the sounds threatening to leave her mouth, her bottom lip caught between her perfect white teeth. Shane could feel her getting wetter with every brush of her fingers against her clit.
“Do you want me to..” Shane wasn’t sure how to say it. Ilya let out a frustrated sound.
“Yes Hollander, please fucking finger me.” She said sarcastically, but the effect was slightly dampened when her voice broke on “please”.
Her grip tightened as Shane teased her entrance with two fingers, drawing slow circles around it. She was panting shamelessly by now, falling in hot breaths that scorched Shane’s ear. She let out a broken moan when Shane finally, finally, pushed her fingers up into the wet heat of her pussy.
It was completely different to fingering herself, yet somehow exactly the same. Shane had to admit that it was a bit odd to be solely on the giving end, but witnessing the way Ilya’s body lit up with pleasure was a thousand times better than feeling it herself.
“Fuck, right there, faster Hollander,” Ilya was mumbling, eyes nearly rolling back when Shane quickly obeyed, “Yes, good girl.”
A rush of heat hit Shane at the praise, but she tried her best not to let it show, keeping up the new, quicker pace of her thrusts. She couldn’t help but smile though, at how Ilya’s head was tipped up in ecstasy. Shane could practically see her pulse thrumming under her skin: she could certainly feel it thudding in her fingertips. Ilya was biting her lip, eyes unfocused, and Shane felt her cunt tighten suddenly around her fingers.
“Stop!” Ilya barked, hauling Shane off her with a grunt. The air was cold on Shane’s wet fingers, and she was paralysed with the fear of what she’d done wrong. Ilya squeezed her eyes shut, throat bobbing as she swallowed.
“Sorry!” Shane blurted, cheeks flooding with colour, “You know I haven’t … I’m not -”
Ilya snorted a laugh, “Is okay. Was just …” Ilya looked away, as if embarrassed, and Shane could see an imprint from her tongue moving in her cheek. “Too much.”
Relief washed over Shane. “Oh.” Then shock. She felt like she hadn’t even done much yet: it definitely took her way longer simply to get wet when she was by herself.
“Yes, and I think bed is more comfortable than wall, no?”
Shane blinked, “Right, yeah, of course.”
Ilya took her hand and dragged her to the king sized bed in the centre of the room. A low whistle left her lips as she took in the sight. Shane wasn’t quite sure why: all she’d done was make sure it was neatly made for them.
“Will I find rose petals inside sheet, spelling my name?” Ilya teased, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
“God no, I’m not that insane.”
Ilya kicked off her shoes and swiftly pulled her jeans and boxers all the way off, along with her socks. It was in a careless, yet practiced way, as if this was her hundredth hook-up of the season.
And Shane finally let herself look at her. Her chest was rising and falling dramatically with every breath she took, head tilted up slightly to expose her pale, unmarked neck. She was looking up at Shane through her lashes, smirking when Shane’s eyes fell to her tits. They were perfect, Shane realised, suppressing a shiver. Her mouth was watering and she could feel her palms getting sweaty. Ilya wet her lips and reached up to guide Shane’s hands down to them.
“You like them?” Ilya asked innocuously, her hands still over Shane’s to keep her there, but Shane’s brain had stopped working at the feeling of Ilya’s words sending soft vibrations through her skin. She tried to nod, but she couldn’t quite drag her attention from her tits. She could feel her nipples hardening under her touch.
However, her warmth was suddenly gone as Ilya shuffled back so she was sitting in the centre of the bed, naked, legs spread, that hazy, sex-drunk glimmer in her eyes. Shane felt like a high schooler watching porn for the first time: frozen, unable to do anything but watch, mesmerised.
“This is a bit … not fair” Ilya pouted, gesturing between Shane’s clothes and her lack thereof.
Shane looked up reluctantly, “You want me to …”
“Da. Yes.” Ilya rolled her eyes, “I want to see you.”
“You did. Already.” Shane pointed out, “In the showers.”
“Hm, well.” Ilya got up so she was kneeling before Shane, “I want a better look.”
Ilya seemed perfectly comfortable being nude: if anything, she was more confident than she was clothed. Shane guessed she would be the same if she looked like that, as she awkwardly removed her pyjamas and folded them, before placing them on her suitcase. Despite this, she still felt compelled to do whatever Ilya asked of her, whatever she needed; Shane wanted to get on her knees already and take her apart. She looked away as she took off her underwear, fighting the urge to close her eyes. As if she were a child who believed no one could see them if they couldn’t see anyone else.
“Da, very nice. Turn around for me?” Ilya was sitting back on her elbows, idly watching Shane from the bed. Shane reluctantly complied with Ilya’s request.
Ilya nodded slowly, running her tongue over her upper lip.
“So flat.” She teased, gesturing to her own fuller chest. “Like little boy.”
“It’s natural, fuck off.” Shane threw her underwear at her, and Ilya quickly caught it with those lightning reflexes of hers. She placed it on the bed next to her without breaking eye contact. Shane climbed onto the bed, and Ilya leant back with her head against the plush headboard as Shane crawled on top of her. Shane settled with one elbow braced on the mattress next to Ilya and the opposite hand trailing down Ilya’s skin to return to what she had been doing.
It was easier now, without the stiffness of clothes in the way and gravity working in their favour. Shane could angle her hand in a way that made her thrusts deeper, which Ilya was expressing a profound approval for. Her cockiness had faded the second Shane touched her again, but even with the broken, Russian-sounding sounds leaving her mouth, and the glassy sheen of pleasure over her eyes, Ilya still had a sense of confidence, of control.
“More- Hollander, более, fuck- более-“
Ilya’s mouth fell open when Shane added a third finger, eyes unfocused, blonde curls fanned out on the pillow. Shane bit her lip, the sight nearly making her shiver with joy. How she’d managed to get Ilya Rosanov in bed, a sight most Canadian men would give their firstborn for, Shane had no idea, but she was sure going to try her best to satisfy her. She continued pumping her fingers up into her pussy: her hand was surely soaked up to her wrist by this point.
“So good,” Ilya breathed, hands finding Shane’s bare shoulders. Her tits grazed Shane’s skin with every thrust. “Fuck, fuck, Hollander, I’m close.”
Shane’s brows furrowed, “Close to what?”
“Close to- ngh-” Ilya’s nails dug into Shane’s skin, “Close to cumming.”
Shane squinted at her, trying to keep her pace steady despite her confusion, “Coming where?”
Ilya showed no sign of having heard her, as her pants suddenly grew very loud, practically echoing around the small hotel room. Her whole body was arched, her head tipped back to expose her neck. And Shane felt her cunt clench very tightly around her fingers.
It pulsed, relaxing and then constricting again, as Shane continued fucking her. She decided to slow down her thrusts every so slightly, as Ilya seemed to be lost in the haze of pleasure. Ilya’s chest jerked with every sucked-in breath, a heated blush blooming up her neck. Her eyes were heavy-lidded as her breathing slowly returned to normal.
Shane slowly removed her fingers, which were gleaming with wetness in the dim light. Ilya finally let go of Shane’s shoulders and Shane could feel the sharp pricks in her skin from where her nails had been. Staring at Shane, a curious look on her face, she raised her hand to her lips, and gently sucked the tip of her index finger into her mouth. A silent dare.
Shane’s breath caught, as she slowly copied Ilya’s movement with her right hand. It might have just been the fading heat of the moment, but Shane wasn’t as disgusted as she’d have thought she was. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the cold taste of Ilya tingling on her tongue was so inherently erotic, Shane couldn’t help but lick every last drop of her from her fingers.
When Shane opened her eyes again, Ilya was gazing at her with an almost analytical look.
“So, you do not know what orgasm is?” She said, as casually as if she were asking about the weather.
“What? Of course I know what a-” Shane let out a humourless laugh, embarrassed. “An orgasm is.”
Ilya frowned, rolling over to lie on her side and propping her head up on her hand. “But you are confused when I say I will cum?”
“I- “ Shane chewed her lip, before admitting defeat. “I mean, yeah.”
Ilya pursed her lips. “Cumming is orgasm, no?”
Shane blinked, incredulously, and her shock must have shown on her face because Ilya immediately burst out laughing.
“No wait- “ Shane muttered, mostly to herself because Ilya was snorting with laughter, burying her face in her hands. “But ‘coming’ is like, if you are going-”
“It is other meaning.” Ilya explained, between giggles, “Not like how I ‘come’ to your hotel room.”
“...Oh.” Shane blushed, feeling like an idiot.
“Aww,” Ilya said, rubbing Shane’s shoulder mock-affectionately, “Now I definitely believe you are virgin.”
Shane scoffed, “Are you sure this isn’t some Russian shit you’re translating?”
“Believe me Hollander, I hear this in locker room every day.”
Shane breathed out a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. But, as she thought back to comments she’d overheard herself in locker rooms, to conversations she’d had with friends, she found that the dots were slowly connecting. Fuck, that was embarrassing.
“Well, was nice Shane.” Shane was broken from her stupor when Ilya slid off the bed in a single graceful movement. “Goodnight.”