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The porch light at Ilya’s Ottawa house burned a soft gold over fresh snow, catching in the dark paint of Shane’s car as he killed the engine and sat for one extra beat with both hands on the wheel. His gloves were on the passenger seat, folded together. His overnight bag was zipped. His phone was face down, notifications cleared, calendar already rearranged in neat invisible rows inside his head. He could still turn around, go back to his condo, eat the chicken and rice he had measured out this morning, sleep alone, wake up calm. Instead he opened the door and let the cold hit his face hard enough to make a decision for him.
Ilya opened the door before Shane knocked.
He was barefoot, in loose gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a black T shirt that looked stretched from sleep or boredom or both. His hair was a mess, dark and soft, and his gold cross glinted against the hollow of his throat when he leaned on the frame. He looked like he had been waiting for an hour and would rather die than admit it.
“You are late,” he said.
“It’s snowing.”
“In Canada? Crazy.” Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Come inside, Hollander. You look like frozen accountant.”
Warm air wrapped around Shane the second he stepped in. The house smelled like coffee, soap, and something rich from the kitchen, garlic and butter and toasted bread. Shane shut the door quietly behind him, set his keys in a perfect line on the entry table, then bent to untie his boots. By the time he straightened, Ilya was still standing there, watching him with that unreadable, heavy-lidded stare that always made Shane feel stripped to the bone.
“You made food,” Shane said.
“Yes. I know. Very domestic. Terrifying.”
Shane’s laugh came out softer than he meant it to. “You don’t have to make fun of yourself before I do.”
Ilya stepped closer. “I was not making fun. I was warning you.”
The words should have been teasing, but his voice had gone low, rough with something that settled under Shane’s skin at once. He had not seen Ilya in nearly two weeks. They had talked, texted under stupid names, sent photos that showed hands and coffee cups and hotel ceilings and never the thing either of them wanted. Seeing him in person after all that restraint felt like standing too close to a furnace in wet clothes. Shane could feel himself start to overheat.
“You can take your coat off,” Ilya said.
“Obviously.”
“Then why you are still wearing it?”
Because if he took his coat off, the visit would become real. Because if it became real, he would stop being captain, schedule, image, control, and become only this, a man in another man’s house aching to be touched. Because Ilya looked like sin and comfort and trouble all at once, and Shane had driven three hours through sleet with a duffel bag and a hard-on that had been threatening him since Kingston.
He shrugged off the coat. Ilya took it from him without looking away, fingers brushing the back of Shane’s neck in a quick graze that made heat jump down his spine. Then he hung the coat, came back, and stood close enough that Shane could feel warmth radiating from his chest.
“You shaved,” Ilya said, thumb dragging once over Shane’s jaw.
“This morning.”
“I can tell. Very smooth. Very pretty.”
“Don’t call me pretty.”
Ilya smiled, slow and wicked. “Then stop being pretty.”
Shane grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.
The first contact was all force, mouths opening on a breath, teeth clicking, one sharp collision that should have hurt and somehow only made everything better. Ilya made a sound low in his throat and caught Shane by the hips, hauling him in so hard Shane’s back hit the wall by the entry. The impact rattled a framed picture. Shane barely noticed. His hands were already in Ilya’s hair, tugging, ruining it more. Ilya kissed like he played, relentless and graceful and mean when he wanted to be, taking ground with infuriating confidence until Shane felt his knees go weak.
“You drove here like this?” Ilya murmured against his mouth. “All wound up?”
Shane swallowed. “Maybe.”
“Poor thing.”
“Don’t.”
“Poor, repressed, beautiful thing.”
Shane kissed him again just to shut him up, and Ilya laughed into it, which made Shane want to bite him and drag that rough sound out of him until the whole stupid polished house heard it. His hands slid down over Ilya’s chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, under the waistband of his sweats. Ilya hissed when Shane wrapped his fingers around him. Hot. Already hard. Thick in Shane’s hand, velvet skin stretched over heat and weight and a pulse that jumped against Shane’s palm.
“Jesus,” Shane said, forehead dropping to Ilya’s shoulder.
“Not Jesus,” Ilya said. “Just me.”
Shane snorted, breathless, and stroked him once, twice, slow enough to feel every reaction. Ilya’s fingers tightened at Shane’s hips. His head tipped back against the wall. The cross slid sideways on his chest. Shane watched his throat work and wanted, with sudden stupid intensity, to put his mouth there, then lower, then lower. He did.
He sank down before Ilya could say anything, one knee hitting the hardwood, then the other. Ilya stared at him, chest rising. Shane looked up through his lashes as he tugged the waistband down just enough to free him fully. Ilya was flushed already, cock standing heavy against his stomach, the tip wet. Shane licked the bead away just because he knew what it would do.
Ilya’s hand smacked the wall behind him. “Shane.”
That voice. Deep, gone ragged at the edges. Shane took him into his mouth and heard it break.
He loved this, the impossible combination of power and surrender in it, the way Ilya always went tense first and then molten, the way his sarcasm burned off under real pleasure and left him stripped raw. Shane worked him slow at first, tongue tracing, cheeks hollowing, one hand braced on Ilya’s thigh while the other stroked what his mouth did not cover. He could taste salt, heat, something wild and unmistakably him. Every time he pulled back, Ilya’s hips twitched after him like his body had already decided where it belonged.
“Fuck,” Ilya muttered, breath shuddering. “You suck cock like you are angry at it.”
Shane pulled off with a wet sound and glanced up. “Do you want me to stop talking or keep sucking?”
Ilya looked down at him with pupils blown wide. “Smartass.”
Then Shane swallowed him again, deeper this time, and Ilya stopped having clever things to say.
His fingers slid into Shane’s hair, not pushing, just holding. That was worse. That gentle restraint always wrecked Shane more than roughness did, the trust of it, the quiet certainty that Shane would take what he wanted and Ilya would let him. Shane let himself enjoy the sounds. The scrape of Ilya’s heel on wood. The sharp breaths. The little, involuntary Russian words that started dropping from him when he got too far gone to think in English. Shane understood only pieces, enough to know praise when he heard it, enough to feel it like a hand over bare skin.
When Ilya came, it hit him all at once. His whole body went taut, abs jumping, mouth open on a broken groan as hot spurts flooded Shane’s tongue. Shane swallowed greedily, eyes closing for one second at the taste, at the way Ilya shuddered and kept shuddering, trapped in the aftershock. A little spilled from the corner of Shane’s mouth anyway. Ilya made a wrecked sound and dragged him to his feet just to kiss it away.
“You are insane,” Ilya said against his lips.
“You like me.”
“I am obsessed with you. Very different.”
Shane laughed, properly this time, and Ilya kissed the sound right out of him.
They made it to the kitchen because Shane wanted water and because Ilya kept touching him, which made basic tasks suddenly athletic. Shane got a glass from the cupboard while Ilya pressed up behind him, lips at the side of his neck, one hand slipping under his sweater to span his stomach. Shane drank half the water in three gulps and nearly dropped the glass when Ilya thumbed the hard outline in his jeans.
“You’ve been hard since I opened the door,” Ilya said.
“That is your fault.”
“Good.”
He unbuttoned Shane’s jeans with easy, arrogant patience, then shoved them down just enough to get his hand inside. Shane gripped the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles whitened. Ilya stroked him once and Shane’s whole body jolted.
“Fuck.”
“Yes,” Ilya murmured. “That is plan.”
His hand was slick in seconds. He always touched Shane like he knew exactly how much pressure would make him tremble and exactly how much teasing he could survive before he snapped. Shane dropped his head, breath sawing out of him. The kitchen lights were bright. Too bright. He could see the reflection of them in the dark window over the sink, a clean-cut hockey star trying to stay upright while his rival, his secret, his whole disastrous heart, jerked him off from behind with his mouth on Shane’s shoulder.
“Ilya,” Shane said, warning and plea in one word.
“Hmm?”
“I’m close.”
“I know.”
That accent wrapped around the words like heat. Ilya’s other hand moved to Shane’s throat, not squeezing, just holding him there, forcing him to feel every second of it. Shane came with a helpless gasp, hot streaks spilling over Ilya’s fist and the front of his own shirt. His knees nearly buckled. Ilya held him up, chest to back, laughing softly when Shane made an embarrassed noise.
“Two minutes in my house,” Ilya said. “Disaster.”
“It has been more than two minutes.”
“You came on yourself. I win argument.”
Shane turned in his arms and kissed him hard enough to shut him up again. Ilya tasted like coffee and Shane’s own release and something sweetly cruel. He was smiling when Shane pulled back.
“I need a shower,” Shane said.
Ilya’s grin widened. “Convenient. I also have shower.”
The bathroom fogged fast. Steam rolled over the mirror and silvered the tiles while Shane stood under the spray, head bowed, water running through his hair and down the hard lines of his chest. He had stripped, finally, and there was always a moment like this with Ilya, one suspended breath where being seen naked felt more intimate than sex, where Shane had to fight the reflex to cover himself even after all these years. He did not cover himself. He lifted his head and let Ilya look.
Ilya leaned against the sink, still in those gray sweats, watching like a starving man at the edge of a feast.
“You are staring,” Shane said.
“Yes.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And you are naked. Tragic for me.”
Shane held out a hand. “Get in.”
Ilya stripped in one fluid motion, no shame, no hesitation, body all long muscle and old strength and careless beauty. The cross stayed on, warm metal against damp skin. Shane reached for him as soon as he stepped under the water. They kissed slow this time, mouths soft and slick, steam turning everything loose around the edges. Ilya’s hands moved over Shane’s ribs, his back, the curve of his ass, learning and claiming all over again. Shane returned the favor, soap sliding under his palms, over shoulders, down spine, over the heavy length of him beginning to harden again.
“You never get enough,” Shane whispered.
“Look who is talking.”
Ilya dropped to his knees on the wet tile before Shane could answer.
The sight hit Shane so hard he had to brace a hand on the wall. Water ran over Ilya’s hair and broad shoulders. He looked up with his lashes dark and clumped, mouth already parting, and Shane nearly came from that alone. Then Ilya licked up the underside of him, slow and broad, and the world narrowed to white tile, hot water, and the impossible wet heat of that mouth.
Shane had gone down on Ilya enough times to know exactly how good he was being treated. He also knew Ilya liked to pretend otherwise, liked to act casual while reducing Shane to shaking wreckage. He sucked him deep, then pulled back to kiss the head, tongue circling in maddening little swipes that made Shane’s thighs tremble. One hand cupped his balls, gentle and possessive. The other spread over Shane’s hip, fingers digging in whenever Shane tried to move too much.
“Stay still,” Ilya said.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Is easy for me to do too.”
Shane laughed and choked on it immediately when Ilya took him deep again. The sound that tore out of him was humiliating and loud and he did not care. His hand slid to Ilya’s wet hair, holding on. Ilya looked obscene on his knees, mouth glossy, throat working, eyes half shut as if he liked this almost as much as Shane did. That was the part that undid him, the hungry reverence of it. Shane was used to attention. He was not used to being worshipped.
“Ilya, I’m serious.”
Ilya hummed around him.
Shane’s orgasm hit with brutal force, vision blowing out, body jerking. He came down Ilya’s throat in pulsing waves and kept coming while Ilya swallowed and swallowed, one hand gripping Shane’s ass to keep him from folding in half. When it was over, Shane slid bonelessly down the wall to sit on the tile. Water poured over both of them. Ilya crawled into his space and kissed him until Shane could breathe again.
“Three times,” Ilya said quietly, thumb brushing Shane’s lower lip. “You just got here.”
Shane laughed weakly. “You are not exactly suffering.”
“I know.” Ilya’s smile turned soft, almost sleepy. “I like when you forget everything.”
Shane should have answered with a joke. He should have deflected, or asked what that meant, or steered them back to something manageable. Instead he touched the cross at Ilya’s chest, then the wet line of his jaw, and said, “Only with you.”
The air changed.
It was subtle, only a little stillness, but Shane felt it. Ilya’s eyes went dark and deep in a way that made Shane’s pulse trip. He leaned in and kissed Shane once, carefully, like the softness itself might bruise.
“Moy lyubimyy,” he murmured.
Then he stood, shut off the water, and held out a hand. Shane took it.
The bedroom was dim except for the lamp on the far side of the bed, amber light over tangled sheets and discarded clothes. By the time they fell onto the mattress, skin damp and half dried, Shane was hard again, almost painfully so. Ilya stretched over him and kissed down his chest, pausing at each nipple just to make Shane squirm. He liked making Shane squirm. He liked proving that under all the discipline, Shane was as needy as anybody.
“Tell me,” Ilya said, fingers sliding between Shane’s thighs. “What you want.”
Shane’s breath caught when slick fingertips brushed him, teasing, not entering. “You know.”
“I know many things. Use words.”
“You are such an asshole.”
“Yes.”
Shane glared, cheeks hot. Ilya kissed his stomach, smirking. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
“Fuck me,” Shane said.
Ilya looked up, expression suddenly stripped clean of mockery. “Again.”
“Fuck me,” Shane repeated, rougher now. “Please.”
That please did it. Shane knew the exact moment it landed because Ilya’s face changed, all sharpness melting into something almost unbearably tender. He reached for the lube in the drawer without taking his eyes off Shane, coated his fingers, then came back to the bed and spread Shane open with obscene patience.
Every stretch made Shane gasp. Ilya watched all of it, his pupils huge, his thumb stroking the inside of Shane’s thigh whenever he got too tense. One finger, then two, then three, each one working him open slow until Shane was twisting on the sheets and begging under his breath. Ilya pressed kisses to his knee, his hip, the soft skin below his navel. Reverent. Cruel. Thorough.
“You are so fucking beautiful like this,” Ilya said, voice gone almost hoarse. “Do you know?”
Shane shook his head because words had abandoned him.
Ilya kissed him until they came back enough for a moan, then lined himself up and pushed in.
There was no getting used to that first deep stretch, only surviving it. Shane arched off the bed with a broken gasp, hands flying to Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya held still, forehead pressed to Shane’s, breathing hard through his nose while Shane adjusted around him. Their bodies knew this dance. Still, every time felt new in the places that mattered, every time like being split open and gathered up at once.
“Okay?” Ilya whispered.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He moved.
Slow at first, careful and deep, each thrust landing with a precision that made Shane’s head fall back. The mattress creaked. Their skin slapped softly together. Ilya’s mouth stayed on him, kissing his throat, his collarbone, the corner of his mouth, never letting the distance widen. Shane clung and took and gave, his body opening more with every drive in, pleasure building from a hot knot to something vast and blinding. When Ilya finally put more force behind it, Shane cried out.
“That,” Shane gasped. “Like that.”
Ilya groaned into his neck. “Bossy even when full of cock.”
Shane tried to laugh and failed when the next thrust hit so perfectly his whole body jerked. After that there was no room for anything except sensation. Ilya drove him into the mattress in long hard strokes, hips snapping, sweat gathering again on both of them though the room was cool. The headboard bumped the wall in a steady rhythm. Shane’s legs were shaking. One of Ilya’s hands slid between them and wrapped around Shane’s cock, stroking in time with each thrust, and Shane lost whatever was left of his mind.
“Oh, fuck, Ilya, fuck, please, please.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, wrecked now, accent thick as velvet. “Come for me. Come on, moy lyubimyy.”
Shane came with a shout, spilling hot over Ilya’s hand and both their stomachs. The orgasm ripped through him so hard he kept shaking after the first pulse, body clamping down helplessly. Ilya swore in Russian and drove into him twice more, then buried himself deep and came with a groan that sounded dragged from somewhere ancient, hot release flooding inside Shane in long, pulsing jets.
For a while neither of them moved.
Ilya collapsed over him, breathing hard, face hidden in Shane’s throat. Shane held him there, fingers stroking damp hair, feeling the hammer of his heart. The room smelled like sex and sweat and clean linen. Outside, snow tapped faintly at the window. Inside, there was only heat.
Eventually Ilya lifted his head. A smear of Shane’s come still shone across his lower stomach. Shane reached down, scooped some on two fingers, and brought it to his mouth without breaking eye contact.
Ilya watched him lick it clean and made a helpless, wrecked sound. “You are trying to kill me.”
“Maybe.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” Ilya echoed, then bent and kissed him with the taste of both of them still between them.
The kiss turned hungry again almost immediately. It always did with them. Shane could feel Ilya hardening where he was still half inside him, already wanting more, and his own body answered with an eager, aching throb that made him laugh into Ilya’s mouth.
“What?” Ilya asked, smiling against his lips.
Shane slid his hand down between them and stroked him once, savoring the hitch in Ilya’s breath. “You said I was a disaster.”
“You are.”
Shane kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then whispered, “Then keep making a mess.”
Ilya’s eyes went black with want. He caught Shane’s wrist, pinned it gently above his head, and rolled his hips once, slow enough to make Shane moan.
“Gladly,” he said.