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“Shane.” One word, gasped out at the height of passion. So much pleasure construed by just one syllable.
And Shane had loved it. Loved the meaning. Loved the feeling of being wanted, being held—it had felt so special.
He’d gasped out “Ilya” in return, and the world had come crashing down.
The fragile little world of make-believe Shane had allowed Rozanov to indulge them in for one afternoon shattered.
Because they did not do this. They did not sleep over. They did not make each other food or purchase each other’s favourite beverages. They did not make small talk and ask each other personal questions. And they certainly did not cry out each other’s names like they were declaring their undying devotion.
Shane had tried closeness with the man before, tried to forge a bond deeper than sex. To tentatively show care, and maybe even affection.
And he had been shut down with the force of a concrete wall every time. Told in no uncertain terms that Rozanov did not want Shane’s concern and had no interest in sharing any more of his life with him than what they liked in the bedroom.
And after Shane had wiped away the tears, dusted himself off, and given himself a hard shake back to reality, he’d accepted it.
He and Rozanov were just sex. No more, no less—and actually, Shane had come to believe it was for the best.
They couldn’t be anything more than that anyway. It had just been his naive Canadian politeness that had, at first, made him feel a bit weird about a relationship based purely on carnal desire. Without so much as a, ‘how you doing?’ or a, ‘got any plans over the summer?’. Once he’d gotten over the shock of having another human being make him feel so good with just the touch of his hands and the press of his lips, Shane realised it was the only way it could be for them. If he wanted connection, he should look elsewhere.
And he was going to. He was going to eventually find a woman he actually liked and stop whatever crazed, probably hockey-induced urge to fuck his biggest rival.
But then, on one sunny afternoon in suburban Boston, Rozanov had gone and disrupted their perfectly curated routine. Had shaken that carefully balanced equilibrium, leaving Shane off-centre and adrift.
He didn’t know how to act in the face of this.
Being fed. Being conversed with. Being treated like more than they were—more than they’d both accepted they could be… or so Shane had thought.
So he left. How could he do anything else?
He grabbed his shoes and jacket and got out of there, trying desperately hard not to listen to Rozanov’s ragged breaths as the door clicked closed behind him.
Shane called an Uber from a few streets away, too desperate to get away to wait outside Rozanov’s place for his ride.
His own breathing was becoming shorter and shorter, panic seizing up his chest. He’d never done well with the unexpected. He liked his routines—he always had—especially when it came to social situations. And Rozanov had chosen to go and sweep the rug out from under his feet in a very social situation.
Shane braced his hands on his knees as he awaited the car, praying he could hold it together long enough to get back to the hotel.
He may have been shaking. His eyes may have been red-rimmed. But Shane managed the ride back, navigated the hotel lobby, and the awkward greeting with Hayden before he totally broke down in the shower.
Sobs wracked him so strongly he had to crouch on the shower floor, while the too-hot water scalded his back.
What the fuck?
Shane couldn’t quite get his head around it.
What had Rozanov been thinking?
What game was that?
How had he expected Shane to react to so drastically shaking up their routine?
How had he wanted him to?
Shane knew, by the look of pain and devastation on Ilya’s face as he pulled away and left—how he’d called out “Hollander” as if trying to undo his mistake—that Rozanov had not wanted Shane to leave.
But what had he wanted? Shane to stay? Pretend like it was normal for them to actually spend time together like that? Spend time together whilst taunting him about how much he liked women? Tease him as if he knew full well that Shane didn’t like them the same?
Shane didn’t understand.
But as he finally shut off the water, squeezing his stinging eyes to get rid of the last of the tears, all Shane could see were Ilya’s sad eyes.
Don’t leave, they’d seemed to say.
But that’s all they ever did. Leave each other. It’s all they could do. Rozanov had taught Shane that himself.
Shane towelled himself dry vigorously, as if he could physically remove the lingering discomfort from his skin, desperately trying to rationalise as much as he could. But as he tucked himself into bed and mumbled off Hayden’s attempts to ask if everything was okay, there were not enough rational thoughts in the world to stop the pain Shane felt when he pictured Ilya sitting alone on his couch.
The remnants of their lunch sitting discarded on the coffee table like the remnants of what they once were.
Because Shane couldn’t see how they’d come back from this—and that thought alone made him feel worse than any other.
That this was it for them.
Finally.
Shane thought he couldn’t feel any worse when he went to bed, those thoughts gnawing at the edge of his consciousness.
It wasn’t until he woke in the middle of the night, heart hammering, cold sweat pouring off him, sour saliva pooling beneath his tongue, that he realised he was wrong.
He could feel so much worse.
Shane rolled and dropped to the floor combat-style as he hauled himself to the bathroom in a crouch.
Too scared to straighten at all, as he knew the churning ball of liquid that was his stomach would no longer be contained if he did.
He crashed the toilet lid open just in time. No chance of being quiet about it as he heaved, and whatever had been inside him was now outside.
Shane could barely catch a breath between wave after wave of sickness, burning his throat, bringing tears to his eyes.
Shane gasped as he felt a hand on his back, trying to turn his head to tell Hayden to fuck off, but there was no time. His mouth was constantly occupied, spewing up his guts.
Shane white-knuckled the toilet bowl, praying for it to stop. He hated vomiting. Hated the mess, the smell, the lack of control his body had in the moment.
Eventually the retching lessened, his stomach cramping painfully as it tried to bring up air.
“Hey, buddy,” Hayden soothed, his hand still rubbing circles across Shane’s shoulders. “You think you ate something bad?”
At the mention of food, Shane immediately started coughing up again.
“Sorry, doesn’t matter—here, take a breath,” Hayden encouraged, and Shane took the opportunity to reach up and flush the vomit-splattered toilet.
“Here.” Hayden passed Shane a cup of water, and Shane tentatively took a sip.
“You wanna brush your teeth?” Hayden asked.
Shane shook his head, wincing at the dizzy feeling. “Sp’osed to wait 30 minutes,” he muttered, voice raw.
“Right—trust you to remember stuff like that.” Hayden rolled his eyes fondly.
Once Shane was sure he wasn’t about to puke up the two sips of water he’d managed, he climbed up, gripping the edge of the sink in case his sudden light-headedness brought him down, and splashed his face with cool water.
His skin felt dry and papery, burning up.
He staggered back to bed and shot Hayden a grateful smile when he nudged the wastepaper basket closer.
“Get some rest. Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning. Wake me up if you need anything.”
Shane tried to form the words thank you, but all that came out was a vague mumbling sound before he was out like a light.
“Fuck’s sake, what a waste of time.”
Shane woke to the sound of Hayden grumbling at his phone.
“What is?” Shane asked, voice all scratchy. He tried to get a closer look at his friend but found himself screwing his eyes back shut when the hazy morning sunlight hit him like a needle between the eyes.
“Boston match postponed. Entire Raiders team down with stomach flu.”
“Oh,” Shane groaned. Not at the thought of missing the game—actually, he was relieved about that, because he currently felt like he’d been hit by a semi-truck, and the thought of getting on the ice made him want to curl into a teeny tiny ball. No, Shane groaned in annoyance when he realised not only had Rozanov ripped up the rule book of their hookups, he’d also infected him with gastroenteritis to boot. “That explains it,” Shane muttered as he burrowed further into bed, already fighting off more sleep.
“Explains what?” Hayden asked.
“Why I’m sick,” Shane muttered.
“Hang on… we haven’t played the Raiders yet. Where did you get it from?”
“Shit—”
Shane sat up so fast bile jolted up the back of his throat. Forgetting the carefully placed trash can, Shane hurtled for the bathroom, just reaching the sink in time before whatever remained of his stomach contents presented themselves.
This time Shane got sick, he kind of hoped it wouldn’t end, just so he didn’t have to face the incriminating questions he was sure Hayden had for him.
He swiped a hand across his mouth and slowly, methodically directed the faucet’s spray to rinse the sink.
“So Lily works with the Raiders, or… she’s a WAG, or—God, Shane, what?”
Shane turned around, head in his hands as he sank to the floor, cursing his monumental fuck-up—exposing things a little too close to the truth, and even worse, exposing things that didn’t even exist to expose anymore.
Shane blinked rapidly to clear the telling wetness from his eyes.
“Hayds, just…” Shane began miserably, daring a quick glance up at his best friend. Shane had always hated lying, but he especially hated doing it to Hayden. He’d never been anything but kind, welcoming, and sincere with Shane.
Hayden dropped down next to where Shane was leaning against the sink, head resting on his knees.
“Who is she? You can tell me—secret’s safe. If she’s linked to the Raiders, I totally get it now, why you’re so weird about it, but you can trust me.”
Shane took a shaky breath.
“You mean was…”
“Huh?”
“Was… we’re finished anyway. Me and him–”
“Oh.”
“Got too messy. We’re through.” Shane let a few tears escape at the admission, his gut churning again—but not so much with sickness this time… maybe regret, maybe resignation.
A light touch to his knee drew Shane’s head to the side.
“That’s rough,” Hayden said gently, patting his knee. “So it’s someone in the Raiders, a player?”
“Can we not?” Shane groaned.
“Sure,” Hayden agreed with an easy smile. “I’ll get you back to bed.”
Shane traipsed after him, ready for more blissful unconsciousness after the physical and now emotional toll caught up with him.
Hayden grimaced at his phone. “Team bus is taking us back to the airport in an hour.”
Shane felt whatever blood was left in his head drain from his face.
“I can’t fly like this.”
Hayden nodded. “I’ll ring coach and explain—we can get a later flight when you’re feeling better.”
“No, Hayden, you should go and spend the free time with Jackie. I’ll be fine here.”
“Oh no.” Hayden immediately shook his head. “If you’ve given it to me, she will not thank me for bringing that home to the kids. I am quarantining myself for at least the next twelve hours.” Hayden stretched himself obstinately out on his bed, tucking his hands behind his head. “Sorry, bud, but you are stuck with me… actually, want me to fetch you anything? Medicine, Gatorade, ginger ale?”
Shane groaned and rolled over, hoping Hayden would get the hint and shut up so Shane could go back to sleep.
He wasn’t sure if he actually drifted off, but the next thing Shane dully became aware of was Hayden talking on the phone—maybe to coach, maybe to Jackie—when a new noise properly woke him up.
His own phone.
Shane reached for it, not bothering to open his eyes to check the ID as he swiped to answer.
“You heard news?”
Shane knew better than to sit bolt upright this time, but it was a close thing.
Rozanov had called him. For the first time ever. After Shane had ditched him on a cum-covered sofa. Rozanov had called him.
“That the, erm, game is off? Yeah, I heard,” Shane answered, knowing his voice was rough as hell.
“Blyat,” Rozanov exclaimed in Russian. “You have it too? How bad?”
“Spent most of the night throwing up my guts. How about you?”
“Ah, not much. I am Russian, so…” he trailed off, as if that explained anything.
“Well, this sucks,” Shane said, in lieu of anything better to say.
“Are you alone? You have anyone else to take care of you?”
“I’m not a child… I can take care of myself.”
“No, is not good. You should not be alone.”
“I’m not—calm down. I’m with Hayden.”
“Pike can barely cross the rink without falling over his skates. You should come here and I will look after you.”
“You want me to come back?”
“You are sick. Is my fault. You should let me make you better.”
“Erm…” Shane glanced across at Hayden, who was still on the phone but looking inquisitively at him.
Should he go? Actually talk it out with Rozanov—not leave things in the horrible way they’d gone down the day before. Shane couldn’t help being drawn to the feeling of relief that would bring. The pain and the uncertainty being soothed.
“You don’t feel sick, do you?” Shane mouthed at Hayden.
Hayden shrugged. “Feel fine.”
“So you will ditch Pike and come over?” Rozanov pressed.
“I don’t want to throw up in an Uber,” Shane hesitated.
“Which hotel? I will come.”
Shane chewed his lip before relenting. If he was stuck feeling sick for however long it took to get over this bug, at least he could feel less bad about how he’d left things with Rozanov.
“I’m going to talk things through with Lily,” Shane called to Hayden as he hastily changed in the bathroom.
“If you guys get it back on, will you tell me who he is?”
“No chance,” was Shane’s leaving remark.
“Hi,” Shane greeted as he crawled into the back of Rozanov’s ridiculous-looking sports car. “Why don’t you look like shit?” he accused, taking in how Ilya looked pretty much the same as yesterday, whilst Shane knew he himself was a pale, sweaty mess.
“I throw up two times and am fine… Russians are built better.”
Shane could hardly disagree as he clung to the car door and pressed his face against the cool, tinted glass.
He did not throw up in Rozanov’s—sure to be stupidly expensive—sports car. It was a close call, though.
“Come in,” Rozanov said as he ushered Shane across the threshold.
“Er, thanks.” Shane replied shakily, as he teetered around on one foot, trying to remove his shoes.
“You do look like shit,” Rozanov commented, waiting for Shane to regain his balance. “Until team doctor calls me, I didn’t know I was ill. Thought maybe just not feeling too good after you—” Rozanov shot him a pointed look. “Well, you know.”
Shane flushed with hot shame. “Can we not?” he asked, voice pleading and pathetic.
“Okay,” Rozanov relented with a shrug. “You want drink… bed… bucket…?”
“Can I just lie down, please?” The drive had left Shane feeling shaky and exhausted.
“Of course. Come.”
Ilya led him to the couch, thankfully looking free of cum and tuna melt crumbs, and once Shane was lounging against the cushions, Rozanov tucked a blanket up under his chin.
“Thanks,” Shane sighed. “You’re really fine now?”
“Well,” Rozanov said with a shrug, sitting down by Shane’s feet. “I’m not sick anymore.”
“Lucky you,” Shane huffed.
“Fine?… maybe not so much,” Rozanov said, rather petulantly, Shane thought.
He wasn’t sure whether it was the illness, lack of sleep, or emotional upheaval, but Shane suddenly felt pissed off. Majorly so.
“No,” Shane snapped. “You don’t get to do this.”
“Do what?” Ilya asked innocently.
“Act all butt-hurt because I left,” Shane snapped back.
“I am not,” he denied—pointlessly, because it was clear he was.
“You set the rules, Rozanov, very clearly, and I followed them. It’s you that broke them,” Shane jabbed a finger accusatorily at the man, though the impact may have been lessened by the blanket his hand was trapped under. “What the hell else was I supposed to do? I had to leave.”
Rozanov’s face creased in confusion. “What rules?”
“We meet, we fuck—that’s all. Nothing more. I tried for more before and got ghosted for six months and all but kicked out of your hotel room, so what do you think will happen when you make me a tuna melt and gasp out ‘Shane’?” Shane said his own name in a breathy impression of the Russian’s from yesterday and immediately felt bad when he saw Rozanov’s shoulders sag.
“I didn’t know,” he answered quietly.
“Didn’t know what?” The fight had drained out of Shane as quickly as it had come, leaving him exhausted once more.
“That you felt that way.”
“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “Well, I do.”
“I’m sorry… I have more ginger ale if you want.”
Shane could have laughed, as if all this could be fixed with the magic of his favourite drink.
“That too,” he scoffed. “What business do you have having Canadian-brand ginger ale in your house? You sure as hell don’t drink it.”
“Maybe I do.” Shane shot him an incredulous look. “Fine,” he huffed. “I know that you like it.”
“How?”
“I notice things about you…”
“But that’s not what we do.” Shane gestured between the two of them. He hated this. When had this happened? Him and Ilya had been on the same page for two years, since Vegas 2014. It had been regular, casual. Sexting. Hookups. No strings.
And now Rozanov was making strings—a whole spider’s web of them—and Shane didn’t know why.
“Maybe it’s not so bad if it is what we do…”
“You want… what? To be more than just fucking?” Shane stammered.
“I don’t know, but probably… maybe. Is that not okay?”
“No.” Shane replied immediately, sternly, and Rozanov recoiled. “Well—it might be,” Shane backtracked. “But you have to talk to me about it first, not just sneak-attack me with sandwiches and cuddles while we nap… you know… you freaked me out.”
“I know. I see that now… you do not want ginger ale?”
Shane offered a shaky smile as he nodded. “Sure, thanks.”
Rozanov handed him the cool can along with a straw this time so he could drink it lying down.
“Wow, hadn’t realised how thirsty I was,” Shane muttered after taking a long drink. “Guess that’s what happens when you spend all night throwing up your guts.”
“Ah yes, I am sorry about that too…”
“Hayden’s very confused,” Shane explained once he set the now-empty can down.
“Why?”
“Well, game’s cancelled because the Raiders have the stomach flu, and here I was throwing up all night. He thinks I’m cheating with one of the WAGs or something.”
“Would make the most sense,” Ilya said with a shrug.
“Yeah, but then I may have slipped up,” Shane said apologetically.
“Slipped up like how?”
“I said Lily was a he.”
“Ah, so now if he has any brain, he will think a player…”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Do not worry. Pike has no brain, so we are probably good.”
Shane fought the traitorous giggle and then stifled a yawn.
“Go ahead and sleep, Shane,” Ilya said, his hand settling on Shane’s ankle from where he was sitting at the end of the couch.
Shane couldn’t have fought the pull of sleep if he’d tried. The gentle touch of Ilya’s hand on his skin was nice—grounding.
They’d touched a lot over the years, but never like this. Never without it leading somewhere.
Shane shifted under the blanket, eyes already heavy, his foot nudging faintly against Ilya’s wrist.
“Stay,” Shane mumbled, the word slipping out before he realised what he was asking.
There was a pause. Not long—but long enough that, on any other day, Shane would’ve panicked and taken it back.
“Not got anywhere else to be,” Rozanov rumbled, his hand squeezing just slightly.
And somewhere deep in Shane’s chest, the tight, uncomfortable lump that had formed the day before unwound just a little, feeling an awful lot like relief.
He woke what felt like a few hours later to the feeling of fingers brushing lightly through his hair.
Shane stilled.
For a second, he thought he’d imagined it.
Then—
“Shh,” Ilya murmured. “Go back to sleep.”
“Not asleep,” Shane croaked, voice still wrecked.
Ilya didn’t pull his hand away this time.
“You feel any better?”
Shane turned his head slightly, blinking up at him. Ilya was slouched awkwardly on the couch by Shane’s head now, phone in one hand, the other resting on Shane’s hair. Clearly settled in for a while.
“You’ve been with me this whole time?” Shane asked.
A shrug. “Thought you might throw up again.”
“Romantic,” Shane huffed, then immediately regretted it as a flicker of something passed over Ilya’s face—uncertain, almost wary.
“Hey,” Shane said, more sincere this time. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Ilya cut in. Then, after a beat, quieter, “you don’t want that.”
That… hit. Harder than anything else he’d said in his earlier attempt to guilt-trip Shane.
“It’s not that I don’t want it,” Shane admitted slowly. “It’s just not what we can have… right?”
Shane swallowed, his throat tight for reasons that had nothing to do with being sick.
“I think I can take care of you when you are sick, Shane, and the world will not end.”
Carefully, Shane shifted, pushing himself up just enough to lean into Ilya’s space. He waited for Ilya to pull away, to deflect, to make the moment less than it was.
But he didn’t.
He stayed very still as Shane pressed his forehead briefly to Ilya’s shoulder first, testing.
When Ilya didn’t move—
He tilted his head and kissed him.
Soft and unhurried, lacking the usual edge of desperation, the clash of teeth and tongue.
Just… a kiss.
Ilya exhaled against his mouth, seeming to relax as he leaned in properly this time, one hand coming up—not grabbing or pulling, for once—just resting warm at the back of Shane’s neck.
It deepened, but slowly. Carefully. Like they were both trying for it to be different this time, but not entirely sure how.
When they finally pulled back, Shane let out a shaky breath before becoming aware of the unpleasant taste in his mouth.
“Eurgh,” he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Now I really feel gross.”
Ilya blinked. “Gross?”
“Yeah, I don’t even want to think about how much I’ve puked and sweated since the last time I showered.”
Ilya huffed out a quiet laugh, his forehead dropping briefly against Shane’s.
“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing upstairs.
Shane pulled away, only with mild reluctance, as he hobbled off to the shower.
Ilya only popping in twice to make sure he hadn’t collapsed and drowned in there.
Shane nicked a toothbrush and some fresh clothes before returning to the living room, feeling marginally more human.
“Food now?” Ilya asked, but Shane shook his head, not willing to risk puking his guts out in front of the other man.
“Just tired,” he said instead.
Ilya refreshed his ginger ale with a stern look and then beckoned Shane back to the couch.
“You sleep again, or we watch something?”
Shane grunted, non-committal, so Ilya found a hockey game to watch on low.
With how similar it was to the day before, Shane thought he should be freaking out more. But instead, he just felt comfortable. Now he’d been forewarned, now Ilya had explained what was happening—it was nice. Chatting back and forth, being curled up under a blanket together.
No more expectation than that, just getting to be—together.
“You think you’ll make it to Columbus?” Ilya asked softly.
“Hopefully. Not flying till tomorrow. You think the Raiders will get to Toronto?”
“No way,” Rozanov snorted, waving his phone. “From Raiders chat, most of them are still stuck on the bathroom floor, and our flight was tonight.”
“Probably not, then,” Shane agreed with a light chuckle.
The reminder of yesterday’s conversation brought back something else that had been niggling at Shane.
“If you need me to go, just say. I’m feeling a lot better now.”
“Go?”
“Yes, I know this wasn’t planned, so if you had other plans—with someone else, maybe…”
“With someone else?”
“You said yesterday about the other girls and… Svetlana…”
“That’s what you got from that? That I might have plans with someone different the day after seeing you?”
“Well, what else was I meant to take from it?”
Ilya sighed heavily, jiggling Shane lightly with the arm he had wrapped around him. “I just wanted to know if you had others—other than me—that you were seeing. I wanted to know if I was the only one.”
“You think I’m seeing other people?”
“Well, no… but are you?”
Shane gnawed his lip, contemplating the risk in admitting this. “No,” he decided eventually.
Ilya beamed, dragging Shane even tighter against his side.
“I could if I wanted to,” Shane hastened to clarify, “I just... its so risky, and well, I could with a girl I guess—just...”
“They don’t do it for you?”
Shane shrugged. “Not like you do.”
Ilya kissed the crown of his head. “Is good. I haven’t found a girl that does it for me like you—not in a long time.”
“What about a guy?”
“A guy?” Ilya raised his brows. “Er, no. I don’t with other guys. Is risky, like you say.”
“Really?” Shane asked, shifting to face him. “I’m the only man you're seeing?”
“Da,” Rozanov answered simply.
Shane couldn’t help himself. Never before had he had proof—concrete, tangible proof—that he was something to Ilya, that he stood out in any way. But here, knowing he was the only guy, and even if there were girls, that none meant as much as Shane did—
“Why are you smiling like that?” Ilya asked, half frowning, half smiling back.
“No reason,” Shane shrugged before twisting out of Ilya’s arms and depositing himself in his lap.
“You like that there aren’t any others?”
“Maybe,” Shane said, as if Ilya’s admission hadn’t made him feel giddy with a strange mix of joy and excitement.
Ilya’s arms stretched around Shane, hands settling under his ass as he pulled him closer.
“I think you like it a lot,” Ilya said smugly, nuzzling his face into Shane’s neck.
“Fuck off,” Shane said breathily, goosebumps springing up as Ilya’s hot breath ghosted across his skin.
“Maybe you show me how much you like it?” Ilya pulled back to look at him, and Shane knew that what happened next depended on his answer here. Whether Ilya backed off and they went back to cuddling, or whether they’d both end up cumming on the couch again.
Shane liked option two, so he subtly ground his hips down, a ripple of arousal running up his spine as he felt Ilya stirring beneath his ass.
“Is yes?” Ilya checked.
Shane pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Ilya’s waiting mouth. “Is yes,” he agreed.
Ilya immediately cradled Shane’s head, angling him as he liked to get deeper into his mouth.
Things heated up rapidly, Shane shimmying the blanket off and quickly ridding himself off his shirt to cool his overheated skin.
As Rozanov took him by the hips and shuffled about until he was lying flat, Shane sprawled out on top, wriggling to get comfortable and inadvertently grazing his cock right down the length of Ilya’s.
“Fuck yesss,” Ilya hissed on an exhale, so Shane repeated the motion.
Dragging his hips back and forth over Ilya’s lap, grinding down hard, chasing the friction.
Ilya’s hands grasped his hips, urging the movement.
“Just like that Shane,” he praised, nipping at his neck and kneading the meat of his ass in encouragement.
Shane picked up the pace, shunting his hips back and forth, arousal pooling lower and lower in his gut as he could feel Ilya’s clothed erection twitch with every movement.
Shane was quite happy to keep this up, rutting their way to orgasm. Ilya, apparently, had other ideas, as a hand snuck beneath the waistband of Shane’s sweats, palming at an ass cheek until he pulled it aside to run a fingertip deftly across his hole.
Shane’s hips stuttered as he cried out.
“Okay?”
“More,” Shane panted, squirming as he chased the feeling.
Ilya chuckled lowly as he withdrew his hand, trailing it up Shane’s body before grasping his chin.
Shane had no choice but to tilt his head back and open. Two of Ilya’s fingers sliding against his tongue, and Shane cottoned on quickly, sucking them hard, wetting them as best he could before they were removed and promptly found their way back inside his briefs.
Any finesse was long gone as Shane shamelessly rutted against Ilya, those same digits now circling tantalisingly around his rim.
Shane didn’t know whether to push back on them so Ilya would get the hint, or grind forward against the man to give him a taste of his own medicine.
“Ah—ah, yes,” Shane sighed as one finger dipped inside, not pressing any deeper, just teasing before slipping back out. “Please,” he whimpered, and Ilya immediately obliged, sticking it back inside for Shane to clench around.
“Not gonna last,” Shane warned, too pent up, too wrung out to go for a long round.
“Is okay,” Ilya kissed his jaw. “Let go when you want.”
Shane nodded eagerly, jabbing his hips forward in short, aborted thrusts as Ilya added a second finger, pressing them deep and curling them upwards.
“Fuck… fuuuuck,” Shane yelped, his cock throbbing between them as his prostate was hit dead on. Ilya slid his thumb down Shane’s perineum, nudging behind Shane’s balls as he added pressure from the outside while simultaneously working his fingers from the inside.
Shane was a goner. With one last twitch of his hips, he came, sobbing into Ilya’s shoulder as he pulsed into his underwear.
“Ah, Shane,” Ilya groaned, pressing his fingers in one last time to feel Shane jolt against him before finally withdrawing them.
Ilya started squirming then, hips thrusting up against Shane, obviously desperate to come. Wrapping his arms around Shane’s middle, he gently rolled them so he was on top, settling over him and gazing into what Shane knew were his currently glassy eyes.
“Want to suck you,” Shane rasped, and Ilya’s pupils blew even wider.
“I don’t think I’l—”
“Shh, it’s a great idea,” Shane cut him off. “Get up here.”
Ilya obediently shuffled his hips up Shane’s body, straddling his chest as he pulled his shorts down just enough for his painfully engorged looking cock to slap up against his abdomen.
Shane hooked his hands around Ilya’s thick thighs, opening his mouth wide to suck him down—
When Ilya gasped above him, “Shane, I—” and then his cock jerked, cum spurting straight out to land against Shane’s unsuspecting face.
“Fuck… er, sorry,” Ilya grimaced. He clambered off quickly, offering Shane napkins, looking—for him—ever so slightly contrite.
Shane wiped up, trying to stifle his laughter, but it was no good. By the time he’d cleaned his face, his shoulders were shaking with barely contained giggles.
“Oh fuck off,” Ilya said good-naturedly, joining in.
“Maybe for the best,” Shane said eventually. “Not sure I want to risk puking up your cum.”
“Why is that so disgusting....but also kind of hot?” Ilya asked, totally seriously.
“Only you, Ilya,” Shane said, rolling his eyes.
Shane went to properly wash his face and contemplated asking for some food when he decided to check his phone, see if his team had bought Hayden’s lie about Shane having contracted a totally different illness to the Raiders.
Thankfully, they seemed to have, as he only had a few get well soons from the rest of his team.
Hayden, however, seemed to have blown up his phone.
Is it Connors?
He’s our age.
Oh no I’m sure he’s married
Is it him though?
No you wouldn’t do that
Marlow?
Seriously??
But you said the only reason he’s on the team is his giant gorilla fists
You wouldn’t fuck a bad skater
Oh no
It’s fucking Rozanov isn’t it?????
SHANE!!!!