Chapter Text
“No, Mr. Rozanov, it is of our professional opinion that—”
“Bullshit.” Ilya cut the private investigator off, waving his hand impatiently as though the other man could see it over this phone conversation. “I didn’t fucking hire you to tell me nothing. You are giving me nothing.”
“Sir, very respectfully, it isn’t nothing,” the investigator said, his tone admirably calm. “Through the last two weeks’ surveillance efforts, our agency was able to establish that Mr. Hollander has been faithful to you. He has his routines, which we have discussed in our written report sent to you last night, and he doesn’t seem to deviate from them.”
Ilya huffed, taking a lungful of nicotine off his vape pen, the sweet smoke filling the cabin of his car.
“Fine, whatever,” said Ilya, “but I want you to keep doing what you do. You hear me? I will keep paying. Is no problem.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Mr. Rozanov, we don’t think that Mr. Hollander would… he basically spends all his time on hockey, with no signs that he’d cheat on you. I don’t know if we’d be able to keep billing you at these rates with a clear conscience.”
Ilya rubbed his forehead and sighed.
What? They didn’t think his millions were enough? Since when were private investigators so ethical?
“I don’t give a fuck. Got it? I have enough money to pay all your people.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll provide you with another report in two weeks.”
“Good,” Ilya said, brusquely ending the call.
He was sitting in his newest car in his garage, taking another drag on his vape pen. This couldn’t be healthy, he thought glumly, this maddening need to know if Shane was faithful—he absolutely was, Ilya knew, but it was just… so much hotter, and so much better, to be sure of it. Ilya wanted Shane to be his, body and soul, entirely and completely. As Shane’s boyfriend, he had the right to know everything about Shane, didn’t he? And how else could he accomplish that, sitting here in his garage in Boston, so far away from Montréal?
Mr. Hollander has been faithful to you.
Faithful to you… Faithful...
Ilya was getting hard. The vape pen still between his lips, he reached down and unzipped his fly.
A loud gasp came from Shane when Ilya, a dark smirk on his lips, brutally checked Shane against the glass. The impact of Shane’s shoulder and torso made a loud noise.
Could the bruises, from him, start to show when Shane stripped naked later tonight? Ilya certainly hoped so. To be sure, he checked Shane again less than a minute later, earning a series of furious shouts and curses from the Montréal fans closest to the glass. Ilya didn’t bother looking at them. Fucking pricks.
Despite Ilya trying to outdo him every step of the way, Shane managed to score again in the third period. His home crowd screamed. Montréal won.
Not that Ilya cared, even though his lips were pressed into a thin line, and he felt himself frowning, which was captured on camera and immediately shown on the Jumbotrons. It was early in the season, the first Boston-Montréal game, in fact, and Boston had plenty of time to catch up.
And whenever Shane was in a great mood, fucking him was way more entertaining.
Ilya seemed to catch Shane’s furtive look across the ice as his teammates hugged and pushed him. Ilya nodded, almost imperceptibly.
The real game was about to start.
“Yes, Mr. Rozanov?” said the investigator after picking up the phone on the third ring.
In his suit, Ilya was sitting in a cab and headed toward Shane’s apartment. By this point, Cliff knew Ilya was meeting up with his Montréal girl, and Ilya didn’t even have to offer any explanations for not going back to the hotel with his teammates.
“Maybe I forgot to say earlier, sorry, cancel tonight—but wait until your people see me get there. I’ll still pay. I know is late notice.”
“Oh, okay. Sure. In that case, thank you. Do you know when we should resume tomorrow?”
Ilya tapped one finger against his chin, thinking. Shane usually went out for a morning run, and Ilya would like to know if he still did that after sex.
“Five in the morning,” said Ilya. It would be ridiculously early, but better to be on the safe side, and he didn’t care how much it cost. What if Shane met a cute guy in a smoothie shop? Ilya would want to know. Shane loved smoothies, after all. There was always the risk of him stopping along his run and walking right into a smoothie shop and falling for the magic of a cup of aphrodisiac mixed with some berries. “And check where he goes,” he added.
“No problem, we’ve always done that. Goodnight, Mr. Rozanov.”
The cab dropped him off half a block from Shane’s place. The street was dark, and Ilya hoped the taxi driver wouldn’t think that he was too weird. Oh well. Ilya walked the rest of the way to Shane’s front door, which opened before he could enter the code, and Shane’s bright, eager eyes were waiting for him. Behind him, a car that had been parked on the street drove away.
He and Shane didn’t bother to greet each other with meaningless words, their lips too busy with kisses. The door slammed close behind them. He knocked Shane into the wall, like what had happened on the ice, and, panting, Shane shoved him back.
Sometimes Shane preferred him to keep his suit on, but that didn’t seem like the case tonight. Shane’s hands were unbuttoning his dress shirt so fast Ilya’s heart was thumping violently. Shane could probably feel it.
“Upstairs?” Ilya whispered.
Shaking his head, Shane picked up Ilya’s hand and walked him to the sofa.
Shane stripped away the last of his clothing, and Ilya stared at his astounding muscles for a second too long before remembering how to blink. Shane was too beautiful, too precious. He couldn’t risk losing him, no. With this prize, anything should be fair game.
Tossing his boxer briefs aside, now naked himself, Ilya sat down on the leather, which sank down under him, and Shane climbed into his lap. So eager, Ilya smirked, such a perfect little slut.
Shane was kneeling, his knees on either side of Ilya’s thighs, and Ilya picked up the bottle of lube from the coffee table, poured some onto his hand, and started touching Shane on his hole. A weak hiss came from Shane’s lips. He was closing his eyes. Ilya watched him intently.
“Always so fucking tight, Hollander,” said Ilya.
Shane smiled a little, one hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “Really?”
Pushing his index finger into Shane, Ilya leaned in to kiss his throat.
“Really. I love it. So tight, all for me,” Ilya whispered.
Shane chuckled, then his sounds turned into a soft moan when Ilya built up a rhythm. He added a second finger before giving Shane too much time to adjust. After all these years, he knew how to find that spot inside Shane, those ridges that felt rough and wonderful against his fingertips when he curled his fingers.
Ilya sat back and watched the intense expression blooming on Shane’s face. Lips open, Shane was quietly moaning and… drooling.
“You’re such a slut, Hollander,” Ilya said, applying more pressure to the spot. Shane groaned and straightened his back, his freckled cheeks flushing a bright pink.
“Please… fuck me, Ilya,” Shane said in a strained voice.
“Hmm, maybe I’ll wait, you know, this is nice too,” said Ilya, his other hand touching Shane on the face, feeling the heat there.
The string of saliva from Shane’s lips was too tempting, so Ilya traced it with his thumb. As usual, Shane’s desperation surprised him—his tongue reached out to find Ilya’s thumb, then he was sucking on it, the flat of his tongue running up and down, and Ilya was moaning, cursing, fingering Shane faster, harder, imagining Shane’s tongue under his cock, wet and soft—
“Fuck, I need you,” Ilya gritted out a moment later, pulling his thumb away with great effort. He couldn’t risk coming too quickly. Only Shane could make him feel like this, always on the verge of losing control.
“Yes, please,” Shane said in a low, docile voice, which Ilya could never get enough of.
Ilya raised his palm, giving Shane a challenging look, and Shane blushed and spit in Ilya’s hand, and Ilya started stroking his own cock, spreading Shane’s spit. Ilya’s eyes never left Shane’s face; Shane drunkenly gazed right back at him, his long, dark lashes leaving shadows on his freckles.
All of a sudden, Ilya’s mind flashed back to a few days ago: touching himself, sitting alone in his new car, vape pen between his lips.
Mr. Hollander has been faithful to you.
That day, gripping the base of his cock at the last second, Ilya didn’t allow himself to come.
He could have Shane followed, but could he look inside Shane’s mind? Make Shane his, completely his? Could he ever be absolutely certain that the perfect human specimen in his lap, staring at him with warm, milk-chocolate brown eyes, belonged to him?
Ilya wondered if Shane could tell, that Shane was quite literally making him mad.
Their eye contact went on as Ilya poured more lube to his palm and dragged the liquid down his cock, and Shane moved up without waiting for another second, letting out a shuddering breath, and began to sink down on him.
Both men tensed up at the sensation. Shane really was tight, even after Ilya having abused his hole so many times over the years. Shane had to be made for him, Ilya thought, both hands on Shane’s hips to push him down even more, and Shane was letting him do whatever he wanted. Ilya wanted to start thrusting right away, but it would feel so much more delicious to let Shane wait, let him beg for it, the pathetic slut that he was.
So Ilya stayed still, and Shane put his forehead on Ilya’s, small whimpers escaping his lips.
“Your dick feels so big,” Shane murmured.
Ilya smiled, touching Shane on the back of his neck. “It’s all yours.”
What Ilya didn’t know how to say was, I’m all yours, make me yours forever, please. We’re boyfriends now but it doesn’t feel like enough. I want more. I want all of you.
But that would be too mushy, too unlike him. Shane would probably wrinkle his nose at that side of Ilya.
The real-life Shane laughed a little, slowly shifting up on his knees and sinking down again, his walls being stretched open by Ilya, who was cursing.
“Keep going,” Ilya demanded.
And he slapped Shane on his ass, making Shane’s hole flutter around his cock. Shane gasped.
What was that sound from Shane’s throat?—him groaning or choking? It was no matter, because he was moving obediently, bouncing up and down, impaling himself on Ilya, again and again.
Ilya wanted to stare, see how he was the only one who could reduce Shane to this state; and Ilya wanted to close his eyes and focus on Shane’s hole gripping on his cock. His hands were almost limp on Shane’s hips.
“You’re perfect,” Ilya said, and Shane flushed a darker shade of pink, keeping up the rhythm. “It feels good, right? Winning the game tonight? Maybe I should let you keep going until you come. I don’t even have to touch you.”
Anguish washed over Shane’s big beautiful eyes.
“No no no Ilya, please,” he said, pausing, Ilya’s cock half-way inside him, his hands shaking Ilya on his shoulders, “I want you… I want you to fuck me, please.”
Then he was touching Ilya on the face. It was really, really hard to refuse such a request from the man Ilya loved most in the world, not the least because Ilya wanted the same thing.
Tipping up Shane’s chin with one finger, Ilya looked into his eyes.
“You want to be fucked, Hollander?” Ilya said, smiling and keeping the words soft, non-threatening.
“Yes,” Shane said, dropping his voice. He lowered himself further on Ilya, and Ilya had to bite his lip to stop a moan from coming out. “Anything, Ilya, I’ll do anything.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” said Ilya in a darker tone.
Anything? Shane’s total surrender, if he hadn’t already given all of him to Ilya? It was exactly what Ilya wanted.
But could one person really give another person his everything?
For half a second, Shane looked confused, then it look like all conscious thoughts were wiped from his mind—his beautiful, innocent face turned blank—as Ilya snapped up his hips, Shane wrapped his hands behind Ilya’s neck for balance, and Ilya set a brutal rhythm, burying himself deeper and deeper, drawing out moans from Shane that sounded like they were a mixture of pain and pleasure.
“This is okay?” Ilya asked, not bothering to slow down. He already knew that Shane could take it.
“Uh-huh, yeah, keep… keep going,” Shane murmured, his lips on Ilya’s forehead.
“Who knows you’d like this? So needy.” Ilya thrust hard. “My slut, mine.”
Slowly, his hand traced Shane on the outlines of his abs. Then his thumb was on Shane’s nipple, then its twin. And he moved up to Shane’s collarbone, hand finally on his neck.
Shane’s beauty was unbelievable. He shouldn’t be allowed to be real. Under the low light, his smooth skin glistened like white porcelain, and Ilya wanted to be the only person who could shatter him.
Ilya touched the hollow of Shane’s neck with his thumb, and Shane gasped and whimpered, and Ilya wrapped his fingers on the back of Shane’s neck. The smooth skin under his hand felt fragile, vulnerable, his. His to do as he pleased.
“Yes?” asked Ilya, applying the faintest pressure to his fingertips, keeping up the thrusts.
Shane’s breathing had turned heavy a few minutes ago, when Ilya had first picked up the speed. Now, Shane’s sounds were ragged. When he opened his eyelids and gazed at Ilya, there was a shine in the warm brown of his eyes.
Oh, so he was going to cry. Terrific.
Ilya found himself smirking. He squeezed Shane on the neck again.
“Yes, Hollander? Don’t make me repeat it again,” Ilya said.
“Yeah, um, okay, please,” said Shane.
Then Ilya was kissing him desperately, blocking the air that could have entered his mouth, and squeezing his neck, and fucking him as hard as he could. The entire leather sofa was wobbling under their weight. Ilya had pinned Shane in place. Shane’s cock was bouncing between their bodies, slapping on Ilya’s stomach.
“Ilya…” Shane choked out, his hands clutching at Ilya’s hair, pulling harsh enough to make Ilya’s eyes water. But he didn’t care. He wanted Shane to lose his mind, let Shane taste the start of the madness that had been torturing Ilya.
“So good,” Ilya whispered against Shane’s lips before tugging his lower lip with his teeth—he didn’t need Shane to talk, “so perfect, taking me so well, yes?”
Shane was really crying now, large drops of tears wetting his face, dampening Ilya’s cheeks. Fuck.
Ilya moaned, the loudest sound he’d made so far tonight. Out of all the people he’d slept with, only Shane had ever cried like this on Ilya’s cock. It was positively intoxicating.
Thrusting again, Ilya started licking a drop of tear that had fallen to Shane’s lips. Ilya knew that Shane had slept with two other men before—had he shed any tears for either of them? Had they liked it, as much as Ilya liked it? Had he been as slutty as he’d been for Ilya?
This flicker of jealousy came out of nowhere, or so it seemed. Ilya growled, letting go of his hand on Shane’s neck. Shane was gasping for air, his stomach shaking violently. But Ilya wasn’t planning to give him an easier time by letting go: his hands went down to Shane’s hips, holding him there to press him down, and Shane was crying harder.
Every small sob went straight to Ilya’s heart. He loved this side of Shane, which only he could see.
“Ilya, Ilya… don’t stop,” Shane whispered through his tears, “I’m—”
Ilya shushed him by clashing their lips together. Sliding forward on the seat, Ilya used the shift in angle to get impossibly deeper into Shane. Ilya licked Shane’s lips, and Shane started sucking—no, pulling hard on his tongue.
It was so fucking hot. Only his slut could make him feel like this.
Then Shane was shivering from head to toe Ilya had to grab him firmly by the hips and continuing the thrusts, and Shane’s come landed on Ilya’s chest and stomach, while the final spurts trickled down Shane’s cock, some of it dripping onto Ilya. And Shane’s soft moans around his tongue… the tiny shivers in Shane’s voice… God. Ilya closed his eyes, savoring every second, the pure sensation of knowing it was he who made Shane feel this way.
Ilya would have no regrets if he died.
He kept up the pace, even when Shane let go of his tongue and started whining and squirming on top of him, clearly over-stimulated after his orgasm had been over.
“Good?” Ilya asked, his voice husky.
“Yeah, no shit,” Shane said, chuckling a little. He nuzzled his wet eyelids against Ilya’s cheek.
Ilya could tell that he was close, but he wanted to fuck Shane just a little longer.
“Well, you know, Shane, you feel good, winning the game tonight, getting to come, but I’m not feeling so good,” Ilya drawled.
He’d stopped thrusting, only buried inside Shane.
“No, Ilya? I’m so sorry,” Shane murmured, placing one hand on Ilya’s face to soothe him. “Please, what can I do?”
Ah, always so gullible, Ilya chuckled darkly.
Clearing his throat, he brushed aside a damp strand of hair from Shane’s eyes.
“Where are your glasses?” Ilya asked, tracing the smattering of Shane’s freckles on his cheek.
“Oh? They’re, they’re on the kitchen counter, I think,” said Shane, tilting his head as if he was confused. “I was waiting for your text. Why?”
Ilya shook his head. “You know why, Hollander.”
Shane let out a weak oh no when Ilya wrapped his arms on Shane’s back and stood up, his cock still buried inside Shane. Gravity was pushing Shane down onto Ilya, and it felt… amazing.
Ilya took in a sharp breath. He couldn’t come yet.
“I… I don’t know if I can… Ilya…” Shane whispered, hooking his ankles tightly behind Ilya’s back, and Ilya was carrying him easily like he weighted nothing. Never skipping weights at the gym had its benefits. Ilya smirked, then said,
“Hollander, you can. You have to. You want to make me happy, yes?”
They had reached the kitchen island, and Ilya found Shane’s black-framed reading glasses next to his phone. He could see Shane swallowing.
“Of course, I want to—yes, I want to make you happy,” Shane whispered.
He accepted the glasses and put them on, glancing at Ilya through his wet eyelashes.
And Ilya had forgotten how to breathe: Shane looked so irresistible, so innocent, so ready to be devoured, ruined.
“You want to do anything to make me happy?” Ilya thrust up, and Shane’s mouth was half-open, letting out a small moan.
Shane nodded, his neck pink.
Again, Shane had no idea what he was offering, Ilya thought. If only… If only Shane could offer everything, if that were even possible…
He backed Shane onto a wall in the kitchen.
“Think you can come again?” Ilya asked, starting to pound into Shane, who was wrapping his legs more tightly around Ilya and moaning softly, his hands in Ilya’s hair, his eyelids almost closed behind the spotless lenses of his glasses.
Would Shane look like this if they had more time and moved in like a normal couple, and Ilya fucked him before going to bed? When he woke up in the morning?
Ilya was determined to find out this summer, when they’d go to the cottage again. Shane wouldn’t be able to leave the bed.
“I—ah, Ilya,” Shane said, whimpering. “I don’t… I don’t know. Probably not…”
Ilya sucked on his earlobe, tasting the soft flesh on his tongue.
“Wrong answer,” said Ilya in a low, menacing voice.
Then he was speeding up, driving into Shane relentlessly, shoving him so hard against the wall that Shane’s breathing was ragged again, and Ilya loved that.
He couldn’t fucking stop staring at Shane, watching the splotches of pink on his face and neck, the sheen on his forehead, feeling his hole clench, hearing his little gasps and grunts and the wet sounds of Ilya’s cock going in and out of his hole. He really ought to make a video of himself fucking Shane one day, and watch it every morning.
“Are you going to, fuck, come again, Hollander? For me? You’re a perfect little slut, you know, I want you to… to come. I didn’t even have to touch you last time,” Ilya said against Shane’s neck, punctuating his words with deep thrusts. Shane only moaned in response.
“But this time…” Ilya continued.
The next moment, his hand was on Shane’s cock, which was already hard again, and he was rapidly stroking Shane, faster than the rhythm of his hips.
Teasingly, Ilya’s thumb circled on the slit of Shane’s cock, feeling the combined wetness of his come and the new moisture leaking out, and Ilya’s fingers spread the wetness on the shaft with each brutal stroke.
For him, Shane could always come apart again; Shane should be able to.
Shane was shaking his head, tugging harshly on Ilya’s hair, hard enough to make another man wince, but not Ilya, no.
He wanted, needed any shred of proof that Shane was his, his, his. This was nothing compared to the fear—yes, fear that had sharp claws—he’d feel if Shane were no longer his. If Shane was the one who made him bleed, Ilya would take it without wincing.
And Shane’s sobs were filling the kitchen, the living room, and the entire first floor. And Ilya greedily lapped up the salty taste of his tears, his only regret was that he couldn’t drink that in, every single day.
“How much longer, huh?” Ilya whispered, squeezing the head of Shane’s cock.
Shane cried out, almost as though he was in pain, his body convulsing. Ilya kissed him, and Shane hit another orgasm—Ilya could feel Shane’s cock squirt out the sticky release down his hand. There wasn’t a lot this time; it looked like Shane’s body had given its all.
Then Ilya shoved his hand to Shane’s lips, his messy palm on Shane’s chin, and Shane was licking and sucking at his fingers without Ilya having to ask for it, curling his tongue like he wanted Ilya’s cock, too. Yes… Ilya could just imagine a kneeling Shane sucking him off…
Staring at Shane’s pink lips tasting his own release, Ilya finally lost control. Shane shivered some more as Ilya slowly shot out his come in Shane’s hole, but Shane didn’t stop cleaning up Ilya’s hand. He wouldn’t dare.
There was so much come in Shane that Ilya could feel some of it drip down to his balls. Shane really was too tight for all of him. What a great thing to know.
“Good boy,” Ilya murmured, kissing Shane and tasting him, “such a good boy.”
Slowly, gently, he pulled out, but he didn’t let Shane down on the ground despite Shane’s half-hearted protests.
He held on to Shane all the way to the bathroom, where he carefully took off Shane’s glasses and put them on the counter. Only then did he agree to putting Shane back down.
They walked into the shower. Next, he was lathering Shane’s smooth, jet black hair with shampoo, letting the white bubbles swirl, the black and white forming a beautiful contrast.
“I love you, Shane, you’re my everything,” Ilya said as he was washing away the suds, fingertips on Shane’s scalp. Shane’s eyes were closed, and he leaned into Ilya’s touch some more.
It was not a declaration, just a simple statement of truth, an immutable fact of his existence. He could not fathom what it’d be like if he had to live without Shane Hollander—it would be a fate worse than death, he feared. Rather, by this point, he knew. And his feelings might not be healthy, but Ilya was beyond caring.
Shane was too good for him. The least he could do was to use whatever tactic he could to keep Shane, even if that had to involve questionable means. As long as Shane could be his, it would all be worth it. Shane would understand.
Ilya’s mind turned to the detective that would wait outside Shane’s apartment at five in the morning, and he smiled, which Shane wouldn’t be able to see, his eyes still closed, a peaceful smile on his face.
“Love you too, Ilya,” said Shane, his hand squeezing Ilya on the wrist. “You’re the best boyfriend.”
Oh, you wouldn’t begin to know half of it, Ilya thought.
He started applying the expensive, vanilla-scented conditioner to Shane’s hair. And Ilya was turning Shane around so that he could find if he succeeded in leaving any bruises from checking Shane on the ice. Indeed, a purple mark, smaller than the size of his hand, was above Shane’s ribs.
Ilya could hear Shane’s quiet gasp when he started touching it.
“I did this,” said Ilya.
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t think it was there before the game, you know,” Shane said.
Bruises and injuries were such a mundane part of their lives that they didn’t bat an eye. Still, knowing that he’d been the one to leave this mark… Ilya swallowed.
“Because we have to wait for the conditioner…” Ilya murmured, kissing Shane on the back of his neck and pushing his chest onto the tiled wall.
Shane whimpered but didn’t object. He loved following instructions, such as Ilya telling him what to do, or counting the exact number of minutes they should wait for the conditioner to be at its most effective, and they had to do something to pass the time.
Not caring that water was running down his face, Ilya bent down.
He was licking, then sucking on the bruise, one hand opening up Shane’s thighs to play with his balls, his wrist strategically grazing on Shane’s hole. Ilya’s other hand was holding Shane by his chest. And Shane was moaning again, but Ilya had no plans to touch him on his cock.
Shane Hollander was his. His to watch over, his to play with.
Although the private investigators wrote a report every two weeks, they sent over photos daily. The following afternoon, on the plane to the next stop of Boston’s road trip, Ilya was trying to read an article analyzing this season’s strategy trend when the notification of a new email from the agency popped up.
He glanced around—his teammates were either asleep or focused on their own phones or iPads—and he opened the email to check out the attachments.
Hmm, so Shane had really gone out to run this morning, dressed in a tight long-sleeve shirt and a pair of shorts that was criminally short. Almost all of his thick thighs were showing. Ilya shook his head, feeling himself smile. No wonder Shane looked so ripped. It was hot, really, knowing that his boyfriend never gave up an opportunity to perfect his already improbable physique.
And it meant that Ilya hadn’t fucked him hard enough, probably. He didn’t want Shane to be able to walk the next day.
Ilya saved all the photos of Shane running to his photo album: these would be excellent bedtime “reading” materials tonight. His cock was in complete agreement. Ilya had to take a deep breath, look out the window at the swirling of clouds, sip on his water, and remind himself that he was out in public. Truly, he wasn’t a teenager, and he should be able to control his fucking dick.
The things that Shane Hollander could do to him… Ilya was still smiling. Who knew that he’d be so in love with such a boring Canadian? It was making him stupid.
Half a minute later, once he was out of the danger of having an erection, Ilya picked up his phone again. There were only a few more photos at the end.
Then his smile froze on his face.
Because, walking into a smoothie shop, Shane was greeted by a young man who looked no older than twenty-five: he had dark, curly hair, bronze skin that had the shine of caramel, and Ilya immediately saw through the smile on the man’s lips—it was playful, inviting, and right on the edge of flirtatiousness and politeness. It was a smile that Shane wouldn’t be able to understand. He was too inexperienced for that.
All the photos were crystal clear as they’d come from within the shop; the detective must have followed inside, after Shane.
It was only paranoia, and Ilya tried to tell himself to calm the fuck down, although a thousand alarm bells were ringing in different pitches inside his fucking head. Was he going mad? His hand was shaking when he reached for his water again. He took a deep gulp. He wanted something stronger.
Shane… Shane should be able to get a smoothie if he wanted, right? Who was Ilya to stop him?
A few deep breaths later, Ilya scrolled on the very last of the photos. The man was still smiling that idiotic smile when he handed Shane a pink cup of smoothie.
And—Jesus fucking Christ—his hand was definitely brushing on Shane’s. Some stomach acid had risen to the back of Ilya’s throat.
The worst of it all? Shane was smiling back. It was just a polite smile, but more than enough to make anyone fall in love.
Okay, Ilya hated it. Maybe he should have never hired people to follow Shane, but it was too late now. He had to know. Even if Shane had no second thoughts, not everyone was as innocent as he was. Ilya’s years of experience with guys and gay bars had given him a sharp pair of eyes, which he now resented, and he knew that the smoothie guy was interested in Shane.
What if Shane went back, and that guy handed Shane his number? And they built a friendship… and something a little more than that? The next thing Ilya knew, Shane might leave him for a simple romance, a nice man in Montréal, a much nicer man than he was, than he’d ever be.
After all, what could Ilya offer Shane? More years in the closet, more silent scars and trauma? More years of long-distance, even after he moved to Ottawa, as they’d planned for the next season? More time apart than time spent together?
Find out about this smoothie guy, everything about him, Ilya wrote in reply to the email, typing so fast that his hands were shaking.
He wanted to scream his lungs out, but a commercial airplane was no place to do that. He hugged his arms in front of his chest to hide the tremors in his hands, hands that had been on Shane’s body less than twelve hours ago.