Chapter 7
Danny’s halfway through pulling off his shirt when he hears Sasha ask, “What’s that?”
Tossing the shirt aside, Danny follows Sasha’s startled gaze down to a circular bruise on his left shoulder, about the size and color of a plum, mirrored by an identical one on his right shoulder.
“Oh, it’s just from cupping,” he says. Practically everyone on Team USA’s been trying the popular therapy technique this year, getting suction cups put on their skin to target the sore muscles underneath.
It’s supposed to release tension or improve blood circulation or something, Danny doesn’t remember.
But Michael Phelps does it, so it’s legit.
“Ah. Yes.” Sasha studies the marks, furrowing his forehead; from what he’s told Danny, the Russians prefer massage and electrotherapy. “Does it hurt?”
Danny shrugs. Pain is relative in gymnastics, a sport where you’re constantly breaking yourself on the equipment and then crawling back for more.
So while he can’t say he enjoyed having his skin and the tissues underneath sucked up inch-deep into fire-heated glass bulbs, on a scale of one to grip lock, it was nothing.
“But check this out,” he adds, turning around so Sasha can see his back.
There’s a beat of silence before Sasha steps closer, taking in all the bruises: two columns of perfect, purple-blue circles on either side of Danny’s spine, like a giant octopus pressed its tentacle there and then pulled.
“Do you have injury?” Sasha asks, sounding concerned. Danny can just make him out at the edge of his peripheral vision, a glimpse of dark hair as he leans forward to get a better look.
“Nah, just the usual.” Danny’s sore when he wakes up, sore when he goes to bed, and he can already tell that the ibuprofen he took fifteen minutes ago isn’t doing shit; but again, gymnastics. “I’ve been doing so much high bar lately, the Stalders are killing me—”
Then Sasha’s thumb brushes across one of the bruises at his waistline, and he forgets that he was saying anything at all.
“Does it hurt?” Sasha asks again, meaning this, his breath warming Danny’s shoulder as he traces over the bruise. Carefully, like he’s handling glass, his touch feather-light on Danny’s skin.
There’s an echo of an ache, a fleeting urge to flinch, but Danny shakes his head. “Keep going,” he says, and the words come out as a whisper.
For a moment, he thinks he might have pushed Sasha too far out of his comfort zone, but then he feels fingers navigating between his bruises, charting a slow and steady course up his spine.
It’s everything and it’s not enough; it’s a line between pleasure and pain that’s exactly where Danny wants to be, his skin singing at Sasha’s touch.
Eventually, though, Sasha runs out of bruises, and his hand falters on Danny’s neck.
“Hi,” Danny murmurs, turning around to face him again. “That was hot.”
Sasha’s blushing as he ducks his head, and at first Danny thinks he’s embarrassed; but then his lips press against the mark on Danny’s left shoulder, softer than a sigh.
“Mm.” Danny closes his eyes, humming in contentment. He loves Sasha’s quiet explorations of his body, loves how he gets a little bolder every time they hook up, his hands and mouth tentatively claiming new territories.
Then Sasha sucks lightly at the bruise, his tongue swirling across Danny’s skin.
“Whoa,” Danny gasps, eyes flaring open, because holy shit he was not expecting that.
Sasha jerks back, looking mortified. “Sorry—”
“No, no, no, that was good!” Danny says quickly. He wants Sasha’s mouth back on him as soon as possible. “Like, really good. Like… can you do it again?”
He looks hopefully at Sasha, who goes bright red before he bends over, sucking the bruise between his teeth. And what the hell, Danny didn’t even know this was a thing, never mind that he wanted it so badly.
“Wow. Okay,” he murmurs as Sasha switches shoulders, his lips grazing along Danny’s collarbone before closing over the other bruise. “Yeah, I’m—mm—I’m definitely gonna be cupping more often. Fuck.”
All too soon, though, Sasha lifts his head. His cheeks are flushed crimson, and he’s looking at Danny like he’s had enough exploring for now, like he wants Danny to take the lead again and bring them back to familiar ground.
So Danny kisses him, gets him out of his shorts and onto the bed, watching wide-eyed as Danny strips to his boxers before joining him.
It’s like instant, bone-deep relief, the feeling of Sasha’s body under his, better than all the Advil and cortisone shots in the world—but so much more temporary, because they only have an hour or two.
He’s not going to think about that right now. Instead, he’s going to focus on Sasha, on finding that spot below his ear and making him gasp, his fingers flexing into a bruise before he catches himself and apologizes.
“No, it’s okay,” Danny manages through a wince—maybe they can come back to that another time, when it doesn’t hurt as much. “Just—do what you were doing before.”
It takes a few more kisses for Sasha to work up the courage—or maybe the coordination—to try again, his hands reversing their path down Danny’s spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He slows down when he reaches Danny’s hips, stopping just shy of the waistband on his boxers.
“You know you can touch my butt,” Danny can’t resist teasing him.
Sasha gives him an incredulous look, and whatever he says in Russian, it sounds a lot like “What is wrong with you?”
“What?” Danny asks innocently. “It’s a nice butt, I worked really hard on it.”
Sasha groans, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if praying for strength. “Please stop talking.”
“Make me,” Danny replies.
Then he kind of makes himself by kissing Sasha, but whatever, Sasha gets his hands down there eventually. And while Danny had meant for them to go under his boxers, not over them… well, baby steps.
He wiggles his ass, mostly because he wants to see the look on Sasha’s face. “How does it feel? Perfect ten?”
“No.” Sasha tightens his grip, trying to make Danny stay put—which also happens to bring their dicks a lot closer together. “Too much talking. Lose points.”
“Hm.” Danny’s getting very distracted by the friction between them. “What if I, uh… what if I make it up to the judges?”
“You can’t—oh.” Sasha’s eyelids flutter shut as Danny grinds down on him, his cheeks flushing like he has a fever. “Yes. Okay.”
He doesn’t say much after that, but Danny does.
Danny says “Fuck” and “Sash” and “Ow, sorry, my back just did something weird”—waving away the sharp look he gets from Sasha, because he’s fine.
Totally fine. Actually, fantastic. Feeling himself up on Sasha’s dick, hearing Sasha’s little squirmy noises every time he moves…
He’s pretty sure he’d meant to turn this into a blowjob at some point, but honestly? He’d rather stay right up here.
“Can we—can we keep doing this?” he asks, pausing reluctantly to make sure they’re on the same page.
Sasha gives him an incredulous look, like he can’t imagine why Danny felt the need to interrupt them for that question. “Yes?”
“Okay, sweet. But like… can we do it naked?”
Even taking off their underwear seems like too much separation, Danny diving back onto Sasha the second he’s done, Sasha pulling him down for a desperate kiss.
Without any fabric between them, it’s the difference between flipping and flying, Danny mile-high in the clouds as their bodies soar together.
He loves being this close to Sasha. Loves holding him and handling him, controlling every weak spot on his neck until Sasha surrenders with a whimper, the sound vibrating through Danny’s lips.
And he loves having Sasha’s cock under his—feeling it burn against his bare skin, knowing it’s hard and ready just for him.
The only problem is… it’s also kind of like a slip n’ slide.
“Sorry!” he apologizes the fourth or fifth time he accidentally dick-slaps Sasha’s stomach. “Hang on—”
He wraps his hand around both of them, which solves that issue—and turns Sasha’s frustrated growl into a gasp—but it’s still awkward, propping himself up on one elbow while thrusting against Sasha.
And like, yeah, he can do it, but it’s starting to feel like a conditioning drill, and that really wasn’t the vibe he was going for.
“Danny.” Sasha reaches down impatiently, knocking his hand away. “I do it.”
“Oh, thanks, that’s—fuck,” Danny says as Sasha’s fist closes around their cocks.
It’s so much better than it was at the American Cup, and in Glasgow, too—back when it was just a warm-up, both of them eager to move on to hand jobs and blowjobs.
Now it’s the main event, and Danny has no idea why he’d ever wanted something else when he could have had this: Sasha between his legs, panting in his ear; a slow-burn build of pleasure, twisting in his stomach like a corkscrew; and enough heat in their bodies to set the room on fire.
He doesn’t even know if there’s a name for this, because it’s definitely not dry humping—not with both of them leaking all over each other, Sasha’s throat slick from Danny’s saliva.
But figuring it out doesn’t seem too important while he’s fucking Sasha’s fist and watching him tremble with every thrust, breath quickening as Danny tells him how hot he is.
“Fuck, Sash, you feel so good,” Danny whispers, and that’s when Sasha’s hips buck underneath him, his whole body shuddering as he comes with a strangled moan.
Danny has to wait while Sasha rides out the aftershocks, but he doesn’t mind, not when he’s got a front-row view of a show that’s sexy as hell to watch.
Besides, once Sasha recovers, he moves his hand back in between them, smearing himself like lube all over Danny’s dick…
and holy fucking fuck, Danny’s never come so hard in his life.
He collapses on top of Sasha, and they lie there in sticky, sweaty bliss for about ten seconds before Sasha starts squirming.