Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“Well then...” Ilya said, moving his hand to continue to work his way into Shane’s pants.
But Shane didn’t go back to grinding his hips or attacking Ilya’s mouth with filthy desperate kisses.
Instead, he reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair out of Ilya’s face.
Ilya could only stare, mesmerized, at Shane’s face as he looked down at him with so much. ..tenderness.
“I have an idea,” Shane said. He was brushing his thumb over Ilya’s bottom lip as he said it.
“What?” Ilya asked, with more bravery than he felt.
“Let’s be honest with each other. For these two weeks, let’s just...say what we’re actually thinking. Maybe...say how we really feel.”
I can’t, Ilya wanted to say. I can’t because if I do you’ll think I’m pathetic, or, worse, you’ll say it back and then what the fuck are we supposed to do?
“I will try,” he said instead.
“Will you?” Shane asked skeptically.
“Yes! I will do anything if it will make you touch my dick right now!”
Shane laughed and shook his head. But then he slid down Ilya’s body and hauled down Ilya’s shorts, and thank Christ.
Shane took him into his mouth and everything was simple again. Ilya felt a wave of pleasure mingle with a wave of relief, and he was able to relax and enjoy the determined way Shane always approached sucking him off.
Ilya cheated and murmured, “I would stay here forever if I could” in Russian. He felt Shane sigh around him, but it sounded more dreamy than exasperated. Maybe he understood what he meant. Maybe some feelings couldn’t be hidden behind foreign words.
As expected, Ilya didn’t last long. Neither did Shane, when Ilya immediately returned the favor.
But the surprising thing was that the blow jobs were not the best part of the afternoon.
Afterward, now that they had taken the edge off, they just relaxed against each other on the sofa.
The clothing that had stayed on their bodies was rumpled and unfastened; their hair was messy.
They talked quietly to each other as they—there was no other word for it—cuddled for over an hour.
Shane was twisting strands of Ilya’s hair around his fingers and gently releasing them; Ilya was tracing his fingertips over Shane’s freckles.
Every now and again, Ilya would kiss Shane’s jaw, or his throat, or, one time, the tip of his nose.
Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.
But it was hard to care when Shane was lying on top of him, his smooth chest and stomach touching every inch of Ilya’s own. His bangs hanging down to brush Ilya’s nose. His dark eyes, and his freckles, and his smile. Shane looked so happy. Somehow, Ilya made him happy.
Ilya wanted to always make him happy.
Ilya wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Shane had a complete indoor hockey training facility at his cottage.
Shane had excitedly led him to the one-story building beside the main cottage and opened the door to reveal a large synthetic plastic rink, a net with shooting targets, passing targets, and a whole bunch of exercise equipment. The wall facing the lake was all windows.
So now they were on the “ice” in sneakers, passing a puck back and forth.
“I didn’t tell you,” Ilya said, “about after the NHL Awards.”
“After?”
“Yes. I went out. With Scott Hunter.”
Shane missed the next pass. “What do you mean?”
“There was a club having a Scott Hunter night, whatever the fuck that means.”
“A club? Like...”
“A gay club. Yes. So I thought I would go.”
“I’m sorry. You went to a gay club in Las Vegas with Scott Hunter?”
“And his boyfriend. Yes. Nice guy.”
Shane’s brow pinched. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Ilya shrugged. “I forgot.” Which wasn’t true at all. He just wanted to see this exact expression on Shane’s face. Ilya privately thought of it as his “scrunched confusion” face.
“Was it...what was it like?”
“Was fine. A little boring but, you know, Scott Hunter. What can you expect?” Ilya snatched a new puck from the pile beside him with his stick blade and sent it over to Shane. This time Shane caught it on his stick easily.
“So, does Hunter know you’re—?”
“I did not say anything. He may have guessed something.” He grinned. “There were some very hot men there.”
And now Shane’s face changed to the expression Ilya called “clenched disapproval.”
“I’m glad you had a nice time,” Shane said tersely.
“Point is, I went to a gay bar with NHL players and it was...exciting, you know?”
Shane nodded, and returned the puck to Ilya. “I’ll bet.”
“I give Hunter shit, but what he did was brave. Kissing his boyfriend on TV like that. And the speech at the awards.”
“It was. It really...made me hopeful. That things might be changing.”
Ilya shot the puck back to Shane. “It made me jealous,” he admitted.
Shane laughed. “You wanna kiss me on television?”
“Yes. After I win the Stanley Cup.”
Shane spread his arms out. “Oh, so in this romantic scenario, you’ve just defeated me?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“I’m not going to be in the mood to kiss you if I’ve just lost the Stanley Cup, Rozanov.”
“But you would be so proud of me!”
Shane rolled his eyes. “You are the most obnoxious person on earth. I have no idea why I—” He stopped himself just in time. “—why I put up with you.”
Ilya pushed against the ice with his sneakers and slid over to Shane. When he reached him, he kissed him loudly on the cheek.
“I’m hungry,” Shane grumbled. “Come on. Let’s see what’s in the fridge.”
“Are you going to show me to my room, or...?”
Ilya was leaning against a pillar in the middle of the living room, wearing that fucking crooked smile that always made Shane lose his mind.
“Well, I have four guest rooms,” Shane said, playing along. “Would you like one with a view?”
“I need one with a king-size bed.”
Shane walked toward Ilya and grinned. “They all have king-size beds.”
“And an en suite bathroom.”
“Oh,” Shane said, with mock concern. “I’m afraid there’s only one room with an en suite bathroom.”
“I have very specific needs.”
“I’ll try to be accommodating.”
He breathed the last words against Ilya’s lips and then kissed him. It was slow and wonderful.
“I want to sleep in your bed, Shane Hollander,” Ilya murmured.
“I want to do lots of things in my bed.”
“Show me. Take me to bed.”
Shane led him to the room that took up half of the second floor. The sun had set, but in the morning they would see the view of the lake through the windows that wrapped around two of the walls.
He watched Ilya take the room in; he watched him examine the pictures on the walls and the items on his dresser.
“This is your room,” Ilya said, more to himself maybe than to Shane.
“Yeah. Probably even more so than my room back in Montreal. This place is...home.”
“This is your parents,” Ilya said, pointing to a framed photo sitting on the dresser.
“Yep.”
With a playful little grin, Ilya flipped the photo so it lay facedown. “Do not want to shock them,” he said. Shane laughed.
Ilya moved to the bed and sat on the end of it. Shane sat beside him. “It’s kind of surreal. Having you here.”
“Yes. Bad or good?”
“Good,” Shane said quickly. He took Ilya’s hand and squeezed. “Really good.”
“Good.” Then, without warning, Ilya turned and pounced on him, pushing him down on his back on the mattress. Shane didn’t have time to be surprised before Ilya’s mouth was on his.
Shane moaned helplessly and arched his body against Ilya’s. He wrapped a leg around Ilya’s thighs and pulled him closer.
The kiss felt weird, and Shane realized it was because neither of them could stop smiling.
“You’re here,” he murmured.
“Yes. Now take off your clothes.”
Shane laughed and quickly removed his clothing. He fired each garment in the general direction of his laundry hamper, then sprawled out on his back and watched Ilya peel his own shirt off.
Ilya slid a hand down his own bare chest, like a stripper. He paused at the button on his shorts, and raised an eyebrow at Shane.
“What’s this Magic Mike shit?” Shane asked, grinning.
Ilya responded by pushing both hands into his own hair and tilting his head back dramatically. He thrust his crotch out, and Shane cracked up.
“Here, let me help you.” He crawled on his knees on the bed until he could press his mouth against Ilya’s stomach. He licked along the lines of Ilya’s muscles, and he heard Ilya let out a shaky breath.
“Don’t tease me,” Ilya said. “I have waited too long for this.”
“Mm.” Shane opened the front of Ilya’s shorts and playfully nipped at his chest. “Months.”
“Years,” Ilya sighed. “Years I have wanted to have you in your real bed.”
Shane froze. “Years?”
Ilya wrapped long fingers around Shane’s jaw, and tilted his head up to meet his gaze.
“Yes.”
Shane swallowed. “Get those shorts off,” he managed to scrape out.
Ilya had barely slipped the last of his clothing off before Shane reached for him. He needed to feel his weight on him. He needed to kiss him and touch him and feel him grow hard against him (although it looked like he was a little late for that).
Ilya was here, and Shane would finally know what it was like to be with him when they had all the time they wanted. Ilya had promised him two weeks, and Shane was giddy with the vastness of time that was spread before him.
Ilya kissed him, slowly and greedily. His erection brushed against Shane’s belly, and Shane wriggled against it to give Ilya as much friction as possible. Ilya responded by gripping both of Shane’s wrists and pinning them to the mattress.
“Oh,” Shane gasped. He shamelessly tipped his head back to give Ilya better access to his throat. Ilya took advantage of his generous offer by sucking the sensitive spot just under the hinge of Shane’s jaw.
Ilya was going to leave a mark—a hickey—if he kept sucking at Shane’s neck, but Shane realized that it didn’t matter. For the first time ever, they didn’t have to worry about evidence. About anything. No one would ever know what happened here.