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Lily - Still time to back out of the bet before game.
Jane - You wish.
Lily - I wish nothing. Am just sparing you from embarrassment on ice and after.
Jane - You sure you don’t want to chicken out?
Lily - Never. I will win the game and win bet, so will get to call the shots tonight.
Lily - So not any different from usual night with you.
Jane - Fuck you. See you on the ice.
“Fuck,” Hollander groans.
Sweat drips from Ilya’s forehead and obscures his view, but he can hear Hollander with vivid clarity - the raspiness of his words and the hitching of his breathing as Ilya fucks him slowly and deeply. The sting of Ilya’s loss fades with each minute they spend in this bed.
“Yeah, just like that,” Shane says. “So fucking good.”
He tries his best to keep his tone neutral, unsure of how Rozanov would react to sincere praise from him. Shane gets to be in charge tonight, so he knows he could indulge and see how it goes. Still, he’s wary of going too far outside of their established comfort zone.
They’ve been going at it for what feels like forever. Ilya spent nearly an hour fingering Hollander open before they even got to this part. He made Ilya use so much lube that his ass was dripping with it. Ilya’s fingers slipped in with hardly any resistance, both of them shaking by the time Hollander was ready.
Ilya’s wrists ache from holding himself up, tightly gripping the headboard to steady his motions. Ilya forgets what life is like when his dick isn’t throbbing and painfully close to release - if Hollander would just let him go a bit faster.
This is so different from their typical hookups. Normally, there’s no room for patience or finesse. They’re always driven by post-game adrenaline and frantic need, no matter who wins or loses. Meeting at Hollander’s weird secret sex building does give them more time than usual, but Ilya understands that’s not all there is to it.
Tonight, Hollander clearly wants an indulgent, drawn-out fuck.
(When Ilya asked him what he’d chosen as his reward for winning, Hollander said he merely wanted to set the pace and be in control. Ilya laughed and called him simple and boring, but he’s sort of starting to regret those words now.)
Because Hollander is making Ilya go so fucking slow that he could sob.
Shane lifts one hand to brush the damp curls clinging to Rozanov’s forehead, then he wraps his fingers around the nape of his neck. He easily submits to the touch, and Shane feels a blazing heat flare within his core. He arches his back purposefully, determined to take Rozanov even deeper.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya grumbles fiercely. He forces himself to ease up the smallest amount to stave off his orgasm. Part of him wants to last due to his ego, but a furtive piece of him wants it because Hollander wants it.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane pants, rutting against Rozanov’s toned midsection. He tightens his hold on the other man, fisting the mess of dark blonde hair beneath his fingers. Shane uses his free hand to jerk himself off.
A drop of moisture slides down Ilya’s cheek, and he’s briefly mortified at the possibility that it’s tears and not perspiration. His gaze fixates on the pillow under Hollander’s head to avoid staring at the way his lips part as he fists his own cock. Hollander doesn’t seem to notice his internal dilemma, rocking back against Ilya desperately. Each time their bodies come together, obscene slapping sounds fill the bedroom.
Hollander starts moving with increasing urgency, and Ilya knows he’s on the brink now. He brings a hand down to delicately tug Hollander’s sensitive nipple, coaxing out every ounce of pleasure he can. His touch flits from one bud to the other, applying the exact amount of pressure that always drives Hollander crazy.
Shane throws his head back and goes utterly still as he comes, thighs clenching around Rozanov’s hips. He spills over his fist, using the mess to ease the glide of those few final strokes, crying out as Rozanov fucks him through the aftershocks.
Ilya babbles a string of Russian as he quickens his movements. He’s minutes (truthfully, seconds) away from hurtling over the edge, and he thinks he’s damn well earned it. He keeps fucking Hollander harder and faster until Hollander suddenly pushes him away, pawing at his chest instead of clinging to his back. Ilya quickly pulls away, letting his cock slip free.
“What’s wrong?” Ilya demands, frowning and scanning his eyes rapidly over Hollander’s body. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, you’re fine,” Shane responds.
The concern etched in Rozanov’s features almost makes him feel guilty.
Almost.
“It’s just so good, I don’t want to stop.”
“What?” Ilya asks, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as hysterical as he thinks it does. He clears his throat in an attempt to pull himself together. “What are you saying, Hollander?”
Hollander skates his hand across his own chest, slowly tracing the ridges of his ribcage. It would probably seem innocent to anyone else, but Ilya recognizes the look in his brown eyes as something dangerous. Hollander rocks his hips the slightest bit, and Ilya’s dick twitches achingly against his rim.
“Can’t you wait a little longer, Rozanov?” Shane challenges. “I want to get off again first. Unless that's an issue?”
“Fuck you, is no issue,” Ilya huffs defensively.
“You sure?” Hollander replies, voice soft and even. His fingers move down to trace Ilya’s hipbones. The touch is strikingly gentle, and Ilya is a little obsessed with it.
“Da, Hollander,” Ilya snaps. “I’m not the one who has problem coming too fast.”
“Fuck you,” Shane retorts, but there’s no heat behind it. He is acutely aware that the grin on his face gives him away, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when Rozanov plays into his plan so perfectly.
Ilya isn’t certain how much more he can take, but he resolves not to let it show.
Ilya is on his back now with Hollander’s palms pressed flat on his chest, pinning him in place. He’s secretly grateful that he barely has to move as Hollander bounces hungrily on his cock.
It’s an addictive sensation, being at his mercy like this. Ilya is so hard that it’s excruciating, every single inch of his dick surrounded by Hollander’s tight, wet heat. As much as Ilya always wants to win on the ice, letting Hollander call the shots feels a bit like winning, too.
“Feels so good,” Shane murmurs, looking down at the other man appreciatively. “How’re you feeling, Rozanov?”
“Fine,” Rozanov answers through clenched teeth. Shane knows him well enough to know he’s telling the truth. His eyes roam over Rozanov, cataloguing his trembling muscles, dilated pupils, and the sheen of sweat covering his skin. Shane raises an eyebrow in silent provocation.
Ilya doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Keep going, Hollander,” he says. “I can do this all night.”
Ilya can’t fucking do this for much longer. They’ve been fucking for almost two hours, but to him it feels like days have passed.
“Please,” Ilya pleads openly, unable to hold it back anymore. “Fuck, faster, please.”
Shane tilts his head slightly as if considering what to say. Internally, he’s trying not to erupt on the spot from making Ilya Rozanov beg. He takes a minute to respond, waiting until he’s certain his voice won’t shake.
“M’close,” Shane replies, bouncing on Rozanov’s dick more rapidly by the second. “Wanna come on your cock this time.”
Ilya doesn’t whimper. He doesn’t. He nods in agreement and channels every ounce of self-restraint in his body. He’s spurred on by his competitive nature, resolute on fulfilling his end of the bargain - at least, that’s mostly the case.
(Maybe he’s also motivated by the knowledge that he’s the only one who gives Hollander exactly what he needs. Maybe seeing this new side of Hollander - so unrestrained and dominant - really does things for Ilya, too.)
Hollander’s fingernails dig into Ilya’s chest, pulling at the coarse hair as he starts to unravel. His movements quickly become erratic, and his deep moans give way to high-pitched whines. Ilya puts all of his effort into canting his hips upward, aiming and hitting Hollander’s swollen prostate dead on.
“So close, fuck,” Shane keens. “Don’t stop.”
Shane lets go and falls forward in a heap on top of Rozanov. He’s silently handing over the reins, knowing that Rozanov will keep thrusting at this perfect tempo. Distantly, Shane marvels at just how much he trusts him, even more so when he realizes the feeling is possibly mutual.
Shane’s leaking cock is sandwiched between their bodies now, and the slight friction is all that he needs to fly over the edge. He comes again with a wild shout, spurting less than the first time but with just as much force. He clenches around Rozanov as his orgasm shudders through him, muscles squeezing the man’s dick mercilessly.
Shane nods his head against Rozanov’s neck encouragingly. He nips at the soft skin there, instantly drawing out a full-body shudder and a string of Russian expletives. Shane captures Rozanov’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucking hungrily and cradling his cheek in one hand.
“C’mon, Rozanov,” Shane whispers into his mouth.
Ilya’s vision whites out as he comes. His cock pulses hot and heavy inside of Hollander, filling the condom with his hard-earned release. He thrusts his hips up one, two, three more times, growing hazy as he rides out his orgasm. Hollander’s body acts as a comforting weight on top of him throughout it.
“Worth the wait?” Hollander asks as Ilya finally slides out of him.
His tone is playful, but Ilya knows it’s a genuine question. He cups Hollander’s face in his hands, kissing him languidly before brushing gentle lips against his freckle-dusted nose. Maybe it’s a bit too tender for them - for what they are, for what they aren’t - but he decides not to think about it.
“Da, Hollander,” he answers, biting back a smile.
It is always worth it.