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When Ilya opened the front door of his house, Shane practically jumped on him, hands pulling at his clothes before the outside world was shut out.
They had been on the phone during Shane’s entire drive, both men so eager to get their hands on each other’s body.
“Easy, Hollander,” Ilya chuckled.
The weight of Shane’s body pressed against his couldn’t be more amazing.
“I didn’t drive all the way to Ottawa just to chat. You know that,” Shane said, already breathless.
The two of them stumbled into the living room. Shane kicked his shoes off.
But when Ilya aggressively pushed his tongue into Shane’s mouth, everything changed at that moment—Shane broke away from the kiss and leaned back, eyes searching Ilya’s face in what was clearly a question.
Every nerve in Ilya sounded an alarm.
Of course.
He was already anticipating Shane’s next words.
“Ilya,” Shane said slowly, “have you been smoking again?”
His eyes darted to the coffee table, where a lighter and a newly opened pack of cigarettes lay.
And Ilya didn’t want to bother with an explanation.
He shrugged. “So what?”
Having struggled out of Ilya’s arms, Shane was stomping toward the cigarettes now, waving his arms.
“What? Are you even fucking for real right now? You know how bad smoking is! I thought you say you’d fucking quit! We talked about this! You know how I feel about you smoking!” Shane yelled.
“Is my first smoke in months,” Ilya said, following slowly behind.
In his mind, an irrational anger was rising, building higher and higher, strong enough to knock down walls and flatten trees and houses. A flood that could overcome any reason.
So what if he had a smoke? Would that literally kill him? Why did Shane have to dictate every aspect of his life? If Shane wanted to be a neurotic guy, that was fine, but it shouldn’t mean that Ilya, his boyfriend, would just lie down and take it like a little bitch. Their jobs of being professional hockey players already meant that Ilya was putting himself on the line, every day, risking all kinds of injuries, even permanent ones. How could smoking be more dangerous than what he was already doing for hockey after so many years?
“Hollander, leave it,” continued Ilya.
In his voice, a dangerous edge was flaring, like a deadly sword being drawn out from its sheath, but Shane didn’t notice, his eyes still focused on the cigarettes. There was a look of disbelief on his face.
Well…
Ilya stepped closer, looming over Shane.
Shane was in his house.
Shane was his.
And Shane had better remember it.
Ilya would make him remember it, make him believe it—if Ilya wanted a smoke, he was going to get it, Shane’s constant nagging and reminders or not.
“Hollander.” Ilya’s tone was clearly an ultimatum.
But Shane’s brow was still furrowed. He wasn’t looking up, probably counting the number of cigarette butts in the ashtray.
So Ilya reached out a hand, faster than Shane could react to, and slapped him hard across the cheek. The crisp sound filled the room.
Holding his face, Shane finally stared at Ilya.
A normal person would be angry at this outburst, but not Shane. A weak moan left his half-parted lips, his eyes turning glossy.
Ilya smirked cruelly—of course, Shane Hollander was a slut, through and through. He wanted to be ruined like this, claimed with violence like he was begging for it.
Deep down, Ilya had always understood Shane’s fundamental want, that raw primal need to be used and controlled.
The cigarette thing? Probably only an excuse.
Which was why Ilya wrapped his fingers around the soft skin on Shane’s neck the next second and dragged him toward the sofa, then slammed him down, throwing him completely. Shane lost his balance, legs sprawling on the thick rug.
“Take your clothes off, Hollander. Now,” Ilya ordered.
Shane was whimpering and shaking, but he obeyed, tearing off every layer, even his socks. One side of his cheek, where Ilya had slapped him, was a bright pink.
Sitting down in front of Shane on the sofa, Ilya settled back, enjoying the perverted show of a trembling, naked Shane kneeling below him, eager to prove himself. And Ilya was still fully clothed. This feeling of power… almost addictive.
Then, Ilya lit a cigarette, taking a long drag as Shane looked up at him with desire.
The entire house was utterly silent except for Shane’s ragged breathing.
“If I want to smoke, I smoke,” Ilya said. And he exhaled the haze in his lungs. “Disagree, Hollander?” Ilya raised one eyebrow. “You get punished.”
Shane’s eyes were wide and wet as he waited for Ilya’s order.
How wonderful—now Shane was going to cry. Ilya smiled, a wave of heat washing over his chest.
“Blow me,” Ilya said. “Do it.”
Crawling on his knees, Shane scooted forward. His hands unzipped Ilya’s fly, and Ilya watched with a satisfying smirk that Shane was already hard.
But he had no plan to touch Shane, not until Shane got him off and his cum filled Shane’s throat so much that Shane would choke on it.
Shane bit his cheek at the sight of Ilya’s massive cock. After licking his lips, Shane opened his mouth wide and began swallowing the pink, swollen head.
Stifling a groan, Ilya almost dropped the cigarette. He had to force his hand to stay steady.
The warm, wet sensation of Shane’s mouth was just too fucking good. Shane was humming around his cock, letting it hit the back of his throat even though Shane could barely take all of it in. The flushed side of his cheek made him look ruined… and so beautiful.
Ilya exhaled another puff of smoke.
Then, he tapped the cigarette, letting the long ash fall onto Shane. It hit him on the forehead before breaking into smaller pieces and rolled down his perfectly smooth skin.
A sharp moan left Shane, his hands that were on Ilya’s pants were trembling, but Ilya shoved his cock deeper at the same moment, as if threatening Shane of the consequences of slowing down, daring him to stop.
Stop, and he might just find out what would happen.
Shane’s eyes were glittering with tears. He whimpered around Ilya’s cock, his own erection throbbing.
“Don’t you dare, Hollander. Don’t stop,” Ilya growled. “Don’t make me fuck your throat… until you can’t breathe.”
Shane was shaking his head violently, a panic coursing through his eyes. He was crying, shoulders shaking, and he clearly couldn’t breathe well, with Ilya’s impressive length stuffed in his mouth.
But he had no choice but to keep sucking Ilya off. Ilya tilted his head back and moaned, his empty hand went to grab Shane on the hair.
Shane’s tongue was too fucking soft under the weight of his cock. Moaning again, Ilya started thrusting into Shane’s mouth, fucking his face with roughness.
The cigarette still burning between his fingers didn’t matter anymore.
More ashes fell down in between his fingers, into Shane’s hair, then Ilya haphazardly tossed the spent cigarette butt into the ashtray on the coffee table. It could burn the entire living room down for all Ilya cared, as long as Shane could keep blowing him.
Shane groaned at Ilya straightening his back, the angle making Ilya’s cock hit a deeper spot.
Very quickly, however, all sounds drowned from Shane as Ilya began holding his hair and neck with both hands, ruthlessly fucking his face and moaning.
Shane’s hands clutched at Ilya’s T-shirt and pants, trying to find some balance. It was clear that Shane was very much not in control of the brutal situation.
Ilya pushed deeper and deeper, feeling the muscles in Shane’s throat tighten around his thick cock.
“Hollander…” Ilya was saying Shane’s name and not knowing what he was saying.
Trails of tears lingered on Shane’s face, ending at his swollen lips, then on Ilya’s cock that was pushing his mouth open.
Seeing Shane so ruined finally made all the tension erupt inside Ilya.
He grunted and held Shane’s head in place as his cock pulsed in Shane’s mouth, making Shane swallow every drop of his sticky release. The choking sounds and whimpers from Shane were like melodies that Ilya wished would never, ever end.
“Such a good boy, Shane,” Ilya pet his cheek before shifting away.
Hands dropped to his side and sinking into the rug, Shane was crying more loudly now. He wiped his lips and wouldn’t look up.
However, his cock couldn’t stop leaking, and Ilya chuckled.
He dropped to the floor and shoved Shane down on his back.
Even Shane’s startled yelp didn’t deter him as Ilya wrapped his lips around Shane’s long, beautiful cock.
Eagerly, Ilya swallowed the whole length, letting it bottom out in the depth of his throat.
Moving up and down violently, Ilya flattened his tongue under Shane’s length and worked at him, deliberately wanting him to fall apart quickly. Broken whimpers had replaced Shane’s sobs. His torso thrashed beneath Ilya, helpless, submissive.
Then, Ilya was playing with Shane’s balls and swirling a finger on Shane’s tight hole, his other hand reaching up to pinch Shane’s nipple and its twin.
Shane’s whole body was trembling. He shamelessly raised his thighs around Ilya’s neck, calves behind Ilya’s back now, suffocating him, and Ilya loved it.
How Shane was losing control? Delicious. A dark smile was at the corner of Ilya’s lips.
And Ilya made sure not to push his fingertip into Shane, only swiping at the rim of his hole, drawing out the sweet torture.
When Shane’s stomach was shaking, he was done for. His fingers found Ilya’s curls and tugged, then his cum was spurting in Ilya’s mouth, his legs shivering.
Ilya squeezed the base of Shane’s cock, and that made Shane cry out louder. The saltiness and bitterness of Shane’s release tasted amazing.
“Fuck, Hollander” was all Ilya could say after he tilted his head back for a deep breath.
He pushed himself up and climbed on top of Shane.
There was a dazed expression on his face, also exhaustion… and more tears. His lips were pink, the side of his cheek that had endured the slap was beginning to recover, although a mark was still clearly visible. Ilya felt so possessive over him.
Who else would have thought the polite and perfect Captain of the Montréal Metros loved this kind of perversion behind closed doors? Only Ilya.
Leaning down, Ilya kissed every wet, salty spot on Shane’s face, especially his long, heavy eyelashes, and whispered soft praises all over his skin. Shane seemed boneless under him. A pile of soft clay entirely in Ilya’s control.
And Shane didn’t protest once about the smell of cigarette that was undoubtedly in Ilya’s breath. It looked like he couldn’t say a single word.
“Come on, Shane. I’ll wash you,” Ilya mumbled.
He shed off his clothes. With some difficulty, he dragged Shane up, then hoisted Shane into his arms. Shane didn’t speak but obediently wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist as Ilya carried him upstairs, his chin on Ilya’s shoulder.
Then, it was more soft kisses peppered on Shane’s face and neck, a strawberry bathbomb slowly dissolving around them in hot water, and Ilya’s hands on every inch of Shane’s skin, washing away the roughness.
“You know I love you, Shane, yes?” Ilya kissed the corner of Shane’s lips. Shane nodded, slowly raising his gaze.
His wet brown eyes flickered. In the steam, he seemed to relax. Ilya pulled him closer, muscular arms caging Shane in.
“I’ll throw away cigarettes, I promise,” Ilya said.
Shane sighed, lacing their fingers together in the bubbles.
“It was kind of hot,” he admitted. His cheeks were flustered.
Quietly, Ilya chuckled. But he decided that he’d still toss out the rest of the pack.
His next cigarette purchase would probably happen when he wanted to fuck Shane again like this. Or if Shane wanted this again—which wouldn’t surprise Ilya at all.
It was very fun, after all, to punish a very riled-up Shane Hollander.