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“Okay, so next time.”
Ilya drops his head down for a kiss, but Hollander denies him with a twitch of his head. Instead, he peers up at Ilya, a tiny crease between his brows.
“Next time?”
Ilya’s words ricochet back to him in Hollander’s much softer accent. His stomach drops.
Idiot. In his mind, a blend of his own voice and someone else’s spits a few more self-deprecating words in his native tongue. What the fuck was he thinking, next time? His mouth had made that choice before his brain could catch up. His mouth is traitorous and stupid.
This thing between them is so new it barely exists; it has no expectations, no promises shared or contracts made. Even tonight wasn’t guaranteed, and here he is, talking about a next time. Two transparent words betraying the way their first hookup has played over in Ilya’s head for months, the way the memory of Hollander gasping under his hands is seared into his brain.
Ilya’s had this ugly, impatient want steadily clawing away at his insides since that first time, growing more and more insistent as the time has stretched out. It’s too much. It unsettles him. He’s had plenty of one-offs, plenty of recurring fucks, and never felt this… fascination, this insatiable curiosity. He shoves it down now, swallows it like a lump in his throat. There’s no sense in paying attention to it, and definitely no sense in saying it aloud.
“Yeah. We play Montreal in two weeks.” He shrugs. Casual. Unaffected.
“Yeah, but, um… where would we…”
Ilya arches a brow as Hollander attempts a full sentence. “Where would we what?”
“Meet?”
Hollander is very annoying, actually. Ilya momentarily forgot this. He remembers now.
“You are homeless?”
“No,” Hollander answers, sheepish.
“Then we meet at your house.”
“It’s an apartment.”
Yes, incredibly annoying.
He flicks an appraising gaze over the man beneath him, taking in the quick rise and fall of his chest and the ticcing nerve in his jaw. His fingers are gripping Ilya’s bicep just this side of too tight. He wonders if Hollander is feeling the same as he is: like he’s standing at the edge of a precipice, rock crumbling at his feet. Certain that he should step back into safety, and equally tempted to tip forwards.
Ilya’s always been fond of bad ideas.
“Hollander, you are having panic attack!” Ilya exaggerates, hoping to cut through the sudden charged tension between them, hoping Hollander will snort and tell him to fuck off. But he only keeps gazing up at him with those eyes, and Ilya can’t tell if he’s about to crack a smile, lunge upwards to kiss him, or push him away.
Initially, Ilya had found Hollander flat and expressionless, until he began to pay attention. What he sees now is that Hollander’s face is actually more open than most, an array of muted but powerful emotions playing out in subtle twitches of his lips or his brows, in the way his eyes dart away. All of Hollander’s thoughts, his anxieties, his wants, written clear as day in between dustings of freckles – but in a language Ilya is yet to master.
Ilya doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like how much it bothers him not to know what Hollander is thinking. Doesn’t like how much he wants to learn to read him, to decode his almost imperceptible expressions and catalogue their meanings.
“Is just a plan to fuck,” Ilya adds, hearing the words come out soft and reassuring.
Hollander finally relaxes and nods awkwardly. Seizing his chance, Ilya dips down for another quick kiss, half-expecting Hollander to turn away a second time. When he’s not rejected, Ilya falls into another kiss immediately, this one deeper, drawing him in. Hollander sinks a hand into Ilya’s curls as he lets Ilya lick into his mouth, arches his body into Ilya’s, and Ilya steadfastly ignores the spark of relief in his gut.
“Now,” Ilya murmurs, toying with Shane's bottom lip with his thumb. “Can we be done with talking?”
They might not be fucking tonight, but Ilya can think of a hundred other filthy ways to take Hollander apart.
As if his thoughts mirror Ilya’s, Hollander surges up decisively, one strong hand on Ilya’s hip pushing him onto his back. Ilya goes easily, mouthing a silent wow to himself. He can feel the anxiety draining from Hollander’s taut muscles as his body presses into Ilya’s - dissolving into that overflowing eagerness that he’d barrelled into Ilya’s hotel room with, almost knocking him off his feet.
He’s scrambling down the bed like he can’t fucking wait a second longer, and Ilya’s cock throbs in anticipation. Hollander’s hands are restless as they slide all over Ilya’s shoulders-abs-chest-thighs, while his mouth zeroes in on only one destination.
“Da, that’s it, there you go,” Ilya grunts, as Hollander clumsily takes Ilya into his mouth. He grips Hollander’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone, and Hollander’s eyes slip closed, blissed out just from the head of Ilya’s dick resting on his tongue. Ilya presses on the back of his neck, and Hollander gives a muffled groan and starts to suck him in earnest.
His mouth is so fucking sweet. He can’t take it all yet, still barely knows what he’s doing but he’s trying so hard, and the way he acts like he’s going to die if Ilya denies him makes it the best Ilya’s ever had.
Fuck, that’s dangerous.
Ilya had softened while they were talking but he’s dizzyingly hard now, watching Hollander’s plump lips stretch around him, watching him struggle and blink furiously every time he sinks down too far. His hand flies up boldly to squeeze Ilya’s pec – what the fuck, he learned that move from Ilya, and now is not the time to unpick why it’s so hot to be the one to teach him.
Ilya catches Hollander’s other hand, guiding him to wrap his fingers around the inches of cock that won’t fit. Ilya squeezes his hand around Hollander’s and shows him how to pump him in time with the bobbing of his head, the spit rolling down his cock slicking the way.
“Gospodi – fuck, Hollander. Yes,” Ilya hisses. He lets go to push his fingers through silky black hair, scraping over his scalp, and Hollander hollows his cheeks in response, sucks him harder as he keeps up the rhythm they’d set together. Quick learner.
Over his own harsh breathing, Ilya catches these snatches of gorgeous sounds from Hollander, soft mm, mm, mm’s through his nose. Ilya can’t help tilting his hips up, fucking into his mouth just a little. He can’t choke him with Hollander’s fist there, but he’s careful anyway as the head of his cock slides over Hollander’s tongue and just barely brushes the back of his throat. Hollander makes a high, trembly noise, breaking into a cough as he pulls off.
Maybe this was too far for him, Ilya considers – but only for a second. Only until he notices Hollander grinding needily into the bedsheets, and the burning heat in his gaze when he finally opens his eyes.
“You like,” Ilya says. Not a question.
Hollander answers without words. Still holding Ilya’s cock, he turns his head and peppers sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over the length of him, like he can’t bear not to taste him even as he catches his breath.
Heat curls and twists deep in Ilya’s stomach, and his cock twitches against Hollander’s flushed cheek as he rubs his whole fucking face against him, drags his tongue wide and flat up the underside. He looks drunk on it. Ilya feels that way too. He could come from this within a minute, probably.
That’s when he realises, with a sickening jolt, that he doesn’t want this to be over as fast as the first time.
“Rozanov,” Hollander manages, his voice rough. In those three syllables, Ilya hears uncertainty, an overwhelmed plea for direction.
“Come here,” Ilya mutters, hauling him up to grab him by the jaw and lick his own taste out of his mouth.
Hollander shudders into it, winding his fingers into Ilya’s hair to keep him there, letting him take his mouth how he wants it. His body thrums against Ilya’s, hips shifting restlessly and smearing precome over Ilya’s stomach, mindlessly chasing a release.
“Shh, shh,” Ilya hushes, stroking over the small of Hollander’s back and slowing his rhythm into something less urgent. Hollander resists, but Ilya’s insistent, kissing him slower until Hollander’s breaths even out and Ilya’s fall into time.
When he’s pretty sure Hollander isn’t about to blow, Ilya sneaks a hand between them and takes hold of Hollander’s cock, still just as hard and all wet at the tip. He squeezes. Hollander lets out a surprised, sharp moan, cutting through the hushed, anonymous closeness of the room, and pulls back abruptly from Ilya.
“Um,” he breathes. “Maybe we should…”
Ilya lets go, puzzled, and watches him tilt his head to look at the headboard. Ah. Rather, Hollander is looking through the headboard, all the way into the neighbouring room where he’s clearly picturing Scott Hunter crouched with a fucking glass to the wall. Ilya takes a moment to be offended that sucking his cock wasn’t earth-shattering enough for Hollander to forget where he is.
“We should?” Ilya prompts.
“If you’re gonna, uh.”
“Touch your dick,” Ilya supplies.
“Well, yeah. We should – in the shower, maybe? The water would cover up any…” Hollander clears his throat awkwardly. “Noises.”
Ilya stares at him. A thoroughly entertained grin spreads slowly across his face. “Noises,” he repeats.
Hollander opens his mouth, closes it again. His lips are so swollen. Ilya wants to bite them. “Well, do you want him to hear everything?”
“You think walls are made of paper?” Ilya asks incredulously.
“I’m just saying…”
Ilya’s voice drops into a low, teasing purr. “You are telling me you can’t control yourself, Hollander, is that it? Now that you don’t have cock in your mouth, you will be too loud. You are worried you cannot keep all those pretty moans to yourself?”
“I’m not that bad–”
“Oh, you are.”
Ilya knows this. The way he was whining around Ilya’s dick is nothing in comparison. He’d tried to hold them back at first when they’d hooked up before, but he hadn’t stood a chance against Ilya’s mouth. Those raw moans and cut-off gasps of his name have echoed in Ilya’s mind ever since. It must be why he’s been so stuck on him; he’s never slept with someone so responsive.
“Very pretty, the sounds you make. Even when you were sucking me, you could not help. And so easy, too. I think I barely have to touch you…” Ilya says with a flippant wave, smirking as he grazes his fingertips over Hollander’s cock, making his breath hitch. “... To make you gasp, sigh, moan. All of it, easy.”
Hollander swallows hard. He’s fidgeting, hips twitching towards Ilya’s hand, and he blows out a frustrated sigh when Ilya takes it away again.
“I’m not easy,” Hollander insists. The flush in his cheeks has crept down his neck now, and Ilya can’t resist mouthing at it, sucking at his throat lightly enough not to mark. “And I’m not that loud. I just meant – y’know, to be safe.”
Ilya considers this. It’s not a bad idea. He pictures Hollander’s body glistening wet, rivulets of water chasing the dips of his muscles. Ilya could sink to his knees and let him thread his fingers into his wet curls as the steam rose around them.
But if he’s learned one thing about Hollander so far, it’s that Ilya loves to make him squirm. And if he’s learned something else, it’s that Hollander seems to like that too.
Ilya presses a sly smile into Hollander’s neck. Nips his earlobe. “No.”
“No?”
“No.” Ilya smoothly moves down Hollander’s body, wriggling his shoulders in a playful shrug. “We have comfy bed here. I want to have you like this, I think. Spread out on these sheets.”
Unthinkingly, beautifully, Hollander’s thighs fall open slightly wider, taking Ilya’s words as instruction. Ilya settles between them and bites at his hip, sucking for just a moment, making him hiss softly.
“But,” Hollander says.
Ilya waits. His tongue idly traces the soft ‘v’ line of muscle, then teases at the crease of his thigh as Hollander appears to grasp hopelessly for words that don’t come.
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya murmurs. “Such a disciplined player, so focused on the ice. Is what they say about you. I don’t know, maybe is not correct.”
Hollander has propped himself up on his elbows, watching Ilya with parted lips as Ilya takes a pause to mouth at his balls. He holds his gaze as he does it, rolling the weight of them over his tongue, and hums questioningly at Hollander.
“No – yes – it’s correct,” Hollander manages.
“So no problem. We will stay right here,” Ilya says, “and you will use this discipline of yours. I will touch you, suck you, make you come. All you have to do is stay nice and quiet, yes? Simple. No raising of suspicions. No Scott Hunter knocking on door, asking to join. Shame, maybe.”
“Oh my god.” Hollander scoffs in apparent disbelief. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
“Unless that is too difficult for you?” Ilya raises his eyebrows, deliberately condescending. Prodding at the spots he hopes will spark a reaction. “If you can’t do it, Hollander–”
“Fuck you, I didn’t say that–”
“–then, sure, we will go to bathroom. If this is what you need.”
“I can do it!” Hollander spits fiercely. Ilya delights in the tight clench of his jaw, the hot glare in his eyes.
Ilya ducks his head to disguise his laugh at Hollander’s predictable stubbornness, the same innate competitive streak that had him single-mindedly destroying Ilya’s record today, seconds after he’d set it. He can’t resist a challenge. And it is so fun to rile him up.
“I can be quiet,” Hollander reiterates, softer this time, his chin jutting forward defiantly.
And there’s that other thing again. It had piqued Ilya’s interest from the moment Ilya had shaken his water bottle in his face and implored him to drink more, inwardly floored when Hollander had obeyed. It was there when Hollander first fell to his knees before him, palpable and pulsing between them. Ilya had tested it earlier tonight, softly ordering him to do so again and feeling a rush of satisfaction when Hollander didn’t hesitate for a second. So eager to please him.
And now: I can be quiet, he says, because Ilya said so. Because, Ilya suspects, Hollander wants to do as Ilya tells him. He wants to prove himself. Wants to be good, maybe, for Ilya. Fuck, he wants to find out just how much of that tightly-held control Hollander is willing to hand over. Wonders if he would beg Ilya to take it from him.
“Okay. So you will be quiet. And if you get too loud, maybe I stop. ‘To be safe’.”
“What–?”
Ilya flashes a wolfish grin and interrupts Hollander’s indignant protest by taking his cock in his mouth. He tugs him closer by his hips, and Hollander lets out a moan, low and shaky; but he chokes it off, resolutely clamping his bottom lip between his teeth.
Ilya hums in approval. His entire body lights up with the relief of tasting him again. There was a part of him that had thought this might not happen, that Hollander might have left the transgressions they’d committed locked up tight behind the door of room 1410, as twisted and filthy as the sheets. But here he is, present and real, his cock heavy and pulsing on Ilya’s tongue.
He’s doing a good job, Ilya thinks. The hotel room is filled only with the rising heat between them, and the slick, guttural sounds of Ilya’s lips sliding over his shaft again and again, the occasional obscene slurp around him.
Ilya watches him intently. His teeth are piercing into the plush pink of his lip so hard that Ilya thinks he might make himself bleed, a picture of stubborn determination. He is trying very, very hard. It’s kind of endearing.
His face might be indecipherable to Ilya, but his body is an open book, and Ilya trains his attention on every tiny response. He notices how the rise and fall of Hollander’s chest quickens as Ilya swirls his tongue around the head of his cock, unsteady breaths bursting through his nose. The flat press of Ilya’s tongue against him as he starts to suck him harder has his muscled thighs quivering under Ilya’s hands. And when he teases his slit, dipping into where he tastes the sharpest, his abs jump and his hips start to jerk eagerly upwards. Ilya moves with him seamlessly, letting him buck up until he’s buried in Ilya’s throat, and Ilya shifts to lightly squeeze his balls as he swallows around his cock.
Hollander lets out a shuddered gasp, then, turning his face into the pillow to deaden the sound. Ilya watches as he clenches his fist in the pillowcase and clutches it to his mouth, practically suffocating himself in his efforts to keep his word.
Ilya pulls off, and Hollander lifts his head like he’s about to snap at him for stopping – but he falters as Ilya sucks two fingers into his mouth. Ilya knows exactly how he looks, and he leans into it, putting on a bold, deliberate show.
Holding his gaze, Ilya shoulders his thighs further apart, tonguing lazily at the head of his dick as he presses the pads of his fingers behind his balls.
Ilya catches a weak whisper of something that sounds like oh god. Hollander’s hips roll a little, dragging his cock over Ilya’s tongue and grinding down onto the pressure of his fingers. Ilya grins and lets them slip further down to pet over his hole, just as he had when he was on his stomach.
“You have done this,” Ilya murmurs, keeping up maddening little circles that only encourage the rocking of his hips. “How often? Your fingers, inside. Your dildo.”
“Shut up,” Hollander hisses, throwing an arm across his face. It hides his eyes, and his freckles. Ilya notices the loss more than he expects to.
“Oh, sorry.” He increases the pressure, just enough to push a soft gasp from Hollander’s lips. “Was going to ask if you want my fingers in your pretty hole. But maybe instead I will shut up…”
It works, Hollander tearing his arm away to glare at him with blazing, dark eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Ah, so you do want?”
There’s a pause. Ilya lets it drag out.
Then: “Do you have lube?” he breathes eventually, and Ilya has to laugh.
“Hollander. Of course I have lube.”
He grabs it quickly from the drawer he’d stashed it in before Hollander arrived and generously slicks up two fingers. Hollander’s cock is dripping wet already, a mixture of his precome and Ilya’s spit, and he whines softly as Ilya starts slowly jacking him.
“Quiet, remember.”
Hollander presses his lips together firmly, his face a beautiful shade of red. Ilya presses one finger to his entrance. “Yes?” he asks, momentarily regretting the stupid challenge – he’d like to hear him beg for it, plead for Ilya’s fingers to stretch him out – but tonight, Hollander’s jerky, almost shy nod will do.
Ilya lavishes his cock with attention – firm hand, soft mouth – until the tightly furled muscle under his fingertip relaxes, until Hollander melts into the mattress. When Ilya slides his finger inside, achingly slow, Hollander’s instant response is to spread his legs even wider and tilt his hips upwards, his entire body opening up like he was made for it. He’s a fucking revelation, tighter than anyone Ilya’s ever had, a hot little vice around his finger. His taste bursts sharply on Ilya’s tongue as he sets a slow pace, deftly stroking him inside, pulling back far enough to tease his rim before smoothly pressing back in. It’s not long before a thready sigh of, “Oh,” floats down from the head of the bed. Ilya chuckles as he pulls off to mouth at his balls.
“Ah-ah-ah. Is not very quiet,” he admonishes. Hollander is blushing furiously, panting open-mouthed as Ilya fucks him a little faster now. “So needy, Hollander. Just one finger, and you are falling apart.”
Muttering some choice cursewords under his breath, Hollander throws his head back, shoves two knuckles into his mouth and bites down, hard. The skin blanches white. Sweat sheens his forehead, glistens on his chest and his abs as his whole body pulls taut. God, if there's anything sweeter than hearing him moan, it's this: Hollander doggedly committing to Ilya’s stupid dare just because he said so, pushing and pushing and pushing himself if only to prove a fucking point.
“Fuck,” Ilya says, his pace faltering, “yes. Good.” It’s all the English he can manage. As soon as the praise lands, Hollander shivers and his cock visibly jerks on his stomach, pulsing a needy rush of precome in response, and isn’t that just so fucking interesting?
Ilya can’t resist tasting him again after that. Suddenly, Hollander grabs his hair, firm tugs which drag Ilya up and down his cock – and Ilya’s faintly impressed because he was nowhere near this brave the first time. A dark sense of pride flares up in Ilya at having pushed him enough to stop thinking, to follow his impulses and take what he wants. His cock aches with it.
Careful, Ilya teases his second finger at his rim, where he’s pink and slick. He doesn’t need to ask this time. Hollander’s eyes fly open on a frantic nod, eager whines stifled behind his hand, and Ilya doesn’t waste a second. Two fingers press steadily and surely inside, his hole stretching around them so prettily, searingly hot, and – oh, he’s struggling now. Challenge or no challenge, Hollander is helpless against this, gorgeous ragged noises escaping from the corners of his mouth as he drools around his knuckles.
Ilya squeezes his eyes shut briefly, pressing his cock into the mattress and willing the desperate edge away. Hollander’s squirming restlessly now, pulling back and then grinding down like he can’t decide if he wants less or more, his hips jerking uncontrollably and shoving his cock haphazardly into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya splays a large hand over Hollander’s belly, pins him unforgivingly as he curls his fingers up. Searches, just for a second. Strokes deliberately, and–
Hollander shouts, his voice cracking over an ungodly moan that Ilya thinks he’ll remember for the rest of his life, and his hand flies out of his mouth to grasp at the sheets, the pillows, anything that can ground him as Ilya strokes over that spot again.
“Jesus – oh my god,” Hollander pants, “Rozanov,” and Ilya’s dick pulses against the sheets. Goddamn, Ilya wasn’t worried about the thin walls before, but he has to concede that Hollander might have had a point. He slips his fingers free, and Hollander whimpers a pathetic protest of, “Fuck, no…”
Ilya’s crucifix traces a long, cool line over Hollander’s heated skin as he moves upwards, and Hollander draws him into a hungry, messy kiss as soon as he’s within reach, all wet gasps and grasping hands. Ilya settles into his side as his fingers return to between Hollander’s legs, toying with his hole.
“You were not joking,” Ilya mutters. “You fucking love this.”
Hollander nods dumbly, a fucked-out glaze over his eyes. “It… It’s not as good as that when I do it.”
Ilya smirks, his ego preening and purring, and he rewards Hollander by dipping inside again, a shallow tease that has him rocking his hips instantly.
“So desperate for my fingers. What will you be like when I give you my cock, hm? Whole building will hear you scream for me.”
Hollander’s fucking lip trembles, and as Ilya curls his wrist to fuck in deeper he lets out another deep, gasping moan. Panic flashes in his eyes at the way the sound bounces off the walls – at least that, Ilya understands. He grabs Hollander’s chin, jerking his face towards him with a tight grip.
“You were right,” he murmurs sweetly, “maybe you cannot stay quiet, not for this. Is okay. I can help you.”
Hollander swallows, hard enough Ilya can hear it, and his asshole clenches in anticipation around Ilya’s lazily thrusting fingers. Ilya shifts his weight, hovering his hand over Hollander’s mouth now, barely grazing his lips.
“Do you want me to help you, Hollander?”
It’s a filthy whisper into the space between them, and Hollander’s answering, “Yes,” is just as sordid and just as secret, shared only with him.
Ilya holds his gaze as he presses his palm down, gentle at first but steadily increasing the pressure until it’s clamped over his mouth and his fingers dig into Hollander’s cheek. Hollander’s eyes roll back in his head, squeezing tight around Ilya’s fingers as he fucks him faster. There’s a steady stream of desperate whimpers hot against Ilya’s palm, pitching up as Ilya grazes his prostate again. The strain in his wrist is worth it for the view: Hollander’s dark lashes fanned out as he screws his eyes shut, his hair stuck to his sweat-slick forehead, freckles standing out starkly on sex-flushed cheeks above Ilya’s firm hand.
“Fuck,” Ilya pants, grinding his cock into Hollander’s hip mindlessly, smearing precome into his tan skin. Arousal pulses in his balls, through his veins, pounding in his temples so he can barely think. The entire fucking hotel could come crashing down around them right now and he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t care, would die before he tears his hands away from this man. He glances down at Hollander’s cock, stiff and red and leaking onto his stomach, and breathes out an almost frantic laugh.
“Fucking – blyat – I need more hands.”
Hollander blinks up at him, and Ilya swears he hears a muffled laugh behind his palm too.
“Touch yourself,” Ilya grunts, jerking his chin downwards. “Get – get the lube, stroke your cock for me.”
Hollander’s all uncoordinated and trembly, drizzling far too much lube directly over his cock so it drips down between his thighs, and Ilya swipes his fingers through it and shoves more inside him. It’s obscene, the wet sound it makes as he drives into him in sharp thrusts, and Ilya fucking loves it. Shameless, he ruts against the firm muscle of Hollander’s thigh in time with the movements of his wrist, chasing the pleasure pooling at the base of his spine.
As soon as Hollander gets a too-slick hand on himself, his socked heels scrabble for purchase in the sheets, and – God, he comes beautifully and endlessly, curling in on himself as he spurts over his abs, up to his chest, more mess dribbling over his fingers as he strokes himself through it. Ilya catches all of his moans and whimpers in the palm of his hand, as if he might be able to keep them all for himself.
Hollander pulses impossibly tight around Ilya’s fingers as he rides it out, and holy fuck, Ilya is so desperate to fuck him that it hurts, wants that clench around his cock, wants to feel him shake apart as he buries himself deep inside.
Freeing his fingers, Ilya shoves himself up on his knees and starts jerking himself frantically. His hand is still over Hollander’s mouth, but Hollander seems to fucking like it there, face tilted into Ilya’s palm like an offering. Panting, Ilya swings a knee over so he’s straddling his chest, his fist flying on his dick. Hollander reaches for him and he’s too loose-limbed to be of much use, but Ilya wraps his hand around Hollander’s and starts thrusting quick and dirty through the joint circle of their fists.
“Two weeks and I will fuck you like this,” he whispers harshly, punctuated by wild snaps of his hips. “Ah – fuck, Hollander, I can’t wait to hear you when you take my dick.”
Hollander’s eyes meet his own, wide and pleading, and as Ilya feels the pleasure coil up tight behind his balls, he slides his hand down to Hollander’s chin, catching his bottom lip and dragging his swollen mouth open. Hollander lets him, pliable and wanting with his pink tongue resting on his lip like a fucking invitation, and Ilya comes so hard he almost falls, waves of it wracking his body. He fights to keep his eyes open, watching pulse after pulse of his come stripe Hollander’s tongue, adorning the plush inside of his mouth.
Ilya groans, deep and rough, and pitches forward to smear the head of his cock over the stray drops of come clinging to Hollander’s chin, his lips. Hollander’s tongue dips out shyly, teasing into his slit, making Ilya shake right to his toes. Curious, Ilya feeds him a little more of his cock, darkly pleased when he keeps mouthing at him – licking up every trace from Ilya’s shaft, sucking the last drop from his tip. Ilya shudders so violently from the sharp edge of overstimulation that he has to brace himself on the headboard. It’s – Christ, it’s hot – but Hollander’s lips are almost too reverent, so fucking gentle as Ilya softens in their joined hands.
Ilya pulls back.
“You will kill me,” he grunts, rolling off to lay by Hollander’s side. He grabs his face to lick a wide stripe over the come on his chin, then again over his cheek, grinning when Hollander cringes and shoves at his chest.
“Oh my god, you’re fucking gross,” Hollander huffs, and Ilya shrugs.
“I think you like gross.”
Hollander pushes up on unsteady arms, surveying the mess they’ve made of him: come streaked over his stomach and chest, his thighs all shiny with lube. There’s lube fucking everywhere, actually. “I really don’t,” he says with a grimace.
Ilya rolls his eyes, turns Hollander’s head towards him to smack a brusque kiss on his lips, then slaps his chest. “You are drama queen. You want shower?”
Hollander looks wary, crossing his arms over his chest and dislodging Ilya’s hand. “Here?”
Ilya waves a vague hand over Hollander’s ruined body. “Well, yes.”
A silence stretches between them. Hollander’s mouth twists into another of those indecipherable expressions. “No, it’s okay. I’ll just… in my room.”
“Okay.” The room is thick with heat still, but a slight chill cuts through it. Ilya pushes himself to his feet, fingers still shaking from how hard he came. “I will shower, then.”
He throws Hollander two bundled up washcloths from the doorway instead, soaked through with warm water. Hollander’s slow to the catch, letting them hit his stomach as he mumbles a delayed thank you. Ilya closes the door on him.
His shower is brisk and far too hot, as if he’s trying to scald the lingering scent of Hollander off his skin, burn away the touches he can still feel all over his body. It doesn’t work as well as he hopes, and he finds himself scrubbing and rinsing quicker than he usually would, anxious to get out again. He pauses for a second, one hand on the doorknob, and listens.
It’s silent.
Ilya thought there might be a goodbye, at least. Hollander is polite like that. But this is fine, too.
He rolls his shoulders back, shakes his arms out, and opens the door.
And… He’s still there.
Ilya feels an excitable impulse to reach out and touch, but it fizzles quickly. Hollander is standing as if frozen in time, his side profile to the en suite door, holding his t-shirt limply like he’s forgotten the next step in the sequence. When he hears Ilya emerge, he flinches into action, fumbling to turn the shirt the right way around.
Ilya flops onto the bed, drops of water falling from his hair and trickling down into the towel draped carelessly over his lap. Hollander keeps his back to him, his shoulders hunched with tension. His movements are jerky and stiff. Ilya remembers this from the first time: the way his body had locked up after they were done, regimenting itself back into its usual rigid awkwardness. Protecting those softer parts of him, maybe – shutting Ilya out so he can’t tarnish them more than he already has.
This man can throw himself into Ilya’s room brimming with need, can let Ilya inside him and lap him up like he’s starved, but he can’t fucking look him in the eye when it’s over.
Ilya sniffs, rubs his hand over his nose compulsively. There’s a growing pit in his stomach, one that aches and churns. Anger, indignation, something else more pathetic. He needs a fucking cigarette.
He jerks the bedside drawer open, remembers he finished the pack, and shoves it closed with a grunt.
When Hollander finally turns, Ilya sets his face in a stoic expression. His jaw clenches tighter as Hollander starts stammering, his hands shoved in his pockets in a poor attempt at ‘casual’ and his eyeline fixed somewhere above Ilya’s head.
“I know we talked about Montreal in two weeks, but…”
Ilya stares at him. Hollander has trailed off but the intention is clear, and Ilya – can’t. Won’t. Refuses to hear the rest of that sentence.
“Oh my god, Hollander, you are so boring.”
Next time, next time, next time. The treacherous words he’d failed to keep inside earlier now clamour incessantly, almost deafening him. That ugly, overwhelming desire he’s tried so hard to squash rears its head again, threatening to burst right out of his skin – and instead of wrangling it into submission, this time Ilya lets it drive him to his feet and carry him across the room.
It’s that part of him that demands Hollander’s phone; that preens in satisfaction when he finally looks at Ilya, panicked eyes darting between his face and his outstretched hand. It’s that part, thrashing dangerously inside his chest, that gives them stupid code names and crows in triumph at the soft smile it puts on Hollander’s face.
And it’s that part that fires off a text while they’re still standing there, channelling the roaring in his ears into a few straightforward words. It’s phrased as a flirty promise. If he’s honest, it’s more like a plea.
Hey Jane, see you in 2 weeks 😉 xo Lily