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Shane is losing his mind. For someone who’s played hockey his entire life, he has somehow managed to not suffer a single concussion yet, but there is something wrong with his brain anyway, because he can’t imagine any of this is normal — not his fluttering heart, not his flushed skin, and definitely not the heat simmering in the pit of his stomach.
Ilya is just pacing Shane’s kitchen, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in Russian. Black designer sweatpants hang low on his narrow hips; every time he lifts his hand to run his fingers through his still damp curls, the hem of his hoodie rides up just enough for a bit of golden skin to show. His bare feet are quiet against the parquet as he saunters towards the kitchen island. He puts one hand on the white marble countertop, leans back on it, and hums in response to whatever Svetlana is saying.
His eyes are fixed on Shane, who’s sitting on the couch, looking back.
If Shane was normal, the sight of Ilya walking around his apartment wouldn’t leave him half-hard, and it wouldn’t make his mouth water to see the defined V-line peeking out from under his clothes every now and then.
“нет,” Ilya says, trailing his gaze up and down Shane’s body slowly. “Вы можете приехать на следующей неделе.”
Shane closes his eyes and tips his head to the side until he feels the soft cushion of his couch’s backrest against his cheek, letting the cool leather soothe his overheated skin. He listens to Ilya’s silky voice, allowing it to wash over him and slow his breathing. Ilya sounds different speaking his mother tongue, the words coming out more even.
“Да. Но в четверг не приходи. Я буду занят.”
Four strides, and then there are gentle fingers against the nape of Shane’s neck, coaxing his eyes open and up. Ilya brushes his thumb over Shane’s cheekbone, tracing the freckles there, and meets his gaze as he continues talking to Svetlana. Here, in Shane’s apartment. Ilya is here, on the phone with his best friend, petting Shane’s face, smelling like Shane’s shower gel, and letting himself exist in a space that’s filled to the brim with things very few people have seen — childhood memories, a neatly organized kitchen, his first NHL goal puck in a glass box, a scrupulously kept up workout plan pinned to his fridge, hidden sex toys in a nightstand. His fingers still smell faintly of the oranges he and Shane shared an hour ago, and Shane has no idea why that’s making his stomach so tight. It’s just oranges, but the heat in Shane is spreading out, beginning to build under his skin.
“Думаю, я должен будет повесить трубку через минуту,” Ilya says smoothly. “Если только ты не хочешь послушать, как мне сосут член.”
Shane doesn’t understand a word Ilya is saying, but there’s a softness to his voice now that wasn’t there before, so he stretches his neck and noses along the hem of Ilya’s hoodie. He tilts his head and presses closer, lifting the fabric with the tip of his nose, and breathes out through his mouth when his lips find Ilya’s golden skin.
Remembering that night in Las Vegas a couple years ago still makes his heart clench painfully, but the humiliation Shane felt back then has at least stripped him of all inhibitions he might have had left, so Shane isn’t plagued by a single hint of embarrassment as he nuzzles the stretch of skin between Ilya’s belly button and the waistband of his pants.
Ilya’s thumb presses against the corner of Shane’s mouth, so Shane turns his head just enough to part his lips and sink down until he’s sucking on it, licking over the underside. He flicks his gaze up to find Ilya gazing back at him, his blue eyes swallowed by black, and Shane hollows out his cheeks and flutters his lashes.
Ilya pulls his thumb out to trace up Shane’s upper lip, then presses the tips of his index and middle fingers against the pink spit-slick skin of the inside of Shane’s lower lip. Shane’s mouth opens again and Ilya presses his fingers inside, just to the first knuckle, and Shane closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath that he knows Ilya hears and hopes Svetlana doesn’t.
“Повешу трубку, Света,” Ilya says, and carelessly drops his phone on the couch. He switches back to English, then. “Look at you. Do I turn you on that much?”
Shane whimpers, which is incredibly embarrassing and yet another testament to his steadily melting brain, and licks over the dark hair under Ilya’s navel. His hands find purchase on Ilya’s thighs, which he uses to tug him close enough to feel Ilya’s erection grow against the cut of his jaw. Entirely without meaning to, his hips have begun to rock slightly, rubbing up against the leather cushions and sending sparks down his spine. This, too, is embarrassing — he’s not a fucking fifteen-year-old who has no control over his need to get off — but it releases some of the pressure building in him, clears the haze swirling behind his eyes a little.
Above him, Ilya exhales on a laugh.
“Shut up,” Shane mumbles, slurring his words. He’s hard and panting and starting to leak into his boxers, so he removes one of his hands from Ilya’s thighs to instead shove it underneath the hem of his own pants, over the short hair at the base of his twitching dick, brushing his thumb over the wet spot that makes his underwear stick to his tip, and shivers.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asks softly. He reaches down to curl his fingers around Shane’s wrist, stopping him. “Don’t you want to make me proud?”
Shane’s hand flutters, but he wrangles himself under control and slips his fingers through the spaces between Ilya’s, right there between his legs. He can’t help the heat that brews inside him that lusts and wants and will not be sated by anything but Ilya’s body on top of his, by his voice in his ear, by his tongue in his mouth and his cock deep inside of him. Desire coils in his gut and makes his dick pulse, and Shane almost starts rolling his hips against their linked hands, but he has perfected the art of making his body do whatever he wants it to do, so he holds still and ignores the part of him that doesn’t care about anything but finding release.
It’s bordering on painful how badly he needs to cum, though Ilya’s barely even touched him.
“I thought blue balls killed people,” he mumbles, casting a sharp glance up at Ilya through his eyelashes. Ilya said that a few weeks ago, when Shane hadn’t let him fuck him against the hood of his ridiculous canary yellow Porsche.
Ilya smiles. There’s something molten in his eyes that stiffens Shane’s erection; he’s so hard, pulsing in time with Ilya’s fingers carding through his glossy black hair. “I guess I could let you touch your hole. Let you get yourself ready for me.”
“We fucked—” Shane’s eyes flit to the digital clock on his oven, then up at Ilya, “—like three hours ago.”
Ilya cocks his brows in the way that always makes him look like an asshole. “Still.”
“Oh, because you’re so big?”
“Because I won’t hurt you,” Ilya says, before his mouth stretches into a lopsided smirk. “But yes, also because I am so big.”
“You’re really not.”
They both know it’s a lie. Ilya snorts at him, which is cocky and annoying and really should not be as sexy as Shane thinks it is.
There is a twinkle in Ilya’s eyes when he says, “You can’t even fit all of me into your mouth.”
“Bullshit,” Shane argues. “Yes, I can.”
Feigning doubt, Ilya purses his lips. “Are you sure? I do remember you using your hands quite a lot, right—” He takes his dick out of his pants, and lets go of Shane’s hand to brush his fingers over the upper half of his shaft. —“here.” His other hand is still cupping Shane’s cheek, absentmindedly tracing nonsensical patterns over the sensitive skin below his ear.
Shane glares up at him, holding Ilya’s gaze for a long moment and feeling himself flush from the neck up. His mouth waters in anticipation and Ilya’s lip twitches like he knows, so Shane huffs, hangs his head at an angle that allows him to flutter his lashes at Ilya in the way that always makes Ilya’s pupils dilate, and leans in.
Ilya inhales sharply, sliding one hand into Shane’s hair and curving it around the back of his head as Shane laves his tongue over his tip, around it, circling it with the tip before dragging across it with the flat.
“Open wider,” Ilya says, brushing his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip.
Shane pulls off, but not far — he nuzzles Ilya’s cock, smearing precum across his cheek, so he rubs the side of his face over the inside of Ilya’s thigh and then licks over the wetness left on the soft skin there.
“I don’t need a lesson,” he huffs. “I know how to suck your dick.”
“Then do it.”
“But you look good like this,” Shane says, taking in the faint blush on Ilya’s cheeks, the twinkle in his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest. “You look like you just finished a game.”
“Do you ever stop thinking about hockey?”
“I wouldn’t be thinking about it if you just fucked me like I asked.”
“You didn’t ask me to fuck you,” Ilya points out. “You just started drooling over my cock like a slut.”
Shane lets his forehead rest against Ilya’s hip. He really doesn’t want to acknowledge the shiver that word sends down his spine, or how it makes his dick twitch. Or what that says about him. “It was implied when I told you I didn’t need to prepare myself.”
“Yes, because we fucked three hours ago and you’re insatiable,” Ilya says, a barely-there smile on his lips, pensive like he is deciding what to do with Shane. “Мой идеальный, отчаянный Шлюшонок.”
Shane flushes again, a fresh coat of precum making his briefs start to feel uncomfortable. He moans, presses his face closer to Ilya’s dick and his erection into the cushions. He’ll have to get rid of this couch; there’s no way he’ll let anyone sit on it ever again after this and that one time a few months ago, when Ilya pinned him down on it and fucked him until there were tears in his eyes.
“You’re so worked up already,” Ilya states, voice low and soothing, and runs a hand through Shane’s hair to coax his head up. When their eyes meet, Ilya smiles, the perfect facsimile of casual. “Maybe I should make you give me a show again, like you did in Vegas. You were such a good boy. So pretty to look at.”
Shane whimpers as heat licks at every inch of his body. He wants to get fucked, not jerk off, but one glance back at Ilya’s perfectly shaped lips, the sharp cut of his jaw and the arrogant tilt of his head, and Shane knows he’d do absolutely anything and everything for him.
“Take your cock out.”
Shane swallows hard as he reaches into his sweats, gingerly lifting his too-sensitive dick out of the sticky fabric. Once it’s out, he lets go of it instantly; he's so pent up he might come at even the lightest touch, and he doesn’t want this moment to end. Not yet, not ever.
“Good,” Ilya says, leaning forward slightly and wrapping his hand around his own cock — so slick from both precum and Shane’s spit still coating the head —, but Shane swats it away, curls his fingers around the twitching base and leans in, not even bothering trying to hide the naked want in his gaze.
He tips his chin so the head of Ilya’s cock brushes his bottom lip, and finally opens his mouth to lick over it as Ilya’s fingers gently hold his face, cool against the overheated skin there. Feeling Ilya’s eyes on him, he flicks his gaze up to watch Ilya’s open-mouth stare, watches the way his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. Shane’s heart jumps into his throat.
Grinning, Shane swirls his tongue around the slit, then sucks Ilya’s tip into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks.
“That’s better,” Ilya says, voice so gentle that for a heady second Shane thinks he might pat him on the shoulder like he’s a well-behaved pet, so Shane, for good measure, swallows all of him down in one fluid motion. “Fuck, Shane.”
Shane moans when Ilya’s fingers splay out and twitch against his jaw, and only moments later, his nose hits the trimmed dark hair at the base of Ilya’s dick. He pants into it, opens his mouth wider, and runs his tongue up the length before popping off and going back in for more. He looks up at Ilya and winks, just like Ilya does whenever he scores against a particularly annoying goalie, ignoring whatever remains of his gag reflex to let Ilya hit the back of his throat.
Ilya makes a flattering noise — half a moan, half a laugh — that has Shane thrusting his own hips upwards. His jaw and throat ache, but he wraps one arm around Ilya’s waist to hold him close, and flattens his other hand over the side of Ilya’s strong thigh, and finds a rhythm that has Ilya’s muscles trembling.
Shane pulls off with a sweet kiss to the tip, and blinks up at him, wide-eyed and flushed. He knows what he looks like, knows what it does to Ilya, and says, “You are—” He leans in again, nuzzling the side of Ilya’s dick. “—so fucking—” He parts his lips to press slow, open-mouthed kisses to the pink vein on the underside, tongue laving the length of it. “—big. Always feel so good inside of me. Here—” His mouth wraps around the head of Ilya’s cock with suckling pulls, and Ilya groans. “—and—“ Shane pulls away and sits up, ears burning. He lets go of Ilya to drape himself over the cushions, and arches his back. With one hand, he pushes his briefs down the rest of the way. “—here.”
Ilya curses under his breath. Then, still barely more than a whisper, “Как я когда-нибудь смогу забыть тебя?”
Shane glances back over his shoulder to find Ilya watching him fixedly, brows drawn ever so slightly together, a dazed look in his eyes. Just having Ilya’s attention feels incredible, but managing to put that expression on his face always twists Shane up inside, makes his heart beat just a little faster, makes him wild with want.
A beat later, Ilya climbs onto the couch behind him, and drapes his body over Shane’s. Shane’s pulse starts pounding at the weight now pressing down on him, at the warmth of Ilya’s breath on his neck and his lips brushing over Shane’s ear.
“You’re so eager.”
“For you to fuck me? Yes.” Shane stretches his neck, lets the tip of his nose find Ilya’s cheek, and waits.
Ilya holds himself up with one hand on the couch and uses the other one to angle Shane’s head for a kiss; he draws their mouths together with gentle fingertips on Shane’s jaw, then licks into his mouth so desperately that it catches Shane a little off-guard. He gasps, and Ilya presses closer, holds him tighter, and moans softly.
“Yeah,” Shane whimpers between kisses, then leans in again, closing his lips around Ilya’s bottom lip. He shivers when Ilya’s tongue brushes over his, making lust burn white-hot through every inch of him, and reaches behind himself to tangle his fingers in Ilya’s curls. He loses himself in it — in the taste of Ilya’s mouth and the slow, dirty drag of his tongue and their mingling breaths — and feels his legs part as he sinks further into the cushions.
“One of these days,” Ilya mumbles against his cheek, “I’ll make you come just from kissing.”
Desire sparks down Shane’s spine, and he pushes himself up, pressing his ass up against Ilya’s dick. “Not today, though, right?”
“No,” he says, dragging his gaze over Shane’s body with such intensity that it feels like a physical touch. He runs his hand down Shane’s side and over the curve of his ass, and fuck, Shane loves this, loves when Ilya gets handsy and a little possessive. “Look at you.”
“Then what are you going to do?” Shane quips, biting at Ilya’s lower lip. “Am I finally going to have your dick inside me?”
“‘Finally’?” Ilya echoes as he dips his head and kisses down Shane’s throat, and Shane moans, long and low. The promise of sex pulls the muscles of his abdomen taut, has him desperate to get into Ilya’s lap and sink down on him. “You mean for the second time in four hours?”
“Yes,” Shane says. “Please.”
Ilya swears softly, surging up and dragging Shane’s mouth to his. He kisses him harder than before, with more tongue and less finesse and his hips grinding down against Shane’s ass, and it has Shane panting, fingers pulling at Ilya’s hair.
Ilya trails hot, damp kisses over Shane’s cheek, his ear, and the nape of his neck. His cock is so hard Shane has to swallow the saliva flooding his mouth at the sight of it, and there’s precum beaded on the tip.
Shane’s not doing any better; his balls haven’t stopped aching since he listened to Ilya speaking Russian on the phone, and his breath comes in heavy pants as he looks down his body at Ilya half-naked between his legs. A shudder courses through Shane; he’ll never get used to the sight of Ilya’s hands around his thighs, pushing them open even wider as he bends over the length of Shane’s back.
A finger prods at Shane’s hole and, with an aching, desperate moan, Shane arches his hips.
“I said I’m ready. Just put it in.”
Two of Ilya’s fingers push past the slight resistance of the muscle, stretching his hole.
Shane whines into the cushion. “I meant your dick.” He tries to speed things up by pushing his ass back, but Ilya just curls his free hand around his hip and pins him to the couch. Shane moans, sinking down onto his underarms and dropping his head between them.
“Not yet,” Ilya says.
Shane can’t help the way his voice breaks on the first syllable. “Why not?”
Ilya, because he’s an asshole, doesn’t answer. He scissors his fingers, pushes them deeper, and licks over Shane’s rim.
“Fuck. Ilya, I— God.”
Ilya hums, and Shane pushes back, trying to drag his ass along the length of Ilya’s tongue. “Don’t come.”
His mouth wraps around the pucker of Shane’s hole with suckling kisses, and Shane groans, tugging at Ilya’s hair that has Ilya respond with a moan of his own. The sound vibrates around his sensitive skin, a wicked resonance he feels in his very bones.
Shane sobs into the crook of his arm when Ilya pushes his tongue in alongside his fingers, so deep and perfect and not enough. With a keening moan, Shane tries to move, needing more of the slick heat of Ilya’s mouth, but Ilya keeps him pinned to the couch as he licks into him.
Shane is close. It’s always so easy to lose himself in Ilya, to let pleasure swallow him whole, to let it cut him open and leave him broken and desperate. He’s never felt this way with anyone, ever — no high school girlfriend, no Hollywood actress, no other men. It’s Ilya, only ever Ilya, with his sparkling eyes and wicked tongue and perfect body.
Needing something to hold on to, Shane clutches at one of the throw pillows. He moans, rolls his hips up against Ilya’s mouth and down into the cushion until he’s right on the brink of pleasure, until he’s gasping Ilya’s name as all of his muscles coil tight—
Only for Ilya to stop. He pulls back and takes his tongue and his fingers with him.
Shane whines, shaking with the sudden loss. The cool air on his wet hole shocks him, almost enough of a different sensation to send him over the edge, but Ilya seems to notice, because he reaches around Shane to squeeze the root of his cock with lube-slick fingers.
“Fuck,” Shane pants. He only realizes that there are tears in his eyes when he turns his head to look at Ilya and finds him blurry.
“That was close,” Ilya says, lifting his hand to brush his thumb over Shane’s eyes. “But I think you’re probably ready for my cock now.”
“Fuck you,” Shane hisses, although he suspects the effect might be lessened by the soft kisses he’s pressing to Ilya’s palm still cradling his face.
When Ilya laughs, it’s warm, not mocking. “But I like you like this, when you’re so desperate to come you can’t think about anything else.”
“I can come more than once.”
“Oh, I know,” Ilya purrs. “Want to see how often I can make you come today?”
Shane glares at him. “I want you to fuck me, and I want to come on your dick, or I will lose my mind.”
“You were pretty close to losing your mind a minute ago.”
Shane narrows his eyes. “Fine. If you’re not going to give me what I want, I’m sure I could find someone else to—”
“Who?” Ilya cuts in, his voice far warmer than Shane expected. “Who is good enough for you now that you’ve had me? Who else could Shane Hollander want? Hm, Детка?”
He pushes two fingers back into Shane’s unresisting hole, deeper than before, and curls them as he strokes over his insides until he finds his prostate just a second later, and the sound that spills out of Shane’s mouth is broken and keening. It feels good to be full again, but it’s not enough. Fingers — even ones as nice as Ilya’s — aren’t the same as Ilya’s cock.
Shane’s own dick twitches, precum dripping down onto the couch, and his arms give out.
“See?” Ilya says as his fingers press deep into him and hit his prostate with every move. “No one knows you like I do. You’d be so bored with anyone but me.”
But I can’t have you, Shane thinks, not the way I want to, and lets it slice into him. But Ilya is here, again. He returns to Shane every time he’s in Montreal, and invites Shane to his house every time he is in Boston, and that has to mean something. Whatever it means and no matter how many people Ilya sleeps with, Shane resolves to be the best among them, to always be the one Ilya goes out of his way to meet, to be the only one whose place Ilya spends the night at and the only who Ilya peels oranges for.
He pants, clinging to Ilya’s arm beside him on the couch as Ilya plays with his prostate. “If you keep doing that I—”
Ilya kisses Shane’s shoulder, licking and sucking over the skin all the way up to the nape of his neck, and Shane’s whole body buzzes with need.
“Up,” Ilya instructs, and pulls his fingers out of him slowly. Without question, Shane obeys, lifting his ass up and looking back over his shoulder to watch Ilya roll a condom over himself through heavy-lidded eyes.
Shane’s mouth drops open when Ilya finally pushes inside, rolling his hips into the first thrust in a silent plea for more. He clutches at the soft leather of his couch as Ilya bends over him and finds a slow rhythm that has his cock brushing Shane’s prostate with every thrust. “Oh, God. Fuck.”
“You’re so tight.” Ilya mouths at his ear and bites his earlobe, then licks over it soothingly. He rests his head between Shane’s shoulder blades and says, “Look at the mess you’ve made.”
Shane glances down at the drops of pearly white precum against his expensive designer couch.
“I should make you lick that up.”
Desire strings Shane tight. “Fuck me,” he whines, even though he’d really meant to say fuck you. Back bowing, he meets Ilya’s thrusts, moaning the entire time. It’s so good. It feels so good. He can’t get enough of this, of Ilya, so he tips his head up and feels his heart flutter when Ilya understands what he needs immediately; Ilya brushes the lightest of kisses across his lips, and has the nerve to smile when Shane chases after it. A sudden hard thrust has Shane gasping, and Ilya gives Shane what he wants and licks into his mouth.
Ilya drops his free hand — the one not supporting his weight on the couch — to the drops of precum on the leather cushion and runs his index and middle fingers through it.
“Shane,” Ilya purrs, and Shane stares at the slick fingers in front of his face. Ilya splays them so there’s thin, glistening strings connecting them, and Shane lets out a soft, needy moan when Ilya pushes his cock even deeper into him. “Suck,” Ilya says, tapping his fingers to Shane’s lips, coaxing them open. Not that there’s a lot of coaxing needed; Shane takes Ilya’s fingers into his mouth, suckling, licking each finger clean, pulling them into his mouth, one by one, then both at the same time. Then, because Ilya’s kissing along his cheek but Shane can still feel him watching him, he licks Ilya’s palm, too, and swirls his tongue around his thumb.
The pleasure that jolts through him is all-consuming and constant. His skin prickles and tingles, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He feels crazed with lust, meeting Ilya’s slow thrusts and moaning around the fingers in his mouth until Ilya pulls them away; Shane chases after them until they brush over his neck and he can’t reach anymore.
“You’re perfect,” Ilya tells him, curling his hand around Shane’s hip, and licks over the skin right below his ear, and fuck, that goes straight to Shane’s cock, making it throb. “Finally got my cock and still so desperate for everything else I’ll give you.”
“Yes,” Shane moans sweetly, arching into Ilya’s touch. He drops his face back into the crook of his elbow as he grinds back against Ilya’s body, taking him deeper, loving the way it slides into his hole and spreads it wide with every roll of Ilya’s hips.
“Think you can come untouched?” Ilya asks, running his hands up and down Shane’s sides in soothing strokes, and Shane is so keyed up that he knows he can.
Shane nods, looking back at Ilya. He watches his abs flex, his golden curls falling over his forehead and his vibrant blue-green eyes flickering all over his body like Ilya can’t decide where to look. He starts moving faster, shifting the angle of his hips so he hits Shane’s prostate in a way that has Shane seeing stars and pushing himself onto Ilya’s cock with increasing need.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane pants, “Ilya, I’m—”
Ilya pulls off his back and drives deeper into Shane’s body, hands tightening on Shane’s waist, and Shane makes a sound that would be incredibly embarrassing if he could find it within himself to give a fuck about his dignity right now, but all of his attention is focused on the feeling of Ilya inside of him, around him, on top of him, and the sudden jolt of pleasure that burns through him blinds him with its intensity.
His cock gives one weak twitch before he comes, his whole body seizing up with the orgasm, his mouth open against the pillow, his toes curling, as pleasure sends shivers through him.
He’s still coming when Ilya collapses on top of him, trembling.
“Fuck,” Ilya says, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the nape of Shane’s neck. “You okay?”
Shane laughs, running a hand over his face; it comes back wet with tears and saliva. He sags into the couch, unable to hold himself up any longer. Ilya goes down with him, and Shane reaches out to link their fingers. “Yeah. That was a good one.”
“It’s always good with you,” Ilya mumbles, turning his face into Shane’s neck. He eases himself out of Shane’s body gently, but stays close, running his free hand through Shane’s hair, and Shane — still dazed from the intensity of his orgasm — wraps himself around him.
“Tell me I’m good at blowjobs.”
Ilya grins. “You’re good at blowjobs.”
“Okay,” Shane whispers, resting his face against Ilya’s chest.
Ilya’s hand stills for a few short moments before continuing its stroking. “Are you falling asleep?”
Answering feels like too much effort, so he pulls Ilya’s face to his for a quick, half-hearted kiss before promptly passing out.