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The cardboard box was supposed to be full of old hockey programs and team photos. That’s what Ilya had said when he’d dragged it out of the closet, muttering in Russian about needing to make space. Shane, ever the helpful one, had volunteered to sort through it while Ilya was at a sponsor meeting.
The programs were there. So were the photos. Then, beneath a layer of Boston Raiders merchandise, Shane’s fingers brushed against slick, glossy paper.
He pulled out a magazine. Then a couple more.
Women smiled up at him, pouted at him, arched their backs in uncomfortable poses. They were dressed in things that Shane wasn’t generous enough to call clothes. A mixture of red satin, sheer baby-doll negligees and lingerie sets that hid nothing at all.
Shane’s throat felt a little tight. He wasn’t exactly surprised to find them, this is exactly the kind of thing Ilya would own. But he should put them back but his hands wouldn’t obey.
He flicked through one, the pages sticking slightly, which was something Shane was choosing to ignore.
He wasn’t looking at the women’s faces. His eyes were drawn to the intricate straps of a harness bra one model was wearing. The way a garter belt clipped to stockings, creating a fascinating latticework against skin.
A heat, unfamiliar and thick, pooled low in his stomach.
Shane had thought about it before. Ilya had joked about putting him in a bra once but it was a passing comment that amounted to nothing. All the times walking past a Victoria’s Secret and his eyes briefly dragging across the mannequins and wondered what it would look like on him instead but it was still just a passive thought he didn’t bother delving into.
The embarrassment was a strong force against it, a cringe that started in his soul and twisted his face. He was Shane Hollander. Hockey player. He felt a little silly picturing himself in lacy underwear.
He shoved the magazines back into the box, buried them under the programs, and closed the flaps. His heart hammered against his ribs as he carried the box to the basement storage locker, and the thought followed him. It sat with him through making dinner and brushing his teeth. And as he tried to go to sleep.
Ilya was still out, his side of the bed cold while Shane’s laptop glowed in the dark room. He bit his lip, typed in a URL, then deleted it. He did it again. On the third try, he hit enter.
The screen filled with models of all shapes, though none quite like his—broad-shouldered, thick-thighed, muscular. He clicked and scrolled through various pages of lingerie sets.
His breath came a little quicker when his eyes landed on a pink, delicate bralette with scalloped edges. Matching low slung panties, with a tiny satin bow at the front. It had to be the most fragile, feminine thing he’d ever seen. He could hardly imagine himself in it but his cursor still dragged to the ‘Add to Basket’ button at the bottom.
Suddenly, the bed dipped. Shane jolted, slamming the laptop shut with a loud snap.
Ilya crawled under the covers. “What’s so secret?” he mumbled, his accent softened by tiredness. He reached for the laptop.
“Nothing!” Shane’s voice was too high. He kept his hand firmly on the top of his laptop. “It’s, um. A present. For you. Don’t look.”
Ilya’s eyes, sharp even half-lidded, studied him. A slow smile spread. “A present? For me? Is it my birthday?”
“It’s a surprise,” Shane insisted, the lie sour on his tongue. It wasn’t completely a lie. If he ever wore it… it would be for Ilya. The idea made his head spin.
Ilya chuckled warmly. “Okay. Keep your secrets.” He rolled over, wrapping an arm around Shane’s waist, and was asleep in minutes.
Shane lay there, carefully opening the tab back up. Just to take one more look.
The parcel arrived three days later, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. Ilya was at the arena for extra physio. The house was silent except for Shane’s socked feet on the hard floor as he carried the small, discreet box inside, with his palms sweating. He pulls out his key to slice open the tape.
And inside, nestled in tissue paper, was another box. A fancy pale gray box, with a delicate silver ribbon tied around it. It looked like something that would hold jewelry. His heart drumming against his ribs as he untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
The set was even more delicate in person. The lace was finer than a spiderweb, the pink was a soft, dusty rose and the satin of the bow a slightly lighter shade. He lifted the bralette up to the light. It was so small in his hands. He held it up, the straps dangling. It was pretty.
A hot wave of shame crashed over him. He felt like he might be losing his mind as he couldn’t take his eyes away. He folded the items neatly, placed them back in the box, and closed the lid. He shoved it under the bed.
He made it to the doorway before stopping. It wouldn’t hurt trying it on. God forbid he wants to do something for himself. For fun.
He walked back to the bed, pulled the box out, and opened it again.
He stripped off his t-shirt and sweatpants, standing naked in the cool air of the bedroom.
He stepped into the panties first. The material was shockingly soft, cool against his skin. He pulled them up, stretching them over his thighs and over his hips. They were as pretty as promised, hugging the curve of his lower waist. The front sat flat, the little bow perched just below his navel. The back was a thin, lacy triangle that covered almost nothing. He turned, looking over his shoulder.
His ass, muscular and tan, was glaringly on show. The lace was so thin it was nearly sheer, doing nothing to hide the shape of him. It was a jarring contrast, looking at his own hard muscle sheathed in something so fragile. A flush spread from his chest up to his cheeks.
He put on the bralette. It was a struggle. His large hands fumbling with the tiny hooks. He finally got the clasp, then adjusted the straps. Shockingly. It fit. It fit. The cups held him, his chest filling them out in a way that was completely different from a model, but not entirely wrong feeling. The lace stretched over his peck and his flushed face only got impossibly redder.
He stood before the mirror, staring at the stranger staring back.
His shoulders strained the thin straps. His thighs emerged from the high-cut legs of the panties. He could see the shadow of his pubic hair through the lace at the front, a dark tuft beneath the pale pink. Self-consciously, he brought a hand down, covering himself.
He didn’t hate it.
The pink against his skin was pretty. That was the only word that came to mind.
It was pretty.
Pretty, pretty, pretty.
The lace was soft and perfectly comfortable, but he still pulled nervously on the strap of the bralette, watching the way it tightened and released. He turned again, watching the lace of the panties dig into the flesh of his ass. A strange, thrilling vulnerability coursed through him.
He felt very exposed and just as he was getting used to it, the front door slammed open.
“Shane! Your favorite husband is home!”
Ilya’s loud and cheerful voice boomed from the entryway. Shane’s blood turned to ice. Cursing violently under his breath, he scrambled. He yanked his discarded sweatpants up over the lace panties and grabbed his t-shirt, pulling it on, mangling the bralette underneath. He shoved the gray box under the bed and took the stairs two at a time, his heart in his throat.
Ilya was in the kitchen, unloading grocery bags onto the quartz counter top. “Hey,” Shane said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strangled.
“Hey yourself.” Ilya didn’t look up, busy putting away a tub of Greek yogurt. “Finished early. Sveta would not stop texting me about Love is Blind. If she spoils the finale for me, I will cry. So we are watching now.”
“You’re back early,” Shane repeated, leaning against the doorway, trying to slow his breathing. The lace remained a persistent presence under his clothes. The panties had ridden up, the thin strap settling directly in the cleft of his ass. He fought the urge to squirm.
“Yes, I said that.” Ilya finally looked at him, a smirk playing on his lips. “You are okay? You look… flushed.”
“Fine. Just, uh, was working out.” Shane gestured vaguely upstairs. “I’m gonna go change.”
“No time!” Ilya declared, heading for the living room. “Episode is loading. Come on, Hollander. I got your gross healthy snacks.” holding up a bag of kale chips.
Shane followed, ignoring the sensation of the lace material moving against his skin screaming for his attention. He sat on the far end of the large sectional couch, pulling a cushion onto his lap. Ilya found the episode, dimmed the lights, and sprawled comfortably, his arm stretched along the back of the couch behind Shane.
Shane tried to focus on the television. On the dramatic music and the tearful confessions. But all he could feel was the delicate abrasion of the lace on his inner thighs. The way the bralette’s edge pressed under his pecs.
And the panties. They were practically a thong now, a mere string of lace lodged where it had no business being. He shifted, trying to discreetly adjust himself through the thick sweatpants material.
Ilya glanced at him. “You have worms?”
“What the fuck? No.”
“You cannot sit still. Like a child.”
“I’m fine,” Shane muttered, forcing himself to be still. It lasted about thirty seconds. The more he tried to ignore it, the more intense the sensations became. He squeezed his thighs together, then shifted again, this time a small, subtle roll of his hips against the cushion.
A low sigh came from beside him. Before Shane could process it, a strong arm hooked around his waist and he was being hauled effortlessly across the couch, dumped squarely into Ilya’s lap. “There,” Ilya grumbled, his arms wrapping around Shane’s middle, pinning him in place. “Now you can wiggle all you want. You are not disturbing my viewing.”
Shane froze. He was sitting sideways on Ilya’s lap, his back to Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s chin rested on his shoulder, his attention back on the screen. But Shane could feel the hard line of Ilya’s cock, still soft, beneath his own ass. And the panties were right there.
Ilya’s warmth seeped through both layers of clothing. The position pressed the lace seam even more intimately against him. He tried to relax, to melt into the hold like he usually would, but his body was thrumming with nervous energy. He made another small, involuntary movement, a shift of his weight.
Ilya’s arms tightened. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, his lips close to Shane’s ear, his accent thickening. “If you do not stop moving, I will not be responsible for what happens. I am trying to see if Mark chooses to commit. It is very important.”
The words and the tone sent a jolt straight to Shane’s core. A heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment bloomed there. He bit his lip, trying to obey. But the tingling feeling of the material against his skin made him itch. He shifted again, an accidental slow grind of his ass back against Ilya’s groin.
He felt Ilya stiffen. A sharp intake of breath warmed his neck. Ilya’s hands, which had been loosely clasped, flexed against Shane’s stomach. On screen, someone was crying. Ilya didn’t seem to notice.
Shane did it again. A slightly harder roll of his hips. The rough denim of Ilya’s jeans scraped against the thin seat of his sweatpants, and through them, the lace. The friction was exquisite, and was just what he needed. A soft, pathetic sound escaped him before he could choke it back.
Ilya’s hands slid down, gripping Shane’s hips, stilling him. “You can’t help yourself for just forty minutes?” Ilya whispered, his voice rough.
Shane had to push past his less than coherent thoughts and snaps out of it. Leaning away with a loud cough, he mutters something about getting some water.
Shane, dazed and flushed, Ilya watched as Shane leaned forward to grab the empty glass from the coffee table. He stretched, his t-shirt riding up to show a strip of toned back and Shane’s sweatpants, loosened by all his squirming, slipped down just an inch. A frilly hem finally seeing the daylight.
“Fuck!”
The curse was loud, shocked, and utterly Russian. Shane startled, spinning where he sat. “What? What’s wrong?”
But Ilya was already moving. He became a total blur. Not saying anything else, just surged forward, his hands going directly for the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants.
Panic, sharp and absolute, lanced through Shane. “Hey!” He almost screamed it, scrambling back across the couch cushions, kicking out, escaping Ilya’s grasp by inches. He tumbled off the far end of the couch, landing on his feet in a defensive crouch. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Ilya sat at the edge of the couch, chest heaving. His eyes were wide, then narrowed, blazing with a sudden, intense focus. “You have something you want to share with me?” he said, his voice deceptively calm as he looked Shane up and down.
Shane’s hand instinctively went to his waistband, holding the pants up. His face was on fire. “No,” he said, stubborn, childish, avoiding Ilya’s gaze.
“I think you do.” Ilya leaned forward, his hand reaching out again.
Shane stepped back, hitting the wall. “Ilya, please.”
“Show me.” The calm was gone, replaced by a raw, desperate demand. His head dropping to the side as his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. “Shane. Please… please. I need to see.”
The want in Ilya’s voice cracked Shane’s resistance wide open. He looked at the floor with his heart hammered so hard he felt dizzy. After a minute that felt like a century, he sighed.
Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his gray sweatpants, he tugged them down. Just a few inches. Just enough to reveal the band of the pink lace panties, and the tiny, perfect, pastel bow at the front.
The silence in the room was profound. Shane couldn’t look up. He heard Ilya’s breath stutter, then stop.
A choked sound, half-laugh, half-groan, broke the quiet. Ilya looked like he’d been handed the keys to paradise. “Bozhe moy,” he breathed. “Take them off. Take them off right now.”
“Ilya…”
“Now, Shane. All the way.”
With trembling hands, his blush burning down his neck and chest, Shane pushed the sweatpants down his thighs, stepped out of them, and kicked them aside. He stood there, in his loose t-shirt and the pink lace panties, exposed under the living room lights.
Ilya made no move to touch him. He just stared, the weight of his gaze traveling from Shane’s face, down his torso, over the lace hugging his hips and belly, down his muscular, dusted-with-hair thighs, and back up. He drank in the sight, his expression one of pure, unadulterated awe.
“Come here,” Ilya finally said, his voice thick. He reamined at the egde of the sofa and reached out, not for Shane’s hands, but for his thighs. His large, warm hands wrapped around Shane’s upper thighs and pulled gently until Shane was standing between his spread knees.
Ilya let out a low, appreciative hum. His hands stroked up and down the outsides of Shane’s thighs. “So soft here,” he murmured, his thumbs rubbing circles on the sensitive skin. “And so strong.” His gaze was fixed on the lace. “When?”
“The… other day,” Shane managed, his voice barely a whisper.
“The present,” Ilya realized, a slow grin spreading. “For me.” He looked up, his blue eyes blazing.
Shane could only nod.
Ilya’s fingers traced the scalloped edge of the panties, playing with the hem. “You like this?” he asked, his touch light and teasing.
Shane shrugged, a jerky movement. “It’s… it’s okay.”
“Just okay?” Ilya’s hands slid up, over Shane’s hip bones, tracing where the material met his thighs. They moved up his sides, under the loose hem of Shane’s t-shirt. They stroked over the bare skin of his waist, his ribs… and then froze.
Ilya’s thumbs brushed against the lower edge of the bralette.
His eyes flew to Shane’s, questioning, stunned. Shane gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
With a groan that seemed ripped from his soul, Ilya surged up. He grabbed Shane, one arm under his knees, the other around his back, and lifted him as if he weighed nothing. He turned and deposited him on the middle of the couch, following him down, covering Shane’s body with his own before Shane could even gasp.
Ilya didn’t say a word. He straddled Shane’s hips, his hands roving urgently under the t-shirt, mapping the territory of lace beneath. Swiping the shirt over Shane’s head and taking in the sight with a pleased smile.
He palmed Shane’s chest through the delicate fabric, his fingers finding and plucking at a nipple already hard and sensitive. A long, ragged groan vibrated through Ilya’s chest and into Shane’s. He lowered his head, nuzzling into Shane’s neck, breathing him in.
“Can’t believe you were going to keep this from me, Hollander,” he finally said, his voice muffled against Shane’s skin. It was all he said.
Then he was a man possessed. He reared back, yanking his own shirt over his head and tossing it aside. His jeans and boxers followed in a frenzied tangle of limbs. His cock, half hard and flushed, sprang free. He didn’t pause, didn’t give Shane a moment to think.
The cool air hit Shane’s skin, followed immediately by the heat of Ilya’s gaze. He lay there, completely exposed in the pink lace set, his body a stark, powerful contrast to the frilliness of it. Ilya made a sound like he’d been punched.
“Beautiful,” he breathed.
He didn’t take the lingerie off. He seemed to love it on, to need it on. He lowered himself again, his mouth finding Shane’s, the kiss deep and filthy and full of tongue. Shane kissed back, all his embarrassment melting under the sheer force of Ilya’s desire. His hands came up, tangling in Ilya’s wild curls.
Ilya’s mouth left his, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw, his throat, his chest. He paused at the bralette, his tongue flicking out to trace the lace edge where it cut across Shane’s pectoral. He took one lace-covered mound in his hand, squeezing gently, his thumb rubbing circles over the nipple until Shane whimpered.
“So pretty,” Ilya muttered against his skin. “My pretty boy in his pretty lace.”
The words, so embarrassing and sent a fresh flood of heat between Shane’s legs. Ilya continued his journey south, his lips and tongue worshiping every inch. He licked a stripe down Shane’s abdomen, his tongue dipping into his navel, just above the little bow. He nuzzled the lace covering Shane’s pubic bone, his breath hot and damp through the thin material.
Then he hooked his fingers into the sides of the panties. Before he paused. He pulled them aside, using his teeth to tug the fragile lace to the left, exposing Shane completely.
Shane hisses, back arching off the couch as Ilya’s mouth found him. There was no preamble, no gentle teasing. Ilya licked into him with a hungry, focused intensity, his tongue broad and flat, stroking through his folds before circling his clit with firm, delicious pressure. Shane’s hands flew to Ilya’s head to hold him there, his fingers clutching at the curly strands.
“Ilya… god…”
Ilya ate him out like a man starving, like he was trying to memorize his taste through the lace. He groaned against him, the vibrations making Shane see stars. One of Ilya’s hands slid under Shane’s ass, lifting him, tilting him for better access. The other hand stayed fisted in the pink lace of the panties, holding them taut and out of the way.
The rough, demanding pleasure of Ilya’s mouth and tongue, and the delicate, constant abrasion of the lace stretched tight against his hip was clouding Shane’s head. Shane’s thighs trembled on either side of Ilya’s head. He was already close.
Ilya seemed to sense it. He pulled back, his lips glistening and swollen. Matching Shane’s now red and equally swollen clit. He looked just as wrecked as the man laying above him. “Not yet,” he panted. “I need to be inside you.”
He knelt up, his hand wrapping around his own cock, now perfectly erect. Giving it a few rough, slick strokes. The head nudged against Shane’s entrance, already wet and ready from Ilya’s mouth. Making. Shane wince and twitch again. Ilya’s other hand was still gripping the delicate panties.
He pushed in.
Shane cried out sharply. Ilya sank in to the hilt in one slow slide, burying himself fully inside the heat of Shane’s body. He paused, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. He looked down between them, at where they were joined, at the pink lace stretched and barely holding onto its seems.
“Fuck,” Ilya swore, reverent and filthy. “Look at that. Look at you. So pretty and you’re taking me so deep.”
He began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside Shane. The pace was slow and dragging. Ilya’s eyes were locked on Shane’s face, watching every flinch and gasp.
“You like this?” Ilya grunted, snapping his hips forward, making Shane jolt. “In your little secret underwear? You like me fucking you while you wear it?”
“Yes,” Shane gasped, beyond shame. “Yes.”
“Should have shown me sooner,” Ilya said, his thrusts picking up speed, getting harder. “Should have let me see. My big, strong hockey player… dressed in pink lace for me.” He leaned down, capturing Shane’s mouth in a bruising kiss.
The sweat started then, beading on Ilya’s shoulders, slicking Shane’s chest where the bralette had ridden up. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies meeting: skin slapping against skin, the rustle of the thin material, ragged breaths, and low, guttural groans. Ilya’s hands gripped Shane’s waist, his fingers digging into the flesh just above the lace band, using the leverage to fuck into him deeper.
Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist, locking his ankles, pulling him in impossibly closer on every thrust. The lace of the bralette scratched deliciously against his sensitized skin. The panties were a lost cause, stretched and damp, but still on, and that fact alone seemed to drive Ilya wild.
“Gonna come,” Ilya warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. “Gonna come inside this pretty lace. You want that?”
“Please,” Shane begged, his own climax coiling tight, fueled by Ilya’s words and the exquisite friction of his cock and the rasp of lace. “Ilya, please.”
Just before he could cum, Ilya pulls out enough to let his head press against Shane’s puffy lips. The panties taut over his cock as he drives it upwards as he came.
Shane felt the hot semen drip down his pussy and staining the expensive underwear, and it was the trigger he needed. His orgasm crashed over him like a shattering wave that made his back bow off the couch and his vision whiten at the edges.
Ilya collapsed on top of him with all his heavy, sweaty, satisfying weight. They lay there both slick with sweat and come. The television was still on, showing the credits for Love is Blind.
After a long moment, Ilya shifted, looking down at the strings of his own give and Shane’s wetness follow his cock as he pulled himself out of the panties. An obscene wetness left behind and sticking the material to Shane’s skin.
He rolled to the side, lying next to Shane on the couch, but propped up on an elbow. His eyes, heavy-lidded and sated, roamed over Shane’s spent body.
Shane lay there, totally wrecked. The pink lingerie set was a disaster. Damp, stretched, the bralette twisted, the panties torn slightly at the side where Ilya had gripped them. His stomach was streaked with his own release and Ilya’s. He was a mess. He’d never looked more beautiful.
Ilya reached for his phone, which had fallen to the rug. He swiped it on, turned on the camera, and held it up.
Shane’s eyes fluttered open. “What are you doing?”
“Saving the memory,” Ilya said, his voice still rough. He angled the phone. The screen framed Shane in all his glory. “You will not let me see this again. I know you. You will be shy tomorrow. So I take picture now.”
“Ilya, don’t,” Shane protested weakly, making a half-hearted attempt to cover himself.
Ilya ignored him. The camera shutter clicked. Once. Twice. Three times.