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The hotel room stinks of their sex, so Ilya takes a moment to open the sliding glass door to the shallow balcony before returning to the hunt for his lighter. The city street twenty floors below sends up a sound or two of traffic, and electronic dance music from somewhere distant, just a trace of it, wafts in along with the fresh air.
Ilya crosses back into the room, returning to by the door where he dropped his tuxedo trousers maybe ninety minutes ago. They lie there tangled up with Shane's in one crumpled heap. Shane used to take the time to fold all of his clothes, but this time and the last time he did not. He could not wait.
This makes Ilya smile.
He doesn't know if this makes him a good influence or a bad influence. He just knows he likes to influence Shane Hollander. Never with the big things, because he wouldn't want Shane to be anything but himself. Sweet, high-strung, needy, grumpy, soft-hearted, kind-hearted, driven, sensitive, awkward, beautiful, upstanding young man with eyes that carve Ilya open, like a sharp tool on soft wood. But with little things, yes. Like the socks. Ilya will cure him of wearing socks during sex. This must happen.
Perhaps he convinces Shane he has a foot fetish. Then he will want to please Ilya and shyly show off his toes. Beg for Ilya's cum on them, and he cannot have his socks on for that, now can he? The thought makes Ilya smile again, as he now gets to ponder whether Shane's feet are ticklish. Shane has a weak spot on his left side, just below his ribs, where if you lick it just so, he spasms and makes the funniest noise. Like a goose. Very Canadian. Ilya calls it his goose spot, but only in his head.
He fetches the trouser pile from the floor and turns so he can lay his eyes on Shane's naked body while he's searching the pockets. That body is still where it dropped after they came together. It's hard to remember whether it was Shane's unhinged groan and spasming insides that pulled Ilya's trigger, or whether it was the way Ilya went still, digging hard into the flesh of Shane's hips with his fingers, buried as deep as their bones will allow, pumping what feels like his entire soul out into the condom that set Shane over his own edge.
That was...Ilya shakes his head. That was something. It was always something when he and Shane met like this.
The trouser pockets are empty, nothing fun in Shane's either. One lonely gum wrapper and a Pharmaprix receipt for condoms and Gatorade. He pictures Shane stopping there on the way to the event they just attended together, in his pressed tuxedo trousers and slippery dress shoes, puffy coat thrown over his tuxedo jacket, hood pulled low hoping no one but perhaps the clerk sees his face. Shifting his weight, half-hard against his fly as he waits in line under the bright fluorescent light. Hole clenching in anticipation of Ilya's cock. The shame at how bad he wants it. Then he sees the little refrigerator, comforting red bottle, maybe he opens it and takes a drink, thinking the cold salty-sweet will settle his nerves.
Ilya thinks about how Shane's mouth might have tasted in that moment, cold and sweet. There is a flash of a world where they are just two boys in the line, going out or perhaps coming home from the club very late. Shane's cheeks are still flushed from the outside. He is a little drunk, and he keeps laughing. It is snowing.
They are in this pharmacy line together bumping shoulders and sneaking glances, and will be home fucking soon, but Ilya cannot wait. There is no need to wait. So, after Shane gulps half the bottle, Ilya dips in and steals a kiss, chasing the fruit punch flavor around his favorite mouth. It is risqué but within reason, and this other Shane doesn't freak out or push him away. He looks down shyly, and asks, "What was that for?" Ilya shrugs. "For you." Shane understands. And no one cares they are both men. No one knows who they are. The line moves forward a step at a time, they buy condoms, go home (their home) and try to climb inside each other. Outside, it is snowing.
After, Ilya drinks from the Gatorade bottle but he gives Shane the last sip. Then sucks the cold salty-sweet off his tongue.
Ilya shakes his head out of the silly fantasy and goes back to methodically scanning the floor until he spots the silver little box half-tucked into one of his shoes. "Aha," he says under his breath. His fingers make a quick trip into the deep front pocket of his own puffy overcoat, then into the half-crushed box to extract one fresh cigarette. Drawing it under his nose, he takes a deep whiff even though it is not fancy tobacco, but a straggler in a mostly-empty box of Marlboro Light 100s that he found abandoned on a champagne table near the end of the event. He considers pulling on his coat to go smoke, but he will not be out there long, and it is not even below freezing.
And he is Russian.
Still naked, he strolls across the the room and on his way back to the balcony he passes Shane, who has not risen from his prone sprawl. The two have not spoken since they caught their breath minutes ago, dribbling slurred little phrases like 'that was amazing', 'can't feel my legs', and 'your pussy was sent from heaven' at each other. The last was in Russian, but Ilya believes that he conveyed what he had to with the tone.
Shane must hear Ilya, though, because he props himself up on his elbows, eyes fluttering open, mouth soft with a sleepy smile. Well, he smiles until he spots the cigarette. After that, all Ilya gets is disappointed little pout that makes Shane's lower lip look so very suckable.
He will tolerate Ilya's filthy little habit, though, as long as it is not indoors. They already had the argument over whether a balcony counts as indoors two fucks ago. Ilya did not win so much as he said that he would not smoke indoors so long as Shane did not complain with his mouth when Ilya took it out to the balcony. (The rest of that body is not complaining. And there were zero complaints anywhere to be found five minutes ago.)
He smiles at Shane and does not get one in return.
In further deference to his grumpy lover's delicate sensibilities, Ilya pulls a low chaise over from the side of the balcony so it is in front of the door and he has a view of Shane. He sits on the bottom of the thing, ignoring the chill of the seat beneath his lube-sticky balls and leans back against the waist-high balcony wall. It is opaque, and sitting down here, his head is entirely out of view. This is so that on the one thousand to one chance that some random person has aimed a telephoto lens at a hotel room (which was not even booked 3 hours ago) they will not catch sight of Ilya doing something he has done on one thousand other balconies.
Shane will not have his itty-bitty panic attack and Ilya gets to have half a cigarette. A few puffs, really, just enough to feel it glide through his veins. It is a compromise. He sparks his lighter once, twice, watching it flare in the darkness then snap shut.
Shane mutters into his pillow, "I wish you wouldn't do that."
"I know." That first drag does filthy things to his bloodstream and his mind finally hushes up for just a little bit of time. It is delicious, like the first kiss with a lover you have not touched in months (This feeling, Ilya has become painfully familiar with.) "But how else do I keep my bad boy reputation, hmm? I cannot always have my tongue up your asshole."
"Oh my God. Shut up." Shane groans, fully burying his face in his pillow.
"You would like that, wouldn't you. To ride on my face every night, beg me to eat it like a pussy."
The strangled noise is not words, just a cry of some sort.
Ilya grins and tips his head back. He blows smoke up at the dark sky, no stars, and stretches out his legs. The socks that he came in this room with do not matter. He has already written them off. His shoes sit by the door, near the trouser pile. His phone...he kept an eye out for that during his lighter hunt, but did not spot it. He could do it the 'hard way' and actually look for it, which Shane somehow thinks is superior to just calling it from Shane's phone. As if this might train Ilya to be more mindful of where he puts his things when he's getting undressed.
Mindful. He chuckles to himself then takes another drag. You try being mindful of your things when you've got Montreal's golden boy pawing at you like he's an untrained dog you've got treats hidden in your pockets, and this golden boy starts whining at you thirty seconds in to put it in, put it in, "Please just fucking put it in, I need it so bad." There are nights Shane needs tenderness first, but sometimes he needs immediate unraveling and tonight was one of those. He was all but crying for Ilya's cock so sue Ilya if folding his fucking pants and putting his phone on the charger was not a top priority.
Stirring up Shane's guts to the best of his ability was his one and only goal from the moment he got to this room until the moment he unloaded into the second condom while Shane clenched around him and sobbed his name like some fucked up prayer.
He calls out to Shane, "Bring me your phone."
"Mmm?" The lazy princess does not even have the courtesy to raise his head from his pillow.
A few clever jokes about Ilya's stamina occur to him, but his own brain is still too fuck-softened to bother with that much English subtlety. Instead he calls again, voice very sweet, "Pretty please, Hollander. Bring your phone."
He does not ask why Ilya wants the phone, but simply rolls over to sit up on the edge of the mattress. After a beat, he winces.
"You are okay? I was not too hard in you?"
"You mean too hard on me."
"No. I do not." The corner of his mouth twitches, like a traitor.
Shane plucks his phone off the nightstand, approaches but stops a few paces short of the threshold. He thumbs in his passcode and tosses the device to Ilya who snatches it out of the air. Then he just stands there in front of Ilya, like he is not sure what to do next. He looks good. Most of the tension has been fucked out of his posture and the cock that not five minutes ago spilled all over Ilya's fingers is now soft and resting against his balls.
It is rare that Ilya gets to suck on Shane when he is soft. He wants to do it now. He thinks about summoning Shane, telling him to come stand between Ilya's legs, hands on the railing, looking over the dark, sparkling city below, Ilya hidden from view as he gives that soft bit of flesh a lingering kiss. He would roll it around on his tongue. Put his mouth on Shane's belly.
He would do a lot of things, if he could.
Instead, he puts his mouth on the cigarette and takes a lingering drag as he rakes his attention over the rest of Shane's skin. There is already a love bite on Shane's thigh, a little purple shadow left by Ilya's teeth. He does not think Shane will notice until later. The smoke in his lungs burns as he holds it, but he is not a monster, he turns his head to send the plume out into the night air.
Shane pouts. He would certainly deny it but that is what he is doing. "See, now I can't kiss you," he says. "Because you taste like an ashtray."
Ilya scoffs. "You can kiss me. You will kiss me."
"Mm-hmm." He gestures at the phone. "That's going to lock again in a minute if you don't do whatever it is you need to do."
He opens the messaging app and finds their conversation, types out, 'thank you Lily for a fuck so good I go cross-eyed'. Hits send. Five or so seconds later, his phone chimes. It is in a pile of clothes on the floor near the foot of the bed. Shane must have heard it too because he glances at it, but he waits for instructions like he is being a pill.
Not like he gets off on Ilya's commands, no matter how small. Of course not. Good boy hockey captains do not arch and whimper when you boss them around. They do not spread whatever they can when you tell them, "Show me."
Ilya types again, 'I like when you to tell me what to do, so please tell me to bring your phone. It will make my dick very hard'.
He hits send and then lays Shane's phone down on his thigh, takes a drag, holding Shane's gaze. On the exhale, he says, "Bring it to me." When it chimes, he gestures at it with the cigarette. "Please."
Shane reaches to fetch the jacket off the floor.
"Wait. Do it slowly."
"Fuck off, Rozanov." But he does pause, then bend a little deeper, showing off all that yoga boy flexibility.
"Yes. Just like that. You like to be the good boy, don't you?" His voice is teasing, silly-sexy not serious-sexy.
Still, Shane's face is red when he straightens up with the jacket. "I could just leave this here if you're gonna be like that."
"You would not be so unkind to me."
"I think I've been pretty kind to you." He chuckles as he sticks his hand in the second pocket and pulls out the phone. Something else comes out with the phone. A little red piece of cloth, like a pocket square. Only, Ilya's pocket square tonight was icy blue.
Shane examines the dangly little scrap and his chuckling ends abruptly.
Ilya sits forward, elbows on knees. "What is that?
Shane tosses Ilya's phone, a little harder than he needs to but Ilya manages to catch it. Barely. Then he crumples up the red thing into a ball and tries to throw it, but the little compact ball flutters apart in the air and does not reach all the way to Ilya. Instead, it sails to the floor just inside the track for the glass door.
"I cannot see from here, pick it up," he says, still trying for playful.
Shane's voice is tight and not playful when he says, "You pick them up." He turns and goes about snatching his own clothing off the floor one piece at the time. His jerky movements and thousand yard stare are definitely not playful.
Ilya gets the feeling he has missed something important. He stubs the cigarette and flicks it out into the night, then reenters the room and shuts the door against the crispy air, rubs his arms and makes a show of shivering, but Shane does not pause his grumpy clothing hunt to come warm Ilya, so Ilya snatches the red thing off the floor so he can examine it himself.
They are a pair of women's panties, cherry red, tiny, fine, and silky. He checks the tag, and as he suspected they are quite an expensive brand. Ilya says, "And now I think maybe you will not kiss me. You are mad?"
Shane is still huffing and scowling his way around the room, clumsy in his haste and avoiding Ilya's curious gaze. "I'm not mad."
"You are something, Hollander. Tell me why."
Shane pulls a steadying breath, the way he has done in front of Ilya on the ice many times. Then he makes this constipated little half-smile he has also made many times, but only when he is mad. He lifts his chin at Ilya and looks him in the eye. "I'm not mad."
He sounds more mad. Ilya just wants to make sure he is close to understanding. "You are mad because there are women's panties in my pocket, yes? Or maybe you are mad I did not fuck you a third time."
"I told you," he nearly growls, "I am not mad."
He is not stupid, he can guess, but he thinks maybe it is important for Shane to say it. "Come on. Tell me why you are mad at the panties."
Big scoff. "Seriously?" So many little emotions on his face at once. "Seriously." When Ilya does not reply, he makes a sound of disgust. "You know what? Fuck you, Rozanov."
"What is seriously?"
He takes another steadying breath, forces calm on his face. "No, look, forget about it. Okay? It's fine. It's none of my fucking business," he says, voice tight with genuine hurt and anger. He has found his trousers and tossed them on the tangled sheets, and gone back to pacing manically around the room, still on the hunt.
"What is it you are looking for?" Ilya asks with care.
"My fucking underwear," he snaps. "See, this is why I usually fold everything and put it one place and I don't just--"
"Don't just let me tear them off you like you are my Christmas present." He fetches his jacket from the floor and slips it on without bothering with anything else underneath or on the bottom. It is a little silly look, but now he has somewhere to tuck his lighter and the panties. He is about to look for his own underwear when he becomes distracted.
Because Shane has dropped to his hands and knees on the plush carpet, and is peering under the bed, plump bottom swaying at Ilya, his snug little hole exposed and probably still very slippery from all the lube. Probably still soft and easy to sink back into. The sight is...extremely enticing. He has not fucked Hollander on the floor yet. The thought of wrestling him to his back, getting red knees and rubbing a scrape onto Shane's spine while they-- "Goddamnit," Shane spits out.
Ilya strolls over and dangles the panties down in front of his face. "Lucky for you, we have extra."
Shane sits back on his heels and scowls up at Ilya in disbelief. He shakes his head slowly. "You know what? Fuck you." He hops to his feet and gives Ilya's chest a genuine shove. "Fuck. You."
Ilya staggers, then catches Shane's wrist and hip and turns him so that when Ilya shoves him even harder, Shane thumps down flat on his back on the mattress. He scrambles to get up almost immediately, but Ilya climbs on top, holds him down, pinning both wrists on either side of his head, until he stops his little protest struggles.
Shane jerks his head sharply to the side, dodging Ilya's steady, questioning gaze. "You really are an asshole," comes out through clenched teeth.
It is Ilya's turn to sigh, both because that snarl is wildly enticing and because it has become clear that he will have to be the one to put words to the fear, if Shane will not. Ilya has the patience to wait of course, but he does not want for this to fester in Shane over the months they are apart. He wants to at least lessen the chance. "Listen. You have made up stories in your head about the mysterious panties, and I don't think they are true."
"Mysterious? Like you don't know exactly how they got there? Sure."
"I'm not sure, but I have suspicion."
Shane scoffs and jerks his head to the other side, staring over at the sliding balcony doors. There is a blurry reflection of their bodies in the dark glass, and it would be an erotic image for Ilya if he weren't trying so hard to make his--whatever Shane is--stop being an idiot. The idiot finally stops struggling and when Ilya grasps his chin and makes him look up, it takes several more moments for Shane's eyes to meet his.
They are shiny. He is hurt. He is hurt and he does not want to say so to Ilya. Perhaps he thinks it will make him look weak. It is one thing to know that Ilya sleeps with other people, he thinks, another to hold the supposed evidence in one's hand. Yes he is hurt that Shane thinks so poorly of him, but it is not such the idiot thing to think it possible, given Ilya's reputation. "So that I understand, you see panties and you think I--I what, I meet some strange woman at the big cancer party and sneak away to go fuck her in some closet and then come fuck you? Twice? As hard as I did? This is flattering, but no."
"You gonna tell me you never fucked a stranger in a closet?"
"Yes of course. But never on same day as you. I am sure she is lovely, whoever this pretend woman in your head is, but today of all days I would not choose to waste my energy on pussy that I could get like this." He snaps his fingers. "Anywhere. Not when I am so close to having what I wanted for many months. I came here for you. I asked my people to get invitation only so I could see you. Yes, cancer is very sad, but--"
"Okay."
"Maybe I would if you were not here, trying so hard not to look at me for two and a half hours, making me have to try so hard not to get erection in front of sponsors. And failing. I thought about using my hand in the bathroom."
Shane's breath does a funny little thing.
"Except I did not. Because I brought this here for you." He presses his groin down against Shane's, his cock still mostly soft but it has begun to take interest. He kisses Shane's nose. "Okay?"
"I said okay." He sounds like he perhaps wants to believe, but still does not.
"I would not lie about this to you."
"Would you tell me, though? If I didn't know to ask?"
"You want to hear about women I fuck, now?"
"No! I don't. God, just forget it." His half-hearted wriggle goes nowhere, but Ilya's cock notes the friction.
"It did not happen and it will not happen, I think. You know that you are a very demanding lover. It is rude to bring you a sports car with half a tank of gas. No? You are...big game."
"So this is all a game." Shane's voice falls so flat.
He can't tell if he is saying things wrong, or if Shane just wants to pick a fight. He is feeling more and more it is the second. It's very frustrating. In an effort to ease the tightening noose off this mood, he leans into a smile. "You are the best game, Hollander. Well, second best game. You are fun but you are no hockey."
Shane scoffs, then deflates much more. Takes another, softer breath. All these different breaths this boy has. Ilya has made a study of them. This one is all sad, and so are the words when Shane finally speaks. "Look. Like I told you, I know it's none of my business who else you fuck, Rozanov. We use protection, so what's it matter if it was ten days ago or ten minutes ago, right? I get it, okay. I know--we both know what this is."
Ilya knows what Shane means. He also knows, they both know, that it is more than that. But what use would it be for either of them to name it.
Shane's casual tone is a fragile little shell with many cracks in it as he lifts his quavering chin. He looks Ilya in the eye as he says, "So if you fucked someone yesterday or this morning or at the gala or five minutes after I leave, it doesn't matter. I don't feel any...way about it. Okay?"
"Okay." Shane's lie is not the battle Ilya chooses to fight. He wants to say, "I came all the way here for you. I'm here, dressed up and wearing uncomfortable shoes and doing this smiling monkey dance for rich old people, so that I have a chance to fuck you and touch you and kiss you and look at you. My news alert about the great Shane Hollander told me you would be here, so I bothered my agent until he got me an invitation. I flew three hours today, and will leave here for the airport to do that again at four am. I have not tasted you in months, and you truly think that I would spend one minute bouncing on some pretty little fungible social climber? You think my mind has room tonight for anything but your mouth and the way your big strong thighs turn into jelly for me and the way you need my cock like you need air?" But he does not.
To do what Shane thinks he has done, it would be hurtful and careless. It pains Ilya that Shane thinks that of him, but he is not the one in need of soothing right now. Still, he takes a morsel in the form of a kiss to Shane's forehead. It warms Ilya's heart and at the same time checks Shane out of his sadness and into anger, or at least annoyance. The sad mouth has been replaced by that tight little mad one, lips pressed together. Ilya kisses the little wrinkle on his brow and feels the tension in Shane's body shift just in time to strengthen his grip before Shane tries again to jerk himself free. If he truly wanted it would be no big thing to throw Ilya off, but Shane only edges up to that line, makes Ilya use all his strength and weight to trap him on the bed. It is invigorating.
Shane spits, "Fucker, let me up."
Ilya does not. "Yes. In one moment. But first we must find out where our panties came from. You will help me, yes?"
Because it is the truth that Ilya has not fucked anyone in months, let alone in this particular tuxedo since it was last dry cleaned. He can truthfully tell Shane these panties did not come from some quick pre-gala fuck. Yes he would prefer Shane just believe him (or not think such things of him in the first place). But Shane is not wrong, 'I do not know where these panties came from' does sound like bullshit.
So he gives Shane's wrists a purposeful, extra-tight squeeze, then releases him and eases back, still straddling Shane but sitting back on his heels. Shane tries to half sit up on his elbows, but Ilya catches him and gives a hard enough push that he yields, back to the mattress once more. It is...enticing. But they have a mission. He clears his throat. "I will be Sherlock and you are Jude Law."
Shane scoffs. "Why am I Watson?"
"Have you ever done cocaine?"
Shane gives him a look, because it has already come out during post-coital chitter-chatter that Shane hasn't even tried weed.
"I think the one who has tried cocaine gets to be Sherlock." After Shane gives him a bewildered look, he adds, "Sherlock Holmes loved cocaine. He loved it like you love sucking my cock. It is in the stories. It is like in the name of one of the stories. I've only really done it two times, and I didn't like how it made my nose feel or how it made my dick work, so never again."
"Where the fuck are you going with this, Rozanov?"
He pulls the panties out and dangles them in the air between them. "The Mystery of the Mysterious Panties. We will solve this mystery. And then you will feel better. Now. These were not here before the gala. I am sure of it. And I did not put them in there, and they did not jump in, so someone--"
"Someone just randomly stuck panties in your pocket? That's what you're going with? Who does that?"
"Who indeed." Ilya examines the panties, as though he might understand the personality of their former owner if he looks hard enough. Like the way some dogs look like their owners. "Wait a moment." He is so stupid. He thinks to recheck the pocket, and as he suspected, there is indeed also a slip of paper with a number. "Ah-hah!" He waves the slip at Shane triumphantly. "Hah! Yes!" He squints at the writing. "Angelica." He taps the paper on his lips. "Hmmm."
"Angelica McMillon?"
"Skin-tight blue little dress. Big tacky diamond necklace? Beautiful, wide bottom." He sketches a shape with both hands.
"Yeah. Her husband was one of the main sponsors."
"Very old man."
"I mean."
"Grandpa old."
"He was standing there the whole time, though."
"Yes. I think maybe he is one of those who likes to watch young men fuck his wife. There is a word, it is not a bird, but sounds like bird. You hear of these men, yes?"
Shane shakes his head, exasperated.
"I remember she got very close and rubbed her tits on me as she asked in my ear if I was a 'real performer.' I think she put the panties and phone number in then. See? Mystery solved."
"So women just do that all the time, just shove their numbers and their underwear in your pocket?"
"Mostly it is numbers. But sometimes panties, yes. They make it easy."
The sulk is back. "And you like easy."
He tries another kiss, this time on the mouth.
After several seconds of Shane offering himself up, he seems to remember he is mad, and he frowns away.
Ilya sits back on his heels again. "I like you. Come on, Hollander. Is just a woman who put her number in my pocket along with a little treat. That is all. You tell me you never found numbers in your pocket, Mr. Superstar Boy Next Door Eligible Sexy Man Alive?"
"Not too often, no."
"You need to go to more parties, if you want women's numbers."
"I go to enough parties, Jesus. Fuck off."
"Do you want women's numbers?"
There is a silent fuck you in his eyes.
Ilya tears the slip into tiny pieces and throws it up like confetti, watches it rain down. "You are jealous," Ilya says, "and it is very sexy, but you are also sad, and that is less sexy."
"I am not sad." One piece of confetti has stuck to Shane's lip.
"Okay." He kisses Shane's bottom lip, sucking the confetti off, spits it over his shoulder. "I believe you. And you believe me, now. Yes?"
"Yes."
"So we are good." He picks up the panties from where he dropped them on the sheets. "See? It is just a little piece of cloth. Don't be afraid of it."
"I'm not afraid of them. I'm not anything of them."
"Have you told your face? Because it is red, like the panties." He holds them up to Shane's cheek. "The color looks good with your skin."
Shane wrinkles his nose and jerks his face away. "Ugh, Jesus, don't fucking rub some stranger's dirty underwear on my face."
Ilya sniffs, then deep huff. "No, these are fresh I think." One more long sniff. "Yes, they are clean. They are not always." He fingers the whispery material. "These are very fancy."
"So what, you'll keep them?"
"They were a gift. When you give someone something, it's theirs. So these are mine now. I do with them what I want. I put them on who I want. Hmm." He drapes the panties over Shane's shoulder to be sure. Yes. He has found his new mission.
Get Shane to wear these panties.
He smiles down sweetly.
Shane looks wary. "What?"
He climbs off to kneel beside Shane, who starts to sit up but one look from Ilya and he capitulates, flopping back down with a dramatic sigh. Poor princess. Ilya takes the panties and arranges them over Shane's lap, like little paper clothes on a paper doll. They do not lie flat like paper, though, because Shane's cock is perking up. The scrape of silk over that plump flesh probably does not help him feign disinterest.
Ilya cannot contain himself, so he bends down and presses a kiss to the red fabric, lingering long enough that he feels the heat of the skin beneath. If they wait very long, Shane will leak through, he thinks. Turning his head back and forth very slightly, he brushes his parted lips over Shane's bare tip. Looks up to find Shane has propped himself on his elbows so he can watch. His mouth hangs open, showing Ilya the pink of his tongue. Ilya opens his own mouth just as far and nudges Shane's thigh aside, sucks wetly at the soft inner flesh then a playful nip, sharp enough to earn a hiss. He nuzzles the panties over until he can press his flat tongue to Shane's balls, then a hot stripe up his shaft, nearly rigid now. So hungry for Ilya's touch.
He could just suck Shane off and perhaps that would be the end of this little tussle, but Ilya would rather that when Shane thinks of the night he found the panties, he thinks of how hot his face got when he finally gave in and wore them, and how he creamed them, and how pretty he was for Ilya. That is the image he wants Shane to leave with.
So instead of filling his throat, he sits back again and catches one of Shane's ankles, carrying it into the air. "You will wear these for me now." Before the protest comes, he slips one leghole over Shane's right foot.
Shane's eyes go all the way wide. "F-fuck off." He kicks at Ilya's grasp, but not too hard.
"You will look pretty, I promise."
"I fucking promise you I'm not gonna be wearing any fucking panties."
"Sure, okay. Gimme other foot." He beckons with one hand.
"Go fuck yourself."
"But you are right here. I will fuck you. Come on." He makes the gesture again.
"Fuck you," Shane says, but does he leave his other foot where it is?
No.
Ilya catches it mid-ascent and brings it up to the briefs, slips it in the other leghole. Then, with a raised brow, because they have had this conversation, he peels off both of Shane's thick socks.
"My feet get cold."
He kisses all the toes, ignores the muttered, "Jesus Christ," then he lifts both Shane's feet up until he is in a supine pike, toes to the ceiling. Ilya releases the panties but not the ankles and witnesses as gravity pulls the red scrap down Shane's round calves. They settle near his knees. Ilya nudges them just past, so that they stretch around Shane's lower thighs. Then, he brings Shane's feet to the bed, legs bent, like for sit-ups.
Shane's knees try to bow outward, but they are bound. He tries again harder, like he is trying to rip them apart with his abductors but despite how delicate they look, the pricey briefs are well made, and the fabric only bites against his flesh, it does not tear. Finally, Shane relaxes, eyes still fixed on the red panties.
Ilya traces a couple fingertips along the leghole, first the top of the thigh, then around to the underside so he can caress Shane's hamstring with a soft, flat palm and skimming fingers.
There is a trembling exhalation from Shane, then he looks very hard at Ilya's mouth.
Ilya says, whispers really, "See how pretty you are?"
Shane bites his lip and looks away. It seems he is on a blade's edge between calling this off and yielding to Ilya's silliness. Ilya allows him the time to think, in part because that is the right thing to do, but mostly because it allows Ilya more time to look.
The sight is...very erotic. He has seen many, many women just like this, with their panties around their thighs, uncovered but still just a little trapped. Once the women are squirming for him, he likes to pull their panties part way down but not all the way as he begins to explore, not even the inside parts, where she is the most tender and wet, but the soft creases. The spots where she has hair, or used to. And then when she becomes eager for more, she shows him by taking her own panties all the way off and spreading wide for him.
Is a simple yet effective tactic he has shared with rookies seeking sex advice. When you are new with a girl, you do not take her panties off. You kiss and touch around all the other places until she is so horny that she takes them off herself (yes, without you asking or hinting). This way, you are more sure she wants you to touch her pussy. If she wants you enough to take off her own panties, it is better sex. And if she does not take off her own panties, she is maybe not so sure she wants to fuck you, so you should not fuck her. It's not a hard and fast rule once you have fucked more girls, but it is a good rule of thumb when you start.
The last time he shared this wisdom, an older teammate said, "Don't listen to him. They love it when you rip their panties off." But Ilya held the eighteen-year-old Mormon defenseman's gaze. "Yes listen to me, Tanner. Is different second or third time, but new girl, first time, you wait until she takes them off?" He kissed his fingertips. "She will be so wet."
Tanner blinked at him. "And that's good."
Ilya rolled his eyes heavenward and cursed in Russian, then playfully smacked the pimple-faced kid on the cheek. "Is it good. Listen. You do not want a girl who lets you fuck her."
"I don't?"
"No. You want a girl who begs you to fuck her. Do not worry, many girls will make it very clear they want you to fuck them. From those girls, you fuck the ones you want to fuck. With a condom."
A different teammate chimed in. "Yeah. Don't rawdog a rando."
"Yes. Listen to this slut. Do not rawdog a rando."
Tanner frowned.
"Yes I know, but babies are expensive, and you my friend," he clapped the very tall young man's very solid shoulder. "You are going to make so much money. Doing again with reliable girl, is different, but fucking is much easier this way, I promise. Besides, do you want to piss sharp little pieces of glass?"
As far as Ilya knows, the kid took his advice, promptly found a steady girl who on the surface did not seem the type to take her own panties off, but in Ilya's experience, the surface meant nothing with such things.
Look at Shane, for example.
He does look. He is looking at the naughty red panties stretched around Shane's powerful thighs as he continues to squirm. Then Ilya looks into Shane's dark eyes. "Let me see. Put them on. Please."
Shane's nostrils flare and his chest rises. Ilya grabs one side of it and squeezes the flesh, a little rough the way Shane likes it when he's close. He is not close now, but he still likes it, if the noise he makes is the truth. A quick scrape of Ilya's thumbnail over the stiff little nipple and Shane gasps. "Fuck."
"In a minute. First, be pretty for me."
"You're just--," another scrape and he chokes. "Y-you're trying to make me look stupid."
"I do that enough on ice."
"Fuck you."
"Maybe. But only if you are good for me. Don't you want to be good for me?"
"You're gonna laugh at me."
"So? We laugh together then. Come on. These are our panties now, yes?" Shane is thinking much too hard, but Ilya lets him, thumb circling the inside of Shane's knee. "It will be sexy."
Shane does some deep breaths, then asks, "Why don't you wear them, if they're so sexy?"
"You want to see me wear the panties?"
Shane wrinkles his nose.
"See, that is why. I want to see them on you. So you wear them, not me. Simple. Fun. Shane Hollander has heard of fun, yes?" He reaches under Shane's leg and hooks a finger up over the crotch of the panties, traces circles on the tiny little cotton gusset. "I like how when a girl is really horny, she makes this part sticky and wet. I bet you could make them very sticky for me. Hmm?" He kisses Shane's knee, then sits back, hands propped behind him, not touching Shane at all. "Why don't you show me?"
"Because--"
"Because you are a man."
"Well, yeah."
"And men do not wear panties." Shane doesn't reply, but he gives a little shrug. Ilya mocks it with a big shrug. "And men do not suck cock, and they do not kiss other men. They do not beg to get fucked in the ass. They do not cry tears when they get fucked, or come untouched from getting a big fat cock shoved in." Shane still does not reply, but his mouth drops opens a little. "This is what it means to be a man, so God forbid he wear some panties."
"Rozanov."
"Hollander. It is just you and I. Let me see. Give me ninety seconds."
"Ten."
"Sold."
"Wait."
"All the way on. And I count." After a beat, he adds the magic words, "Unless you are afraid."
"Oh my God, fine. Here. See?" He grabs the panties and yanks them the rest of the way up, lifting his hips off the mattress to tug them over his bottom. "I'm only doing this to prove how ridiculous they look."
Ilya keeps his mouth shut and sits back, nodding, as Shane drops his ass back to the bed and adjusts the front. If Shane were soft they might contain his cock, delicately hugging the small bulge. But Shane is very much not soft. He yanks up on the waistband, but it does not want to stretch to cover the swollen tip of his penis and the first inch or so of his shaft. He tries wrestling it to the side, pointing toward his hip to trap it under the narrow strip of fabric, but the head pokes back up again, proud and undaunted.
"Peek-a-boo, I see you," Ilya says, smiling fondly. He bops it on the head with a fingertip.
No one does withering annoyance quite like Shane. It is very sexy. So is the way his face remains nearly red as the panties. "See? I look stupid."
"You do not like them?"
"You're supposed to count."
"Oh right." He makes a serious face. "One. You should tell your dick that you do not like them, because I do not think it got that email."
"It's like that because you're staring at me. Keep counting."
"Two." He hooks a finger over the waistband and nudges it down, revealing more of the veiny shaft. Then he leans down close enough to lick. Instead, he spits a fat, bubbly little wad on it and pulls the waistband back up over the saliva, then rubs it until it soaks through the panties.
Tiny little stuttered breath. Another, and when Ilya takes his hand away, Shane groans. "Fffuck."
"Three. I would like to eat your ass through these panties. Four. Yes?"
Shane reaches for his crotch but catches himself and pulls back, hands into fists, grinds them down on the sheets. Ilya thinks if the undersheet was looser, Shane would grab it. Ilya thinks if they had a scarf and a couple more hours he would tie this man up and edge him until he sobbed. Then he would stuff Shane's mouth with panties and bend him in half and stuff his ass with cock until he screamed.
Or something like that.
Ilya traces a fingertip around one of Shane's whitened knuckles. "So good for me. Look at you."
"You're a monster," Shane says with such affection.
It makes Ilya's heart hurt. "Okay. So you are my princess." He spreads Shane's legs wide and settles down on his belly between them. "The monster eats the princess. Five."
"I'm not a, a--ah!" He reacts to Ilya's sharp nip on his inner thigh. "I'm..." he starts again, only to choke into silence again when Ilya hooks the leghole and tugs it up, gets his tongue beneath so he can give the soft skin of Shane's sac a hot little lick. There's not a lot of give in the fabric, so he can't really get all up in there, but another little flick and Shane's hips jerk. "Fuck! I'm not a princess."
"You are. I will eat you." He mouths the covered part of Shane's shaft, so rigid. Gently grazes it with his teeth. "I will tear out your heart and swallow you down. Six."
He glances up for a quick check and ah, yes. The little grumpy frown is long gone, lids shut, head tipped back, jaw slack giving just a peek of pink tongue. Ilya pauses and savors the view. This beautiful man offering himself up so brazenly. Fat cockhead dripping precum onto his belly, so much there's a little pool of it. Ilya grips the covered part of the shaft and gives it a couple lazy tugs, then he spits on his fingers and works them under the panties, between Shane's hot, slippery cheeks. Still so much lube and it's the easiest thing to find that fluttering little hole and dip a finger in. "So hot inside you," he says. "Hot and soft and so smooth in this pretty little pussy."
Shane throws an arm over his eyes, whispers, "Fuck you."
Deeper, through Shane's groan, then he tickles that spot that makes Shane jerk. "When you played with your dildo, did you hit this spot? Or did you need the monster to find it? Hmm?"
Through a whine, Shane says, "Yyyou. I needed you. I need you." He's clawing at the sheets now.
"I know." He eases his finger out and smirks at the disappointed noise Shane makes. "I know, princess. I know. So good for me." He kisses Shane's belly. "Make me so happy. Make me feel so good." He crawls up, pausing to rub his face on Shane's chest, grab one tit and squeeze, suck and bite on the nipple until Shane releases the sheets and clutches at Ilya's head, tangling a hand in his curls and steering him up for lazy mouth kisses full of moans and whimpers. Ilya settles atop Shane, pressing down with all his weight just the way his princess likes. He sucks at Shane's throat, then goes forehead to forehead, panting into Shane's open mouth.
Shane licks his chin, ruts up against Ilya desperately, like it has been weeks since he came, not a few dozen minutes. "Please. Please."
"Yes." Because he will give his princess what she needs. He tugs down the front of the panties and pulls out Shane's cock and begins tugging it relentlessly, a little rough, just like Shane likes it when he's close. And he is close. One swipe of his thumb over the leaking head earns a full body shudder. "So wet for me, yes?"
"Mm-hmm."
Ilya's fully humping Shane's leg at this point and Shane presses his thigh up, gives Ilya more to ride and he does, "Fffuck, Hollander, yes, you know you are my best girl."
"Shut up."
"Next time," he is short of breath already, what is this man doing to him? "Next time I stick my tongue all the way up your cunt, yes? Suck your titties till you scream, yes, like that. Oh, fuck." He speeds up his strokes, then sucks at Shane's lower lip, tastes his moans, "So good for me, so pretty," finds his ear and whispers, "You will make these panties sticky for me now, because you are my good girl. That's it. Show me. Yes."
Shane arches up and clamps his hand over his own mouth, muffling his gut-punched noises as he goes off like a hot, creamy fountain. Ilya grabs his wrist and tears that cover away, pins it to the bed, and keeps working that pretty cock with his other hand until Shane's bare mouth spills all its beautifully wounded noises into the dark, quiet room. As a final series of shudders twist him on the sheets, his seed drips down Ilya's knuckles.
Ilya lets go of Shane and waits a breath, two, three maybe to watch Shane finish. Then he cannot wait. He says, "Open your eyes," and wraps his cum-covered hand around his own straining dick. "Look what you did," he pants, jerking furiously, looking only at Shane's face. Shane looks down at the mess they made. The sound of it is obscenely wet as Ilya fucks his fist. "Filthy girl. You want it? You want more?"
Shane nods. "Yeah. Yes. Please. More." He grabs Ilya's hand and strokes with him, slotting their fingers together.
It should not feel so sweet, and the sweetness should not hurt so much. And the pain should not feel so good. But all of that is true. Ilya moves his hand so it covers Shane's and squeezes. He guides Shane's hand up and down the aching shaft with slow, deliberate strokes. "Your hand feels so good on me."
"Yeah?" He sounds so hopeful it breaks Ilya's heart.
"Yes. Always. Just like that. Good girl. You know how I like it."
"I want it."
"It's yours," Ilya swears.
Shane's grip tightens because he does know how Ilya likes it when he's close. And he is close. "Give it to me."
"Ah-all yours. Fuck."
"Mine, Ilya."
"Take, yes. Take it from me," he says. And then in Russian, "It is yours. I am so fucked, I am so fucked, I am all yours. I can't make it stop. I can't stop wanting to love you." Then in English, "Fffffuck," as he paints Shane's belly and the front of his cum-soaked panties with thick white stripes. It gets too sensitive real fast, so he seizes Shane's wrist, pushing it up as he eases down beside him, trying to avoid smearing the mess. "Fucking hell," he groans in Russian.
Shane sighs the satisfied little sigh that Ilya only ever hears him make after a few good fucks.
"Greedy girl," Ilya says, still in Russian. He licks Shane's chest and adds, still in his mother tongue, "I promise I will fill you up for real. My noisy princess. With such pretty little tits. I want to try and put a little monster in you one day." He gives the nipple a suck and pulls off with a loud smack. Then he slaps Shane's hip, "Up." Obediently, Shane lifts, and Ilya pulls off the panties, wipes his hands, then Shane's belly with them, then drops them in the jacket he is somehow still wearing.
"Gross. What are you gonna do with those?"
"Why, you want them?"
"No," Shane says quickly. "Why would I want them?"
Shrug. "Souvenir?"
"Souvenir of what?"
Even though Ilya spots his boxer briefs, he does not bother with them, just puts his trousers on raw and shoots a look at Shane while he fastens the fly. "Of our time together."
Shane laughs like Ilya made a joke. "You keep souvenirs from all your girls?"
"No. None of them."
The smile fades. "Oh." A lot of thinking travels across his face. "Okay. That was weird, though, right?"
"What was? Coming in your panties for me?"
"They're not my panties."
"I'm sorry. Our panties."
"Whatever." Shane crawls off the bed and scans the room. "Speaking of which, where are my actual pan--underwear."
"Here." He fetches his own shorts off the floor and brings them to Shane.
He starts to put them on, then stops and stares at them. "Wait. These are yours."
"Now you have souvenir too."
"I'm not wearing your underwear."
"Why not? They are boy underwear, just like you like. And see?" He points at the waistband. "Same brand as your sponsor. You could wear them in the locker room and no one would know."
"I'm definitely not doing that."
"You could wear them and think about my...luck," he hits the K sound hard, "rubbing off on you. Or just wear them to go home and then throw them away. They are a gift, so they are yours now. You do what you want with them."
Shane hesitates.
"Try them on, see if they fit."
Shane obeys.
Ilya smiles. When the shorts are all pulled up, they look good. He makes a twirling 'spin for me' motion and Shane gives the most begrudging little twirl. It is adorable.
"Fine, but only because I don't know where mine are because you had to throw them. Somewhere."
Ilya steps close and cups Shane's cock as he kisses him deep on the mouth. "I would like you to wear them for me."
Shane sways forward, lips chasing Ilya's as he leans back. His eyes flutter open and even a little kiss like that from Ilya leaves him dazed.
It is more than enticing. It is perilous, the way it makes Ilya want to give him more, see how much he can take. "And think of me."
"I already think about you," Shane says. Then looks like he immediately regrets it.
Ilya catches his chin and tilts it up, softly plucking at Shane's pouty lip with his thumb.
"Do you...never mind."
"Do I what? Do I think about the great Shane Hollander? All the time, I think about destroying him on the ice."
Shane rolls his eyes. "Okay."
"Every day, I think about how I will dominate him the next time I see him. Make him cry. With my cock. And my superior hockey skills."
"Superior my ass."
"Yes, and his ass. Every day, I think about his ass." Ilya gives the ass in question a smack. "Now, I think about his ass in red panties."
"Fuck you." There is playfulness in it though, and in the shove he gives Ilya before he goes and hunts for the rest of the things. Ilya does the same, and just before Shane leaves (first, then Ilya will wait the agreed upon five minutes) Ilya pulls him close for one last kiss against the door. It goes on long enough that it leaves them both breathless, and then their foreheads kiss while they breathe into each other's mouths. Shane mutters, "I still can't believe she just stuck her panties in your pocket."
"Yes," Ilya agrees, wrapping his arm around Shane. "It is a very slutty thing to do to put panties in the pocket of a man you do not know. Don't get me wrong, I like slutty women, this is true. I only sleep with slutty women, women who already know what they are doing with sex. Women who know what they want. You know what I mean." Shane tenses but does not reply. Ilya thinks he knows what Ilya means, so he continues. "But do you know what I like about you , Hollander?"
Shane makes a small, curious noise.
Ilya kisses his cheek, jaw, neck, enjoying the way Shane reflexively tilts his chin up for more access to his soft parts. Offering his throat to the monster. Ilya licks it, then says with all seriousness, "I like that I am the one who made you soooo slutty."
"Shut up." He is smiling though.
"Did you even know how slutty you are? Before me?"
"I wasn't. I'm not."
"You weren't. You are. For me." Only for me, he does not add. But he feels it. "I make you want bad things. I let you do bad things."
Very quietly, eyes down, Shane says, "You make me feel good."
That does something hot and bubbly to Ilya's blood. Makes him feel like he could eat the world. He leans close, lips touching Shane's ear like he is sharing a secret. "Do you know what else I like?"
Shane just barely shakes his head.
"I like," he nips at the earlobe. "That I was the one," he gives it a suck. "Who took your little cherry."
Shane melts for him and breathes, "Fuck you."
"Soon." He pushes a hand down Shane's trousers and fingers the elastic waistband of the boxer briefs that were Ilya's. Now they are Shane's. That's how gifts work. "Now give me a kiss," he demands.
*
In the car on the way to the airport, he cannot stop touching his lips. He thinks that if Shane were here in the backseat with him, he might be able to go again. As the driver speeds them down the dark empty highway, Ilya cups the panties to his face and inhales. Not so clean now. He thinks of the pretty tip of Shane's cock playing peek-a-boo, trapped against his belly by the lacy elastic. He thinks of how much Shane needs him in those hours they spend together. He wonders how much Shane feels that need on all of the other days when they are apart.
Ilya has much experience being wanted, but very little being needed, and not like this. Not this way. It is addictive and terrifying and every time he is at a door and Shane is standing on the other side and they are just about to touch again after so long, it feels a little like the second before the winning goal goes in to earn the Cup.
And it feels a little like the times his brother bullied him into playing the game that Americans call Russian roulette, in that very last second as you squeeze, metal biting your finger, right before the click. It is this kind of peace that you get when you surrender to the idea that what happens next is not in your hands. Ilya knows he should not like the way that peace feels, but he does.
Which is strange, because once he is in that room with that sweet, thirsty man, Ilya calls all the shots. He runs the show. In that room, he is in charge of everything but his heart.
Shane is the one who holds that fragile thing in his hands, and all Ilya can do is hope that he is gentle as he tears off pieces and swallows them one at a time.