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He drank his beer quickly, hoping the alcohol would help at least numb the disappointment he felt in himself. The disgust at his own weakness. He needed to dull it because he knew he sure wouldn’t be doing anything to fix this mess. He’d been trying for over six years.
“How long do you have?”
“Two hours, maybe?” “Fuck.”
He wanted a lot tonight, but they didn’t have time for a lot.
But most of him wanted to see exactly who it was.
Shane hated this, but he had taken great pains to protect it, and he would continue doing so as long as Rozanov was willing.
He hated that voice so much on the ice, and in the interviews he saw on television where Rozanov mocked him in an obnoxious, teasing tone. But here, in this bed, Rozanov’s tone was patient and gentle, his voice soft and his accent wrapping elegantly around boxy English words.
He couldn’t look at Rozanov. Not tonight. Not after that humiliating loss.
Shane felt the familiar aftermath of guilt and shame creep in.
Rozanov’s playful smirk faded as he held Shane’s gaze, and Shane felt suddenly breathless.
to the point that on the extremely rare occasion when it wasn’t, Shane was left wanting...
Shoving and cursing each other and battling for control until one or both of them gave in and allowed themselves the release they both craved. “I do have to go,”
“I know.” “I’m sorry.” “Why? I don’t care. I think we’re done here anyway, aren’t we?”
“I suppose we are.”
He knew making plans to end this was pointless. As long as this was being offered, Shane would never be able to say no.
“Happy New Year,” he muttered to himself.
We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together. We will keep climbing until no one else can reach us, but it will always be together.
He wished he hated it this time.
“If I knock on door of room 1410 tonight...maybe around nine?”
“I might open the door.”
“I might ...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
“Look at you.”
“Do I make you curious?”
“Would you like me to lie on the bed and let you do it some more?” “Let me?”
“I’m a nice guy.”
The idea that Ilya was probably the only one who ever saw him like this—that he was the only person in the entire fucking world who knew what it felt like to have those pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock...
when it was with someone he knew he shouldn’t be with.
“So...after the game you just want me to wait at home for you?”
This was the Shane Hollander he wanted: competitive, aggressive.
“Just relax, Mr. Lots-of-Sex,”
Rozanov gave him that crooked grin that did absurd things to Shane’s stomach.
Because thinking about this fucked-up thing with Hollander made him feel pretty disgusted with himself.
Ilya was grinning like an idiot for the entire cab ride back to his hotel.
“We are not...anything. Not here, Hollander.”
Rozanov had proved something to somebody.
“Fuck you, fuck you. I did it. Fuck you,” To someone.
Shane left the party as early as he could. He wished he had the willpower to stay later, to make Rozanov wait. He wished he had the strength to stand Rozanov up.
“Touch yourself.”
“You gonna fuck me?”
“We’ll see.”
“Please,”
“Please what?” “I—I need...”
“What do you need, Hollander?” “You. Fuck me. Please.”
“But...do you like going there?”
“I should sleep,”
He realized, when he was back in his room, that they hadn’t even kissed. He also realized, with horror, that he regretted that.
but it was getting harder for Ilya to deny that there was something in his core that was drawn to Hollander.
Instead of getting him out of his system with their hookups, each one just made him want more. It was dangerous fucking stuff.
That he would end this thing, and then he would go back to the hotel. He had lost count long ago of how many times he had broken this promise to himself over the years.
All thoughts of just talking to Rozanov left his mind.
