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“I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.” “Don’t say it.” “I preferred it when it was on me.”
“Very pretty,” Rozanov teased him. “Like a doll.” “You’re painted up too.” Rozanov leaned on the top of the boards and grinned. “Yes, but I’m not pretty.” Shane rolled his eyes. He had been called “pretty boy” a few times before, usually during games, and he hated it. He wished he hated it this time.
Fuck. This was really gay.
“Did you like sucking my dick?” “Oh, those English words you know?”
“Did you need something?” Rozanov asked innocently.
oh he is a little shit i love him
Ilya wished he didn’t have the mouth guard in because he would have loved to do something distracting and sexy with his tongue.
Six. Point. Seven. Seconds.
67
“Good boy.” “Fuck you.” “Yes.”
“Did you buy a building so we would have somewhere to fuck, Hollander?”
“No. But can I...finish what I was doing?”
DESERATE
that they hadn’t even kissed.
They had moved their Boston hookups from hotel rooms to Rozanov’s penthouse last season.
Rozanov slapped his own thighs, an invitation, and Shane went to him.
It was weird, this domestic scene.
Shane. He called me Shane.
Hollander had a girlfriend. Maybe Hollander was in love. Ilya pushed himself on the bike until his thighs screamed in protest.
feed me all the jealous ilya yesss
