Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

Rozanov stopped talking, but he managed to find an even more effective way of getting under Hollander’s skin: he winked. And then he won the face-off.

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.

The knock at the door came almost forty minutes later. It had been enough time that Shane had almost convinced himself to leave. To put an end to this foolishness. But, of course, he hadn’t. And if the knock had come hours later, even, Shane would still have been on that sofa, waiting for it.

“Fuck.” He kissed Rozanov again, rough and needy. God, he needed this. This horrible, fucked-up thing.

Rozanov fell on top of Shane, kissing him and moving a hand down to grasp his already embarrassingly rigid cock. Shane arched up into his touch, making stupid, desperate noises.

I love how much of a bottom Shane is

“Don’t worry, Hollander,” Rozanov said, his lips brushing Shane’s ear, “I am going to fuck you like you want, yes?” “Yes,” Shane exhaled, a mixture of relief and humiliation sweeping through him.

Part of him wanted to lie back and close his eyes and let himself believe that it was anyone other than Ilya Rozanov making him feel so good. 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.

But, despite the wrongness of it, this was comfortable. This was familiar. And it was as close to safe as either of them were going to get. That’s all it was.

This was never Shane’s favorite part because he felt so fucking vulnerable. He felt weak and ridiculous every time they were together like this, but he always felt it most acutely when Rozanov had his fingers inside him. As a result, the preparation usually took a while.

Rozanov, on the other hand, always seemed completely at ease. He was good at this, and he knew it.

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.

Shane relaxed as Rozanov opened him with strong fingers and pressed openmouthed kisses on the insides of his thighs.

He even felt Rozanov’s thumbs brush gently over his lower back. “There. This is what you wanted, yes?” “Yes.” Because it was. It was what he always wanted.

Rozanov started to move and Shane cried out. It never took long for him to just give in and start moaning and gasping and asking for more. “Fuck, Hollander. You love it.” Shane responded by turning, he was sure, beet red. But he couldn’t deny it.

But he felt safe here, so he let himself go. He cried out with every thrust and maybe said Rozanov’s name a bunch of times. Shane really hoped no one could hear them.

This was the point where he was always reminded why he couldn’t give this up. It was too good. “You gonna come for me, Hollander?” Hollander was going to. And he did.

“Well, you won at something tonight,” Rozanov mused. “God. Fuck off.” Shane lifted his arm to flip him off, but Rozanov grabbed his wrist and pulled him over so Shane was on top of his chest, looking down at him.

Rozanov’s playful smirk faded as he held Shane’s gaze, and Shane felt suddenly breathless.

“Still have that stupid tattoo, I see,” Shane said quickly, to distract himself from whate...

“Aw,” Rozanov said, the obnoxious little grin returning to his face. “He missed you.” Shane snorted. “He did,” Roz...

After a long, oddly tender kiss, Shane lifted his head and saw that Rozanov was, again, looking at him very seriously. He swallowed, but didn’t say anything as Rozanov brushed fingers through his hair. He hoped the fear he felt wasn’t showing on his face.

“You are very beautiful,” Rozanov said suddenly. It was said very matter-of-factly. Shane wasn’t sure how to react. They didn’t really say things to each other. Not like that.

Shane joked. It was the only way he knew how to talk to Rozanov, besides yelling obscenities at him.

Rozanov rolled over, pinning Shane to the mattress. Shane looked up at him, laughing. “I have to go,” Rozanov said, and he sounded like he truly regretted it.

Shane turned his eyes up and found Rozanov gazing down at him with that damn crooked smile. Shane immediately closed his eyes and felt his cheeks flush and, to his embarrassment, his own cock get harder.

It was bad enough that he loved being fucked so much, that he loved having a dick in his mouth. But for it to have to be this son of a bitch, to the point that on the extremely rare occasion when it wasn’t, Shane was left wanting...

So maybe it wasn’t just that this was convenient. But that was something Shane didn’t want to think about.

Gosh, I love angst

“No? You been saving it for me?” Shane didn’t reply, which was as good as confirmation. Rozanov laughed. “You need to get laid, Hollander. Waiting for a quick fuck every couple of months is not healthy.”

It wasn’t quite a lie. He obviously wasn’t one hundred percent straight, but having sex with women didn’t repulse him. It just didn’t do it for him like men did. One man in particular.

But women were safe and easy and everywhere. And maybe if he kept trying he might find one he’d like to spend more than a single night with. Someone who could finally put an end to...whatever this was.

:(

Rozanov rested a hand on Shane’s face and tipped his head up. He looked at him fondly, with a little smile on his lips, and then he kissed him.

“I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.”

“Dammit, Rozanov.” Shane pushed the other man back against the shower wall and kissed him aggressively.

It was always like this. 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,” Rozanov said, but even as he said it he was scraping his teeth along Shane’s...

It took Shane a moment to realize what he was suggesting. “Fuck. You.” Rozanov’s smile spread. “Couldn’t play at all, thinking about my dick, right?”

Rozanov blew him a kiss on his way out the door, leaving Shane furious and strangely relieved.

He realized, as he was making this plan, that he was brushing his fingertips over his lips. They still tingled from the memory of the other man’s mouth pressed against them.

He knew making plans to end this was pointless. As long as this was being offered, Shane would never be able to say no.

He had never met Shane Hollander. Never played against him. But he was already determined to destroy him.

His skin, however, was flawless. Distractingly so. Smooth and tan with—and this was his most striking feature—a smattering of dark freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

Ilya’s eyes went right to those damn freckles.

For another thing, Ilya Rozanov was really fucking good. Infuriatingly good.

Canada’s hopes had been heaped onto his seventeen-year-old shoulders and he had let them all down.

Poor kid :(

Every face-off he had taken against Rozanov, the Russian had looked him dead in the eye and smirked. Shane was not easily shaken by anyone, but that goddamn smirk threw him off balance every time.

Shane had spent the past six months since the World Juniors being a little bit...obsessed...with Ilya Rozanov.

Rozanov had turned eighteen too. Just last week. Which Shane knew because he was obsessed with him.

Within a minute, Rozanov did the same thing, raising the bar and silently waiting for Shane to match him. Shane glanced over and saw a slight smirk on Rozanov’s lips. Shane shook his head and fought his own smile. He cranked up the speed.

Rozanov ran a hand through his damp hair in a move that was more interesting to Shane than it should have been. Rozanov was so...masculine.