Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(20)

Hollander’s hands wandered as he sucked him. His touch was light and curious, his fingertips almost tickling Ilya as he explored his thighs and hips and around to his ass. Ilya wondered how far Hollander was willing to go with him. He wondered if he’d done anything with another man since their last time. The desperate, unskilled motion of his mouth and the slight tremble in his hands suggested that he hadn’t.

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...

Ilya swore in Russian and pulled away. He grabbed Hollander by the front of his shirt and hauled him up, kissing him roughly before throwing him on the bed. He wanted to know how much he would give him tonight.

Hollander stared up at him, eyes wild, lips dark and wet and parted. His hair was everywhere. Ilya just stood there and watched him toe off his sneakers, never breaking eye contact. Hollander was breathing heavily, as if he wasn’t one of the most physically fit people on the planet.

Ilya bit his lip and watched him pull his shirt off. In seconds Ilya was covering him on the bed with his body, and kissing him hungrily.

Ilya had always been this way. He loved sex, and he loved it more when it was dangerous—when it was with someone he knew he shouldn’t be with. Whether that was his coach’s son, or his brother’s girlfriend, or his teammate’s sister, Ilya couldn’t resist a bad idea.

And Shane Hollander was a bad fucking idea. The worst idea. Wrong in every way imaginable. Two men. Two NHL players, poised to be the two biggest stars in the league soon enough. Two bitter rivals on opposing teams that had hated each other for almost a hundred years.

Plus, Ilya hated this guy. He hated his pretty boy face and his perfect goddamned English and his perfect goddamned French and his loving parents and his polite little manners and his million-dollar smile. He hated how serious he was. How earnest. He was everything the league wanted from their stars.

Ilya kissed his dumb mouth and swallowed his stupid little sighs and felt his annoying fingers in his hair. He pulled back so he could look at his horrible face with its ridiculous freckles.

Fuck.

Ilya kissed him again so he wouldn’t have to think about him. He wanted to fuck him. God, would Hollander let him fuck him?

They kissed each other frantically, rolling and taking turns straddling each other and pulling off what was left of Hollander’s clothes in the process. Ilya kissed his way down his body and took him into his mouth. Hollander’s hips jerked off the bed, nearly forcing Ilya off him, but Ilya held on. He sucked him and enjoyed the desperate noises he pulled out of him.

He let his fingers trail down below Hollander’s balls. He tapped one finger against his puckered opening and waited for a reaction. Hollander’s body stilled on the bed, so Ilya drew light circles around his hole, just a casual suggestion.

He could feel Hollander tense up. He was completely silent now. Ilya pulled his mouth off him and looked up at his face.

“Have you ever?” Ilya asked.

Hollander shook his head.

“Would you like to?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are scared.”

“No! No, I’m not scared.”

“Is okay to be.”

Hollander exhaled loudly. “I’m not scared,” he said again.

“Have you ever touched yourself,” Ilya asked, circling his finger again, “here?”

Hollander’s face flushed bright red, and Ilya grinned.

“Jesus Christ,” Hollander muttered.

“You are embarrassed.”

“Well!”

“You don’t play with your ass? It makes you gay?”

“Oh my fucking god...”

“You know what makes you gayer?”

“Rozanov...shut the fuck—”

“Sucking my dick. You were doing that a minute ago.”

Hollander sat up. “I’ve played with it, all right? I’ve—I’ve got a...thing.”

“A thing?”

“A dildo! Okay?”

Rozanov grinned so hard it hurt. “What color?”

“Fuck you!”

“Is it big?”

“I’m leaving.”

Hollander moved to get off the bed. Ilya quickly covered him and pinned him back down. He held him down by the wrists, and Hollander made a halfhearted attempt to fight him off, but stopped when Ilya kissed him.

“I want to fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya said against his ear.

Hollander shuddered, and Ilya was sure he was going to say yes, but instead, “I...no. I can’t. Not here.”

Ilya considered his answer, and nodded. Not here. Not in a hotel surrounded by their fellow NHL players. By the media. By fans. Not now, when they would both have to be as close to silent as possible when Ilya entered him for the first time...

“Okay,” Ilya said, nipping at his throat. “Next time, then.”

Hollander snorted, but he was smiling hopefully. “Next time?”

Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “We play in Montreal in two weeks.”

“That doesn’t mean we can... I mean, how would we? Where would we?”

“Are you homeless?”

“No.”