Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(32)

“Don’t fucking laugh at me.”

“Been a while?” Ilya teased.

Hollander kept his forehead planted on Ilya’s shoulder, hiding his face completely. “Shut up.”

But Ilya laughed harder. He laughed until Hollander joined in, and then they were both holding each other and laughing until they were wiping tears from their eyes.

“You could win the fastest shot competition.”

Hollander punched him lightly in the chest. Ilya rolled to his side, dumping Hollander on the mattress beside him. “Is too bad. I wanted to fuck you. Do you still want?”

“I don’t think I can. I think I’m too fucking embarrassed to get it up again.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No. But can I...finish what I was doing?”

Ilya flopped onto his back again and folded his arms behind his head. “Go for it.”

And Hollander did, but this time he was far less frantic and took his time. Ilya enjoyed every second of it.

Ilya would be lying if he said Hollander had the most talented mouth that had ever been wrapped around his dick. But he was so...eager to please. So determined to be good at this. For Ilya.

There was something very sweet about the way Hollander was sucking him off right now—like he wasn’t trying to just get it over with, even though Hollander had already had his own orgasm. He seemed to legitimately enjoy making Ilya feel good.

Ilya always did feel good with Hollander. He didn’t want to say it was better than it was with anyone else, but it was...different. And not only because Hollander was a man. Ilya hadn’t been with a man who wasn’t Hollander in...huh. Over a year. Almost two, maybe? But that wasn’t it.

Hollander glanced up at him, and Ilya smiled and stroked his hair. The clock was ticking, and Ilya really did need to leave, so he gently held Hollander’s head and guided him so he’d hit the rhythm Ilya needed and...there. Yes. Oh fuck...

“That’s good, Hollander. Just like that. Make me come.”

Hollander moaned and dug his fingers into Ilya’s thighs, keeping the pace with his mouth that Ilya had set. The familiar, exhilarating pressure of impending release gripped Ilya’s body—the high that he couldn’t stop chasing—and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, Hollander.”

Hollander pulled off, replacing his mouth with his hand. “I want to see it.”

Seconds later, Ilya erupted. He cried out, much louder than usual, as a white-hot orgasm rocketed through his body.

“Holy shit, Hollander,” Ilya gasped when he was able to speak again. “I’m dead. You killed me.”

Hollander was sitting up now, and staring at the mess on Ilya’s stomach. “That was really hot.”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad we were in an empty building where no one could hear you.”

And then Ilya felt the rare and unwelcome sensation of his cheeks heating in embarrassment. He didn’t usually yell like that when he was coming.

He didn’t want to think about it, so he said, “I have to go.”

“All right.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Ilya’s taxi to arrive.

“Is a nice building,” Ilya said, because he hated the silence. “You don’t want to live here?”

“No. But renovations might take a while, so I’ll probably be able to use it for...this. For a bit.” More silence, and then Hollander said, “You must be excited for the Olympics. In Russia.”

“Yes.” Ilya was excited. But thinking about the expectations of his home country, of his father, made his stomach hurt. And made him want a cigarette.

“Been dreaming of the Olympics my whole life,” Hollander said. “I can’t wait.”

“For what? A bronze medal?”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya laughed. “Hey, remember when you shot your load for like no reason at all?”

Hollander rolled his eyes, but Ilya could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Oh my god. Go to hell.”

“Amazing trick.”

“Your cab must be out there, right?”

Ilya put his hand on the door, but before he pushed it open, he leaned down and kissed Hollander quickly on the mouth.

“Goodnight, Hollander.”

“Goodnight.”

Ilya was grinning like an idiot for the entire cab ride back to his hotel.



Chapter Ten


February 2014—Sochi, Russia

“Shane Hollanderrrrrrrr!”

Shane nearly jumped at the sound of his name being bellowed behind him. He spun around, and spotted two familiar faces approaching him: Carter Vaughan (yelling) and Scott Hunter (not yelling). Scott was the captain of Team USA’s men’s hockey team, and Carter was his teammate both here and in New York, where they played for the Admirals.

Shane had been walking, alone, on the beach in Sochi. He had the rest of the day and night off, and had been at a bit of a loss of what to do. His parents had considered traveling to Russia but had ultimately decided against it. For one thing, the travel arrangements and accommodations were a nightmare. Shane had convinced them that it really wasn’t worth the hassle, and pointed out that they’d watched him compete in international tournaments since he was a teenager. And maybe he was being overly cautious, but there had been a lot of articles leading up to these Games about possible security concerns, and he wanted to keep his parents safe.