Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(42)

When he was on the steps in front of the building, he sent the text. I’m here.

The door clicked and he let himself in, taking the elevator all the way to the top. He told himself that he would talk to Rozanov tonight. 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.

Rozanov answered the door wearing low-slung sweatpants and no shirt. Shane swore under his breath. All thoughts of just talking to Rozanov left his mind.

As soon as Shane entered the penthouse, Rozanov turned and walked toward the bedroom. He didn’t say a word to him. Shane removed his shoes, dropped his coat on the floor, and followed him.

“The fuck is this?” Shane asked as he entered the bedroom. “You’re not speaking to me anymore? Just expect me to follow you like a dog?”

“Shh,” Rozanov said. He tilted Shane’s head up and kissed him hungrily. Shane surrendered immediately, pushing his tongue into the other man’s mouth and slipping his hands into the back of his sweatpants.

Shane couldn’t think of a single reason why they needed to talk to each other anyway. Not anymore. Not when Rozanov was sucking on his tongue and sliding Shane’s shirt up his chest.

The shirt came off and Shane shoved Rozanov down to the bed so he was sitting at the end of it. Shane fell to his knees and hauled Rozanov’s sweatpants down. He didn’t feel like wasting any time.

Rozanov wasn’t wearing underwear, and his cock was half hard already. Shane took it into his mouth.

“Jesus, Hollander,” Rozanov said. He placed a hand on the side of Shane’s face. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

Shane closed his eyes. He should have felt embarrassed, but he loved the feeling of Rozanov growing harder against his tongue. He never felt submissive, doing this. He loved reducing Rozanov to whimpers and Russian profanity. And, god help him, he especially loved doing it here, in Rozanov’s home. In his bedroom.

Their relationship was weird. Obviously. Shane knew that nothing about this was normal.

The facts were these: they were two of the biggest hockey stars in the world, and for whatever reason, they both enjoyed fucking each other. The other thing they were in total agreement on is that no one could ever know that they enjoyed fucking each other. It would be best if no one knew that they liked to fuck men at all, but it definitely couldn’t get out that the superstar rivals were very familiar with each other’s dicks.

Rozanov brushed a thumb over the freckles on Shane’s cheek, just under his eye.

“Stop,” Rozanov said in a low voice. “Enough. Stop.”

Shane pulled off and waited.

“I’d like to look at you tonight, I think. You on top?” Rozanov asked.

“Okay,” Shane said, but the request made him nervous. Usually Rozanov just took him from behind, on a bed or against a wall. Shane could pretend (or pretend he was pretending) that Rozanov was someone else that way.

Shane quickly pulled off the rest of his clothing. Rozanov took a moment to raise an eyebrow at Shane’s rigid, untouched cock. Shane blushed. “Shut up,” he muttered.

Rozanov grinned and scooted back on the bed, naked and sprawled out with his hands behind his head. Shane couldn’t help but grin back. This was so fucking weird, but maybe they could just pretend it wasn’t, for an hour or so. Maybe they could just be two guys who wanted to have sex.

Rozanov slapped his own thighs, an invitation, and Shane went to him.

Later, when they were fucking, Shane braced himself with a hand flat on Rozanov’s chest. Rozanov covered that hand with his own, which surprised Shane. Rozanov never took his eyes off his face, except to watch when Shane started stroking himself.

Shane saw the glazed look in his eyes, and the way his mouth was hanging open, and he rode him harder.

“Fuck,” Rozanov grunted, and, without warning, he flipped them both over so he was on top, staring down at Shane as he held his legs and thrust into him wildly. His crucifix chain dangled between them, scraping Shane’s chest.

When Shane’s orgasm hit him, it was hard and sudden. His release seemed endless, splashing his chest and even up to his throat.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Rozanov panted, and Shane didn’t even have a chance to be shocked by the pet name before Rozanov was coming too. When it was over, he dropped to his elbows over Shane and kissed him messily.

They took turns getting cleaned up in the bathroom. When Shane walked back into the bedroom, he stood stupidly in the middle of the room, near his pile of clothes on the floor. He should probably go.

But Rozanov was lounging on his bed and he patted the mattress next to him, so Shane went. He lay on his back beside Rozanov, not touching him, and stared at the ceiling until Rozanov rolled to his side, propped on an elbow, and gazed down at him.

Shane felt the same anxiety that had flooded him the last time they had been together. There was something a little too...tender...in the way Rozanov was looking at him. And there was something that was far too soothing about the way Rozanov’s fingers combed through Shane’s short hair, and curved down to trace the bridge of freckles that stretched across his face.

Shane had always hated his freckles. He had been surprised to learn, when he had become famous, that a lot of women seemed to find them very sexy. Or at least they found them adorable. He was even more surprised that Rozanov seemed to hold some sort of fascination with them.