The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(17)

“He is beautiful,” Ilya told Ryan, when Fabian finished his song.

“I know,” Ryan said, without taking his eyes off the stage. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt and black jeans, and was probably going to be mistaken for a bouncer a few times tonight. Though, Ilya supposed, Ryan basically was a bouncer because he would definitely be the first one to intervene if anyone did anything even slightly threatening to his boyfriend. Fabian couldn’t have had a better protector.

“It must feel powerful,” Ilya said. “Knowing everyone in the room wants your boyfriend.”

The smile that curved Ryan’s lips was the most sexually charged expression Ilya had ever seen on the shy man’s face. “It does.”

Yeah, Ilya could see how going to these shows would be some heady fucking foreplay for Ryan.

He glanced at his own boyfriend, who was watching Fabian intently with his arms folded. He may not be onstage, looking like a glittering diamond, but he was achingly beautiful. The sharp line of his jaw and straight slope of his nose in profile were more fascinating to Ilya than anything else in the room.

He took a step closer to him, and brushed his arm against Shane’s elbow. Shane moved away, arms falling to his sides, and said, “He’s really good.”

“I know.”

“And, like, captivating. You can’t look away from him, y’know?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, without glancing away from Shane’s face. He wanted so desperately to touch him.

Sometimes Ilya was so starved for touch he felt like screaming. He felt it most when Shane was close, like he was now, but off-limits. Ilya used to go to clubs like this one all the time, in just about every NHL city. He’d find someone he liked, make out with them, then go home with them. Sometimes he would skip the club and just text one of his regulars, depending on where he was.

He didn’t miss that. Not really. He was devoted to Shane, wholeheartedly, and their sex life was beyond anything he had experienced with another person. But he missed being touched. He missed the endorphin rush he used to get from hooking up with people, and how relaxed he’d felt after. He missed meeting new people, talking to them, charming them.

Most of all, though, he missed the comfort he got from human touch. Right now, in this club in Montreal, he wanted that comfort from the man he was in love with.

He took another step toward Shane, closing the slim gap between them again. This time he trailed a fingertip down Shane’s arm from his elbow to his wrist. Shane flinched, and stared at him with wide, questioning eyes.

“What?” he asked.

Kiss me, Ilya wanted to say. Kiss me and hold me in front of all these people. Pull me onstage and do it. I don’t care anymore. Please. I’m dying.

“Nothing,” Ilya said, and stepped away. “Nothing.”

Shane was so turned on he felt like he would burst into flames.

The sensuality of Fabian’s performance—his whole deal—combined with having Ilya so close had created electricity that coursed through Shane’s body. He wished he could grab Ilya and pull him closer, kiss him against the back wall of the club until they were both panting. But he didn’t mind waiting. The forbidden aspect of their relationship—the discipline it took to hide how hot they were for each other—still did it for Shane. It was sexy.

Here, in public, Shane didn’t mind pretending that they were two bros, hanging out with their retired NHL player friend. He didn’t mind keeping his hands to himself, because he knew as soon as they were alone they would thoroughly take each other apart and it would be perfect. Their reward for a job well done. Shane thrived on that sort of thing.

But, fuck, Ilya looked hot tonight. That tight pink T-shirt was just barely holding itself together, stretched tight across Ilya’s muscular chest and shoulders. That fucking loon tattoo staring Shane in the face, practically a brand on Ilya’s skin.

Mine, Shane thought. The world doesn’t need to know, because I know.

He wondered if Ilya was as horny as he was at that moment. He kept glancing at Shane sideways, so probably. Also, it had been nearly a week since they’d last been able to have sex, and if the drought was affecting Shane this much, it must actually be killing Ilya.

Shane remembered the last time they’d been in any kind of club together. It had been years ago, before they’d admitted their feelings for each other. Shane had been with Rose at the time, had been out with her and her friends that night, and Ilya had happened to be at the same Montreal nightclub with some of his teammates. Shane had abandoned Rose on the dance floor, drawn to Ilya like a moth to a flame, and had helplessly watched Ilya make out with a beautiful woman.

There’d been a brief, terrifying moment when his and Ilya’s eyes had met. When Ilya had discovered him. Then Shane had fled, embarrassed that he’d been caught watching, and horrified by how jealous he’d felt.

He’d needed to pull over while driving home that night because he hadn’t been able to see the road through his tears. He’d been so confused and scared and devastated. He should have been going home with Rose, his gorgeous movie star girlfriend, not crying on the side of the road, alone in his car, over an obnoxious Russian hockey player.

He’d been in love with him, though he’d refused to even consider it at the time.

Now, he felt the light brush of a fingertip at his elbow, and tensed as the finger trailed down to his wrist. Ilya shouldn’t be touching him like this.