Page 117 of Heated Rivalry 1
Shane took him into his mouth and everything was simple again. Ilya felt a wave of pleasure mingle with a wave of relief, and he was able to relax and enjoy the determined way Shane always approached sucking him off.
Ilya cheated and murmured, “I would stay here forever if I could” in Russian. He felt Shane sigh around him, but it sounded more dreamy than exasperated. Maybe he understood what he meant. Maybe some feelings couldn’t be hidden behind foreign words.
As expected, Ilya didn’t last long. Neither did Shane, when Ilya immediately returned the favor. But the surprising thing was that the blow jobs were not the best part of the afternoon. Afterward, now that they had taken the edge off, they just relaxed against each other on the sofa. The clothing that had stayed on their bodies was rumpled and unfastened; their hair was messy. They talked quietly to each other as they—there was no other word for it—cuddledfor over an hour. Shane was twisting strands of Ilya’s hair around his fingers and gently releasing them; Ilya was tracing his fingertips over Shane’s freckles. Every now and again, Ilya would kiss Shane’s jaw, or his throat, or, one time, the tip of his nose.
Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.
But it was hard to care when Shane was lying on top of him, his smooth chest and stomach touching every inch of Ilya’s own. His bangs hanging down to brush Ilya’s nose. His dark eyes, and his freckles, and hissmile. Shane looked so happy. Somehow, Ilya made him happy.
Ilya wanted to always make him happy.
Ilya wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Shane had a complete indoor hockey training facility at his cottage.
Shane had excitedly led him to the one-story building beside the main cottage and opened the door to reveal a large synthetic plastic rink, a net with shooting targets, passing targets, and a whole bunch of exercise equipment. The wall facing the lake was all windows.
So now they were on the “ice” in sneakers, passing a puck back and forth.
“I didn’t tell you,” Ilya said, “about after the NHL Awards.”
“After?”
“Yes. I went out. With Scott Hunter.”
Shane missed the next pass. “What do you mean?”
“There was a club having a Scott Hunter night, whatever the fuck that means.”
“A club? Like...”
“A gay club. Yes. So I thought I would go.”
“I’m sorry. You went to agay clubinLas VegaswithScott Hunter?”
“And his boyfriend. Yes. Nice guy.”
Shane’s brow pinched. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Ilya shrugged. “I forgot.” Which wasn’t true at all. He just wanted to seethisexact expression on Shane’s face. Ilya privately thought of it as his “scrunched confusion” face.
“Was it...what was it like?”
“Was fine. A little boring but, you know, Scott Hunter. What can you expect?” Ilya snatched a new puck from the pile beside him with his stick blade and sent it over to Shane. This time Shane caught it on his stick easily.
“So, does Hunter know you’re—?”
“I did not say anything. He may have guessed something.” He grinned. “There were some very hot men there.”
And now Shane’s face changed to the expression Ilya called “clenched disapproval.”
“I’m glad you had a nice time,” Shane said tersely.
“Point is, I went to a gay bar with NHL players and it was...exciting, you know?”
Shane nodded, and returned the puck to Ilya. “I’ll bet.”
“I give Hunter shit, but what he did was brave. Kissing his boyfriend on TV like that. And the speech at the awards.”
“It was. It really...made me hopeful. That things might be changing.”
