Page 32 of Heated Rivalry 1
Shane sat on the end of his king-size hotel bed. Then he stood up. Then he sat back down again.
This was so fucking dumb. Why was he doing this? Booking a room in the same hotel as the entire Boston team (several floors above theirs, but still) so he could hook up with a man hedidn’teven like? If they were caught it could be devastating to both of their careers.
At the very least, it would beveryembarrassing.
Shane stood and went to the mirror. He checked his teeth and nudged a stray lock of hair back into place.
There was a sharp rap on his door. He spun around, startled by how loud it sounded, and quickly crossed the room to open it. “Jesus. You trying to geteveryone’sattention?”
Rozanov slid into the room. His ball cap was pulled low over his eyes. Shane closed and latched the door quickly behind him.
“You are nervous,” Rozanov said. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Shane lied.
“Is just sex, Hollander,” Rozanov said.
“I know.”
Rozanov pulled the ball cap off and brown curls tumbled out, falling messily around his grinning face. He was wearing a charcoal-gray T-shirt with a small Nike logo on the chest and black track pants. Shane was wearing dark blue pants and a striped cashmere sweater and felt ridiculous.
“You look nice,” Rozanov said. His tone was flat like he was just stating a fact rather than offering a compliment.You look nice. It’s cold outside. This hotel is big.
“Thanks,” Shane said, because he had to saysomething. “I feel overdressed.”
“Yes. We both are,” Rozanov said, and he pulled his T-shirt off over his head before bending to remove his high-top sneakers.
Shane’s eyes fixed on the way Rozanov’s gold cross dangled in the space between his knees and his chest; the thin chain glinted against the back of his neck.
When Rozanov stood again, Shane couldn’t remember why exactly this was a bad idea.
“Come here,” Rozanov said.
“No.Youcomehere.”
Rozanov grinned and shook his head, and stepped toward Shane.
Shane must have taken a step forward himself because they kind of crashed into each other. A second later, he was against the wall, and Rozanov was attacking his mouth. Shane shoved back against him, and was reminded that Montreal had won the game that night. Rozanov had to be at least a little pissed off about that, and Shane felt he might be taking it out on him. Shane had no problem with that. He sank his fingers into Rozanov’s biceps and hauled him closer. He wrapped his foot around Rozanov’s ankle, and Rozanov growled and, without warning, grabbed Shane’s thighs and hoisted him up the wall so that Shane had no choice but to wrap his legs around the taller man’s waist.
Which Shane should have been angry about, but instead he gasped and kissed Rozanov even more wildly.
“Could fuck you just like this,” Rozanov growled. “Against the fucking wall. You would like that, yes?”
WouldShane like that? Probably.
“Not tonight,” Rozanov continued, moving his mouth close to Shane’s ear. “Tonight I will go easy on you.”
Shane wanted to tell him to fuck off, but Rozanov was kissing his throat, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin, so instead he threw his head back against the wall like the eager slut he apparently was.
He felt Rozanov chuckle against his throat, and then Shane felt himself being pulled away from the wall and carried—carried!—to the bed like a fucking child!
“Put me down, asshole!”
“Shhhh.”
“I can walk!”
Rozanov’s big hands gripped his ass as they crossed the room. Shane pushed back off Rozanov’s shoulders, and he could see that crooked smile and those playful eyes.
