Page 44 of Heated Rivalry 1
“What is this place?” Ilya asked.
Instead of answering, Hollander pushed him hard with both hands. “Fuck you for texting me before the game, you asshole!”
Ilya grinned. “Youwerehard, weren’t you? For how long? The whole game?”
Hollander glared at him, then said, “Follow me.”
He led them up way too many stairs, to the top floor, and then used a key to unlock another door. It opened to reveal a large loft apartment, only partially finished, from the looks of it. The walls looked like they had been freshly plastered, and hadn’t been painted yet. There was a ladder leaning against one wall, and an open box of tools beside it. The kitchen area had a brand-new countertop and cupboards, but no appliances.
“Is this your place?” Ilya had never been to Hollander’s home. It had always been hotel rooms before. The idea excited him.
“No. I mean, I don’t live here. But, yes, I own it.”
“You will move here?”
“No. It’s just an investment, or whatever. And I thought it could be a safe place to...meet.”
Hollander was damn cute when he was embarrassed.
“Did you buy a building so we would have somewhere to fuck, Hollander?”
Ilya assumed he was trying to look stern, but the flush of his cheeks was ruining the effect. “No. It’s aninvestment. I’m having it renovated and then I’ll sell the condos. And I alreadyhave a tenant lined up for the commercial space on the main floor.”
“Wow. Businessman.”
Hollander folded his arms. It did not make him look any more intimidating. “Enough questions. We’re not here to talk.”
“Yes. Where do you want me? On that ladder? On the pile of wood over there?”
“In here, idiot.”
Hollander crossed the room and opened yet another door. This one led to...
...a fully finished bedroom. Like, a really nice one.
“I, uh, I kinda made the bedroom the priority. And the bathroom. So we could—”
But Ilya didn’t let Hollander finish his sentence. He gripped Hollander’s arms and pushed him back against the closest wall and kissed him. Hollander had bought them a fuckingbuilding.
Ilya had been sure, all summer, that this would be the year Hollander would call it off. But he had thought the same thing last summer too, after their rookie seasons had ended with Hollander shoving Ilya away after they’d kissed on a Las Vegas rooftop. But when their teams had met for the first time that second season, Ilya had texted him a hotel room number and Hollander showed up twenty minutes later.
“You were smoking,” Hollander complained now, as he broke away from their kiss.
“Only one.”
“You aren’t supposed to be smoking.”
“You aren’t supposed to be talking.” Ilya pushed Hollander’s chest and knocked him flat onto his back on the bed. Ilya took a moment to gaze down at him—at his flushed cheeks and mussed hair, and at the strip of exposed skin where his T-shirt had ridden up. Then Ilya pounced.
They kissed in their usual combative style for a while—Hollander rolling them to pin Ilya down and attack his mouth, before Ilya would flip them and regain control. Shirts came off, then pants, then socks and underwear.
“An hour,” Ilya murmured. He was on top now, biting and licking his way along Hollander’s collarbone. “Then I have to go.”
“Then hurry the fuck up.”
Ilya smiled against Hollander’s skin. He was such a little brat. Ilya raised himself up and straddled Shane’s waist, making sure to squeeze just a little too hard with his thighs. He took his own dick in his hand and stroked it slowly, thoughtfully. “You want this, Hollander?”
And, oh god, Ilya couldseethe war going on in Hollander’s head. He could see how much he wanted to tell Ilya to fuck off and die, but more than that, he could see the way Hollander’s tongue poked out to moisten his lower lip.
