Page 46 of Heated Rivalry 1
Hollander glanced up at him, and Ilya smiled and stroked his hair. The clock was ticking, and Ilya really did need to leave, so he gently held Hollander’s head and guided him so he’d hit the rhythm Ilya needed and...there. Yes. Oh fuck...
“That’s good, Hollander. Just like that. Make me come.”
Hollander moaned and dug his fingers into Ilya’s thighs, keeping the pace with his mouth that Ilya had set. The familiar, exhilarating pressure of impending release gripped Ilya’s body—the high that he couldn’t stop chasing—and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, Hollander.”
Hollander pulled off, replacing his mouth with his hand. “I want to see it.”
Seconds later, Ilya erupted. He cried out, much louder than usual, as a white-hot orgasm rocketed through his body.
“Holy shit, Hollander,” Ilya gasped when he was able to speak again. “I’m dead. You killed me.”
Hollander was sitting up now, and staring at the mess on Ilya’s stomach. “That was really hot.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad we were in an empty building where no one could hear you.”
And then Ilya felt the rare and unwelcome sensation of his cheeks heating in embarrassment. He didn’t usually yell like that when he was coming.
He didn’t want to think about it, so he said, “I have to go.”
“All right.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Ilya’s taxi to arrive.
“Is a nice building,” Ilya said, because he hated the silence. “You don’t want to live here?”
“No. But renovations might take a while, so I’ll probably be able to use it for...this. For a bit.” More silence, and then Hollander said, “You must be excited for the Olympics. In Russia.”
“Yes.” Ilyawasexcited. But thinking about the expectations of his home country, of his father, made his stomach hurt. And made him want a cigarette.
“Been dreaming of the Olympics my whole life,” Hollander said. “I can’t wait.”
“For what? A bronze medal?”
“Fuck you.”
Ilya laughed. “Hey, remember when you shot your load for like no reason at all?”
Hollander glared at him, but Ilya could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Oh my god. Go to hell.”
“Amazing trick.”
“Your cab must be out there, right?”
Ilya put his hand on the door, but before he pushed it open, he leaned down and kissed Hollander quickly on the mouth.
“Good night, Hollander.”
“Good night.”
Ilya was grinning like an idiot for the entire cab ride back to his hotel.
Chapter Ten
February 2014—Sochi, Russia
