Page 62 of Heated Rivalry 1
Shane felt the same anxiety that had flooded him the last time they had been together. There was something a little too...tender...in the way Rozanov was looking at him. And there was something that was far too soothing about the way Rozanov’s fingers combed through Shane’s short hair, and curved down to trace the bridge of freckles that stretched across his face.
Shane had always hated his freckles. He had been surprised to learn, when he had become famous, that a lot of women seemed to find them very sexy. Or at least they found them adorable. He was even more surprised that Rozanov seemed to hold some sort of fascination with them.
Rozanov leaned in and pressed kisses to Shane’s hair and face and down to his throat. The kisses weren’t seductive or heated. They were light and sort of...adoring. Shane’s eyes fluttered closed, suddenly very sleepy, and he heard Rozanov murmur something to himself in Russian, and felt the words tickle the skin under his jaw.
“Hm?” Shane asked distantly.
“You could stay,” Rozanov said.
“Stay?”
“Stay here. Tonight.”
Shane’s eyes opened. Rozanov was looking at him seriously again.
“You want me to stay here?”
Rozanov seemed to realize what he had just asked, because his face changed and he shrugged, forcing a half grin. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“Oh.” That was more familiar. “I can’t stay. You know that.”
“You could. The game is tomorrow afternoon. No morning practice.”
“I told Hayden—”
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Is Hayden your mother?”
“No. But he’s...expecting me. I told him I was meeting a friend.”
Rozanov snorted. “That was a lie.”
Shane laughed at that. “Yeah. Well.”
Rozanov lowered himself until his nose was inches from Shane’s face. “Stay.”
Shane couldn’t stay. There were probably a million reasons why he couldn’t stay.
“Okay,” he said.
Rozanov smiled and kissed him. They stayed in the bed for a long time just...making out. Not really escalating things. And that was new. Shane really did like kissing Rozanov, but this seemed indulgent. And dangerous.
“Are you hungry?” Rozanov asked.
“For?”
“Food.”
Shane looked at him, and Rozanov laughed. He hopped off the bed and onto his feet. “Let’s eat something.”
Rozanov put his sweatpants back on, and this time grabbed a T-shirt from his dresser to throw on with them. Shane retrieved his own jeans and T-shirt from the floor and followed him into the kitchen.
“I got, um, ginger ale. You like that shit, right?”
“Yeah. I do.” Shane looked at him oddly. Shane didn’t often drink because he didn’t want to do anything that might compromise his performance on the ice. Over the years he had developed an affinity for ginger ale as a substitute for beer. But it wasn’t like he’d ever talked about that to Rozanov.
Instead of asking Rozanov how the hell he knew that he liked ginger ale, or why he cared enough to buy some, he asked, “You want to order takeout, or—”
“Do you like tuna melts?”
