1 – 1 of 1 Work in not specific on the timeline here
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Shane adjusted his tie for the third time, his skin prickling with awareness of the toy nestled deep inside him. Shane's muscles tensed under his shirt, his reactive nature making him hyper-aware of the remote tucked in Ilya's pocket. Ilya leaned close as he passed, his breath warm against Shane's ear. “Behave,” Shane's voice cracks. "I-I'm fine, just a h-headache." The lie burns in his throat as he forces a smile, his hand trembling against the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but at Hayden. Completely unaware of the hand climbing Shane’s inner thigh, fingers pressing into the tender flesh just below his groin. Shane's pulse hammers against his collar as sweat beads at his hairline. Shane's adam' s apple lurches violently. He can feel Ilya's smirk burning into his profile without looking. He bites down on his tongue, tasting copper. Ilya's presence sears into his left side, while his other hand makes a show of adjusting something in his pocket. The vibrations suddenly intensify, sending a violent shudder through Shane's core. His vision blurs at the edges. Shooting electricity up his spine. His knuckles go white against the leather seat. His teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as Ilya's grip becomes bruising, fingers digging into the flesh through the soft black material. Leaning in, hot breath scorching Shane's ear: " Get yourself together, Hollander," each syllable dripping with that Russian growl that makes Shane pathetically weak. Fucking. Sadistic. Asshole. And all because of one goddamn bet. Only two hours earlier he was in the comfort of his own home. Steam billows from the bathroom as the door swings open. Ilya emerges, towel riding dangerously low on sharp hip bones, droplets racing down the planes of his chest and disappearing beneath the white terry cloth. Shane's fingers trace the edges of a small brown parcel on the kitchen counter. Ilya Rozanov, the label reads in neat block letters. Below that: Shane's address, his apartment number. Ilya freezes mid-step. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "This showed up today." Shane lifts the box slightly. "Your name. My place." Ilya's bare feet pad across the hardwood. He plucks the package from Shane's grip with long fingers, his knuckles brushing Shane's palm. "Mine," he says, placing it on the far edge of the counter, just beyond Shane's reach. "So I don't get to see what's inside?" Ilya reaches for a pair of grey joggers draped over the arm of the couch, pulling them on with a fluid motion. "It's for you, actually." Shane's stomach flips. The NHL26 loading screen bathes their faces in blue light as they sink into the sofa, controllers in hand. Shane's eyes dart to the kitchen every thirty seconds. The box sits there, taunting him. His birthday was ages ago, their anniversary wasn’t for another couple months, Today is... nothing. His player skates past the puck. Again. The controller vibrates with another missed opportunity. Ilya's score climbs: 3-0, 5-0, 7-0.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 5,625
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76615041