☆ roller girl ☆

toronto, canada. 2011.

Car horns and ambulance sirens blare like wildlife down the street. The cold bites at Ilya’s fingers, pressed to his mouth to inhale from the withering cigarette bud. He stopped being able to feel them a few minutes ago. But it feels good.

Better than being in there.

Around the corner, the heavy steel door of the night club whines open and clangs shut every few minutes. Short bursts of deep, thumping music come in waves, alternating every few swings. The line was lengthy when he got here, and it’ll be even longer when he leaves.

He just needs a little longer out here. Here being the dim, snow-laden alleyway. With the half-crushed boxes and plastic garbage bags, and remnants of other people’s cigarettes. He’s pretty sure there’s a pile of vomit frozen into orange ice by the dumpster. He’s not sure why he keeps glancing at it every few drags. He just knows it keeps his head steady, his heart rate even. He doesn’t have to think about anything else. Vomit is a wonderful thought given the alternatives.

“Jesus.”

Ilya lifts his head, peering at the open mouth of the alleyway, street side. Snow falls in hurried flurries against the reddish glow of the street lamp, a sideways slant along the wind. He can see every breath of the girl scuffing her heels along the sidewalk, little white clouds into the open zipper of a ginormous purse.

She rummages, dangerously oblivious to Ilya’s presence. Her dress is tight, a dark fabric that might be black but it’s so dim he can barely tell. He can tell that her arms are bare though, just as naked as her legs and feet, exposed to the freezing snow. He abandoned his coat inside, as well, too concerned with his next cigarette to snatch it from under the ass of Marleau’s next conquest in their booth.

The girl continues to rummage for a moment longer—complete with plastic clacking and things snapping—before she lifts her head with a long, tired sigh. It deflates her body entirely. She’s mid-pout when her eyes finally blink open and land on Ilya.

She stops. Jolted by his presence, she straightens immediately, and lets out a tiny: “Oh.”

He lifts his brows once, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. “Hello.”

“Can I…can I actually bum one of those?”

She points to the cigarette now dangling at his side. He flicks it with his ring finger and a fleck of ash sails into the snow with a faint plap. Ilya nods, balancing the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he fishes the pack out of the back pocket of his jeans.

She approaches slowly as he flips it open and slides a filtered end up from its collective. He holds the pack out to her, but makes no effort to move from his brick wall resting point. Her heels click softly over the concrete, crunching over salt and ice before they stop in front of him. This close, he can begin to form the features of her face.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, reaching with slow, gentle fingers to pluck the treat.

Once between her lips, Ilya brings the lighter to the end and cups his palm around the flame. Efficiently lit, she inhales until her cheeks hollow, lips pouted perfectly and faintly shiny with gloss. The butt glows a gentle orange. Ilya slips the lighter and cigarettes back into his pocket, and they pull the cigarettes from their mouths in unison.

Two thin plumes of smoke unfurl between them toward the street. The light there hits the side of her face, beaming over gorgeous cheekbones.

She notices, with the same careful and silent nonchalance, that he’s just as beautiful. And, as they tap their ashes and claim opposite sides of the alleyway walls, she concludes that she knows him. Or, of him anyhow. If she wasn’t sure before, she’s definitely certain when the gold cross makes an appearance over his chest.

But she pretends not to realize, and begins to rummage through her purse again. Ilya watches on quietly, even though his cigarette is gone and about to burn his fingers. He stubs it out against the brick behind his thigh, subtly and without announcement.

With her rummaging comes the escape of a few items along the snow. A tube of lipgloss, a pack of gum, crumpled receipts, a Blackberry. She groans softly as she bends to retrieve the most precious of these items, shaking off the bits of white from their surfaces.

“You left something,” he says, lifting his chin toward a bedazzled pink lighter by her left foot.

She glances up at him and then over at the sparkly object, quick to pluck it between her fingers and drop it back in her purse with the other escapees.

“Ha-ha. I swear, my whole life’s in this purse.”

He hums, tipping his head at the black leather on her arm as she stands again. Her legs are long and that dress is short.

“Mm, yes, is big purse.”

Her head snaps down to the purse against her hip. “It’s not that big. This style is very in right now.”

One side of Ilya’s mouth curls into a smile. He hums again, and even that has an accent to it. There was no denying who was standing before her, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to go about it.

But she realizes he’s not smoking anymore. Just standing there across from her, head tipped back against the brick, eyes set on her over the slope of his nose. His hands were in the pockets of his jeans, arms just as bare as hers in a black t-shirt. Her cigarette flung somewhere in the snow on the descent to her purse a while ago.

“You’re Ilya Rozanov,” she says.

Ilya hums. “Mm, yes.”

She likes the way he says this. Almost one term, mmyes. A monosyllabic, affirmative hum. He doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t widen his shoulders, or lift his chin like a man ready to deny or boast about it.

He just stands there. Watching her.

“You just punched Benoit Beau in the face about…oh, thirty minutes ago,” she continues, checking the clock on the BlackBerry in her palm.

Ilya’s eyes flicker toward her hand before finding her gaze in the dimness. “Yes.”

God, was she that little prick’s agent? A publicist ready to chew him out? He hadn’t even meant to hit the idiot, he just stopped ignoring every gnawing thought telling him to do so.

One too many cheap shots at the goalie, one too many comments thrown bench-side, one too many moments spent near Benoit fucking Beau tonight. Any other player would’ve done the same. It didn’t help that Ilya’s been harboring the knowledge of what waited back home all week. The calls from Alexi and his father, the reminders of his failure clogging up his inbox.

Even a better man would’ve cracked.

“I dated that unfortunate man for almost a year a while back. So I just wanted to say thanks for that.”

Ilya watches a smile take over her face, and he knows then that he’ll be going home with her tonight. Or her with him, either would work. Whatever got them naked quicker.

“You are welcome,” Ilya says, and all the while he stares at her and wonders what kind of sounds she’ll make.

Her smile fades to something coy, playful in its lingering. She adjusts the purse on her arm and her heels click once on the ground.

“Well, I gotta get back to my friends. But…thanks again, Ilya.”

She wiggles her fingers in a small wave, another smile thrown over her shoulder as she heads back toward the street like she knows he’ll still be watching. He is, of course, and it gives both of them an equal thrill to know it.

Ilya watches until she disappears around the corner, and he listens to the door shriek open and clang closed. His fingers twitch for another cigarette, but there’s something glistening in the snow where the girl stood, and he steps forward to pick it up.

Angel Kisses is the name of the pink lipgloss in Ilya’s palm.

Oh yeah. She was his tonight.

♡♡♡

“Yo, we’re heading out!” Marleau calls over the music, motioning with his thumb toward the brunette twirling her hair at the edge of the booth.

Ilya glances at them over the rim of his glass and nods. His tongue is sour with liquor when he sets it down.

“Okay.”

Marleau claps Ilya on the shoulder and slides out of the booth, winding his arm around the girl’s shoulders. They mold into each other, slithering their way through the mass of sweaty bodies in the dimly-lit crowd.

With the assistant captain gone, it leaves Ilya with only a few other teammates. People he doesn’t really hang out with more than necessary. People who already have their dates in the booth, at the bar, in the bathroom, some are even calling cabs right now.

Ilya found his night in the crowd some time ago. But he’s waiting.

She’s tucked in a corner booth with her friends, a group of women all similar in age, a sea of colorful dresses and tiny purses. He can see her big ass purse even from here and it makes him want to smile. She’s drinking something in a stout glass, a dark liquor. She’s only had a few, and she doesn’t do shots.

She’s rotated the dance floor a few times, but she keeps spinning around. Slowly eyeing the room, seeking him out. And Ilya’s been here, watching. Waiting.

He checks his phone as he throws back the last shot of tequila. It’s 1:13 and there’s a text waiting.

Jane: Bet Toronto is boring. Boston will be fun in 2 weeks (12:34 am)

Ilya slips his phone in his pocket and slides out of the booth. He takes his time sliding his jacket on, five drinks in and annoyingly steady on his feet. His head is only a little woozy, and if he’s lucky, he might remember some of tonight.

The music is deafening, and the closer he gets to the other side of the room, the deeper it becomes. It settles in his throat, pulses deep in his ears. He sifts through the crowd, angling his shoulders through bodies, avoiding watching gazes that follow him to the booth in the corner.

Her friends look first. Three sets of eyes that bulge and pop like little squeeze toys. He avoids them, too. He comes to the edge of the booth closest to her, leaning close to shout over the music.

“You are coming?”

God, she fucking hopes so.

The girl grabs her purse by the handles and shimmies to the edge of the booth, peering up at Ilya with a gentle smile.

“Let’s go.”

He holds out his hand and she tosses goodbyes to her friend as she slips her fingers into his palm. Their hands are warm and sticky pressed together. The club is thick with sweat and liquor and he’ll be happy to leave it.

The first rush of air is a slap in the face. Ilya sighs in heavy relief, hesitant to slip his coat on to let the cold soothe his overheated body a little longer. Beside him, the girl tips her head left and then right, up and down the street.

“Should we call a car?”

Ilya nods. “Mm. Do you live close?”

She straightens, eyes flitting to his face. “Um, I do. But—“

“—we can go to hotel, if you want. I have nice room.”

She tips her head to peer up at him, and for a moment they just stand there. The line for the club seems ever growing, rumbling and buzzing with impatient, giddy chatter. Cars whizz by in wet whooshes of snow-slush. White flakes glimmer as they flitter around, collecting in her lashes, atop her hair. Ilya has one on his cheek that seems to refuse to melt.

“No,” she says, and there’s that soft, coy smile again. “Let’s go to mine.”

♡♡♡

His mouth first finds hers in the elevator. They’re standing there, waiting for the red numbers to rise, and she’s shifting on her heeled feet—when suddenly he’s in front of her, inching her back into the wall with two firm hands on her waist. His eyes flicker between hers for a beat, giving her the chance to push him away. But she’s putty, all loose and liquid and plaint, and she’s tipping her chin up to offer her mouth to him.

He takes it, carefully at first. Their lips mold into each other like cushions butting together. Until they taste each other—cigarettes and liquor and something fruity on the corner of her mouth—and they’re pressing harder. Ilya nudges her flat against the elevator, as flat as she’ll go with the railing stabbing her spine, and his tongue takes opportunity. It slides into her mouth and along her own. A gasp rattles free just as her arms wind over his shoulders, fingers gliding through his hair.

She’s soft and warm and an excellent kisser. He’s firm and overwhelmingly scorching and an even better kisser. Her teeth scrape his bottom lip and he grunts in surprise.

These angel kisses come with a little bite.

The elevator levels with a gentle wobble, and they pull away as the door dings open. Their hands intertwine again on the journey down the hall. She guides them to her door, where she fumbles through her giant purse again to find her keys. The door clatters against the wall inside once unlocked, and she makes a show of wrapping her hand in his shirt and tugging him inside.

“This will go,” Ilya demands, snatching at the purse on her arm. He places it on the island counter behind her.

“What’s next?” she asks, voice a syrupy purr.

Ilya steps back, tongue sliding along his bottom lip to conceal a grin. This was fun. She was fun. Typically, girls just threw themselves on the bed and let him take them. But she was playing.

“Shoes.” He keeps his voice plain, flat, his gaze the same. It makes the authority of it all jolt through her like a slash of lightning.

She unbuckles the left shoe, then the right, and steps out of them. Her bare feet bring her down a few inches. Ilya hums, sliding his arms out of his jacket to toss it behind her, next to her purse. Her eyes roll over the broadness of his shoulders, the curves and bulges of his defined muscle in the black t-shirt.

“Dress,” he says next, nudging his chin at the black fabric suctioned to her body.

She hums, giving a small turn on one heel so her back is to him. Her chin tucks over her shoulder, a flash of doe eyes that flutter expertly.

“Can you help unzip me, Mr. Rozanov?”

He swallows. Yes, he thinks, this one likes to play.

Ilya steps forward, the shape of him like one firm, hot mass behind her. She sets her head straight, finding a spot on the wall and boring into it—but seeing nothing. Feeling only his hand approaching, fingers skittering over her shoulders to move her hair away.

Her inhale trembles through her lungs, shudders in her chest. His knuckles drag along the notches of her spine, feeling for the zipper in the dimness of the apartment. He tucks the metal between his thumb and forefinger and drags it down. Slowly, glacially, the zipper snicks to the base of her spine.

Ilya’s hands slip under the softness of the fabric, into the warmth beneath. Her skin is smooth, delicate, and her body twists a little when he traces the curve of her waist with two callused palms.

“Mm,” he hums, stepping even closer. He fits his head over her shoulder, leaning until his breath tickles her skin.

He scatters gentle kisses over her shoulder, lets them trail along the top of her back. His mouth finds her neck and she lets her head fall to the other side, baring the channel of her throat to him. He goes for it with a firmer touch, lips latching to the skin there with fervor. She gasps, hands flying to find him behind her. They wriggle through his hair, mussing the golden curls up front before journeying to the nape of his neck, where she gives them a little tug.

Ilya’s pressing himself against her now, pushing her into the kitchen island. His hard cock strains against his jeans and digs into the small of her back, over the swell of her ass, and she shifts her hips to call attention to it. He pulls one hand from beneath her dress to brace her jaw, holding the expanse of her face between his fingers. It makes her feel small, wonderful, under his control.

He pulls his hips back and gives into the smirk that comes with the tilt of her hips still searching for him. He pops his hand over her ass in a sharp smack and she slams her hands over the counter with a blissful gasp.

“Mm, knew you were tough girl. You like it like this, yes?”

She nods into his hold on her face. “Yes. Want you to fuck me.”

He hums again, slipping his hand under the hem of her dress. Her thighs part on instinct, a small whimper squeaking through the room when his fingers press into the damp patch of her panties.

“Soon,” Ilya promises. “You will be patient.”

She nods again, a little quicker. “I’ll be patient.”

Ilya’s fingers press into her cheeks to tip her head back. It falls into his shoulder, her eyes blinking brightly up into his gaze. He fits his mouth over hers as his fingers curl between her flesh and the thin cotton of her underwear. He slips them into the heat of her, slowly and without pause, until he’s knuckle deep. He swallows the groan she releases and feels it hum against the back of his throat.

She’s tight and hot around his fingers, pulsing with every deep, prodding motion he makes. She’s unabashed with her noises, whining and crying into his mouth that attacks hers, fighting the hold on his face to search for more. At some point, her hand slips from his hair between their bodies, gliding down the firmness behind his t-shirt, the hardness straining under his belt. Ilya huffs against her top lip.

“This is me,” she breathes hard, nose brushing his own, “being patient.”

Ilya snickers and curls his fingers cruelly. It makes her thighs quake, her body dip a little downwards. Her whine cuts through the quiet of the apartment like a crack.

“This is me,” he says, tugging her lip between his teeth before letting it go, “being nice.”

She mirrors his scoff of a laugh and rubs her hand against his clothed cock again. “Then let’s stop. No being patient, no being nice.”

He hums, quickening his fingers between her legs. The slick sound is enough to make his ears scorch and her jaw unhinge, though no sound releases. She feels an orgasm burn deep in her belly, a chill sweep up her spine.

“Is what you want?” he murmurs.

She’s never nodded so quickly in her life, and she can barely speak but pushes out a struggled: “God, yes.”

What she didn’t want was for him to take his fingers out of her, but he does it anyway. Before she has a chance to really pout about it, Ilya steps away and inhales sharply through his nose. She turns slowly, still a little unsteady on her bare feet, the straps of her dress slipping off her shoulders with the zipper undone. Ilya shifts his shoulders and her eyes flit to the sheer expanse of them. She’s thankful her lamps are on timers and there’s enough light in the apartment to see him adequately.

“Dress off,” he commands, hands reaching for his belt buckle. The metallic tinkle practically has her salivating like some Pavlovian bell trick.

She keeps watch of him as she slides the straps of her dress down her arms, as she shimmies her hips to fit it down her thighs. A black strapless bra and matching lace panties lie beneath. Ilya pops the button of his jeans and hooks his fingers in to shove them down. His shirt whips off as he steps out of them, kicking them somewhere near the fridge.

Once they’re equally half-naked, Ilya allows himself a moment to admire. The shape of her body, the way it winds and curves and falls. The way she shivers a little and it makes her bottom lip jut out. The way her fingers dance awkwardly at her sides, but she’s still somehow adorably sexy about it.

A soft smile touches Ilya’s face. He curls two fingers toward himself in a lazy motion.

“Come here, milaya.”

The Russian word rolls off his tongue like silk and it makes her jolt from her staring. She skitters forward, bringing her hands to the firm heat of his shoulders when she reaches him. Ilya cups his hand to run the back of his knuckles over her stomach. He cocks his head and leans down an inch or so, bringing his mouth to hover over her own.

She tips her head back and waits for another kiss, lashes fluttering together. Their breaths echo back and forth, stuttered and shallow. He smells like cigarettes and the warm musk of an expensive, European cologne. The chain on his chest glimmers between firm, defined pecs.

His top lip brushes hers for a mere second before he stills. She waits. But he does not kiss her.

Instead, he tips his head the other way and watches her brows cinch together.

“On your knees,” he whispers.

Her eyes pop open, and they dance between his own for just a moment before she sinks to her knees before him. Two hard thumps against the floor and the brush of her palms over her thighs. She perches there with the expertise of someone who’s been here before. Ilya is not the first man to order her there, but he enjoys being the one to have her there now.

He hums, bringing his knuckles to her cheek. They stroke the soft flesh there, where something sparkly catches the light.

“Do you want to suck my cock?”

A heat flushes through her and settles in her cheeks painfully. She nods, tongue numb in her mouth.

Ilya tuts, shaking his head softly. “You are not being polite, milaya. Tell me.”

She swears he can feel the warmth emanating from her like chimney smoke. “I want to suck your cock. Please, Ilya.”

The added plea makes something spark in his belly and it rushes right to his already hardening cock. He hisses out a breath and snatches at her hair.

“Go on.”

She wastes no time, hand reaching for the fabric between her and the task at hand. She tugs his boxers down, cupped under the fullness of him, and fits her mouth over the weeping, pink head.

Ilya groans, both hands sliding through the softness of her hair to brace her head. “Fuck, yes.”

She finds a suction that makes him grit his teeth together and wills the ache in her jaw to numb if it means he’ll keep watching her like that. She works her mouth over him languidly, tightly, tongue gliding up and down the underside of his cock. He’s hot and heavy in her mouth, jabbing at the back of her throat when he gives her gentle nudges further down. He breathes heavily through his nose and doesn’t moan much, but it’s the low grunts and groans that tumble through his reserve that fan her flame. She works harder, sucks tighter, just to hear more.

“Fuck, milaya, you are so good.” His accent thickens when he’s pleased and it makes her wriggle on the floor.

She’s so fucking horny she could die.

Ilya guides her head up and down his length a few more times before his fingers twist in her hair. He pulls back once—hard—and she gazes up at him with a gasp. They wait there together for a moment of blood-rushing quiet. Panting, gasping for air, equally flushed and tingling.

Ilya motions with those same two fingers as earlier. “Up.”

He helps her—he’s not that cruel—with their hands latched together. Once standing, he braces a large, warm palm against her jaw and catches her mouth. It lasts a moment, a gentle exploration, and then he’s pulling away.

But her hands snatch at his biceps, nails piercing the firm, golden skin, and she’s pulling him back.

Ilya groans against her mouth, pulling an equally desperate sound from her when he nips at her lip. She bares her teeth back, and Ilya loses all reserve.

The floor falls from beneath her when his hands swoop under her thighs, pulling her up to straddle him standing. She loops her arms around his neck, excitement swirling in her belly.

“Where is bedroom?” he murmurs against her mouth.

She points over his shoulder with a nonsensical hum and he whirls around, striding toward the open door. He kicks it shut behind them, still devouring her mouth until he drops her on the center of the bed. She bounces once and flashes Ilya a breathy grin from where he looms at the end of the bed.

He’s fucking massive.

“You are tough girl,” he purrs, reaching out to trace his thumb over the swollen plush of her bottom lip.

She takes it in her mouth, delighted by the salty musk of his skin. His lips part, eyes glazed as they admire her swirling her tongue around his thumb.

It pops from between her lips softly. She tucks her chin, eyes boring into Ilya’s dazed gaze.

“Then treat me like it.”

Ilya snickers, patting her cheek gently with his spit-slick hand. It’s enough to make her lashes flutter for a moment.

“Okay,” he says, and then he’s yanking her to the end of the bed by her ankles.

Her panties are bunched somewhere on the bedroom floor and her bra flings toward the door in a matter of moments. Ilya pulls his boxers off the rest of the way and nudges them aside, hands running the length of her thighs. The flesh there is soft and supple, and they quake a little when they touch his hips.

“You have condoms?”

She tips her head back toward the headboard and points to a wooden nightstand beside the headboard. Piles of books, a small ceramic lamp, a pair of glasses folded up—and a drawer. That’s all Ilya can focus on as he hurries to open it and fishes out a half-empty box. He wonders, as he resumes his spot between her thighs and tears the package open, if #13 used the other half of the box.

He wonders if he’ll get to use the rest.

Ilya taps his cock against her core, an obscene, wet smack that makes her wriggle on the bed. Her hands reach for his, still bracing her thighs. He pulls her down a little further, barely on the bed, and hooks her legs around his waist. His body radiates heat like a furnace, and everything about him is firm and hard.

He inches in slowly. Her back arches, head thrown back into the bed. He watches intently as he bottoms out, sheathed fully inside of her, their mouths equally frozen in a stupid, open stance.

“Fuck, so tight,” he hisses, glancing down at the place where their bodies meet.

“You’re so big.”

Ilya huffs out a laugh and tests out a gentle nudge. Her moan is soft, breathy, a little gravely. He does it again, rocking against the bed, into her, listening to the headboard thump behind her little gasps.

“Harder,” she croaks, fixing her head back into place to blink shiny eyes at him. “Please, harder.”

A thrill zips through Ilya like a chill. He leans forward, and the angle shifts him inside of her to nudge a soft, spongy spot that makes her cry out. He glides one hand in her hair, pulling tight at the roots, and keeps the other against her jaw, just along her throat. His thumb tips her chin up, keeping her focus on him. His hand in her hair keeps her steady, just where he wants her.

She has nowhere to go.

And as he begins to move his hips at a pace that makes the room shake, she suddenly can’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be.

“Fuck, milaya,” he grits out, red in the cheeks and splotchy all over his chest. A thin sheen of sweat begins to gather down his back, under his gold curls.

Her hands are on his arms and then in his hair, gripping for purchase as he fucks her so deep and hard she feels it in her fucking throat. Like she can’t breathe, like Ilya’s taking all the air out of the room with every drag of his cock inside her.

It makes her woozy, dizzy, a little stupid, so much so that she can’t even fathom the idea of simmering her noises. They come out unadulterated, animalistic. She sounds like she’s being torn apart.

Ilya loves it.

He licks a stripe along the column of her throat and slows down. Her breaths harshen to pants, but they’re deeper, more air in her lungs. He ruts against her with long, languid pulls and pushes of his hips. Her thighs buzz on either side of him, her fingers trembling against the nape of his neck where her nails are scratching aimlessly.

Ilya murmurs something in Russian against her throat, latching on to suckle gently. She shivers, squirming beneath him and twisting a curl around her finger at the back of his head.

When her breaths begin to even out again, Ilya pulls back and looms above her. He gives the fat of her thigh two quick taps.

“Want you on top, milaya. Show me you want.”

He steps back, sliding out of her slowly. She pushes off on her elbows and flips around, crawling after him when Ilya settles against the headboard. He hums when she straddles him, hands trailing up and down her waist, over her hips. He grabs her ass with both hands and smirks when she squeaks.

“Yes, like that,” he mutters, watching her line him up with his entrance.

She sinks down slowly, inch by inch, and they both groan when she’s fully seated. There, they pulse together for a minute, soft breaths passed in the short distance between their mouths. Her hands are delicate over his shoulders, sliding along the sides of his neck. Her body is exquisite, Ilya thinks, and he lets his eyes drag over the shape of it as she shifts her hips ever so slightly.

She arches her back, pushes her hips forward. They wind once, twice, a counter clockwise motion that grinds them together. Her nipples are hard pebbles in Ilya’s face, and he leans forward to take one in his mouth.

“Oh,” she gasps, fingers gripping at his hair.

He lets his teeth graze the sensitive bud and she jerks, hips stuttering in their smooth, circular motions. He taps her right ass cheek with a heavy palm and sinks his teeth into her nipple at the same time. She shrieks, hopping atop his cock.

“Mm,” he hums, detaching from her tit with a wet pop. He moves his hand from her ass to knead the flesh there. “Thought you were tough girl.”

His voice is a patronizing rumble, and she answers it by bouncing again, releasing her beautiful little noises that make Ilya groan. He keeps hold of her hips and sinks back into the headboard, content to watch her hop on his cock with fervor. But she seems to have other ideas.

She leans forward and puts her hands on his neck again, inching until he has to look up at her, until she’s gazing down at him with her lip between her teeth and his cock half inside of her. She slams down on it again, an impact that has Ilya pushing off the headboard with a gasp. Her mouth splits into a grin, thumbs pressing into his jaw to tip his head back. She takes his mouth in a wet, hungry kiss and presses their foreheads together.

“I. Am,” she huffs out.

Ilya lets out something between an exhale and a chuckle and slides his hands over her ass again, giving it a firm squeeze. “Mm, you are. I like girl to toss around.”

“God, please toss me around,” she groans, suddenly plaint against him, their chests touching when she leans forward.

Ilya flips them quickly, shoving her face in the pillows with a steady hand on the back of her neck. He keeps the other on the dip in her spine where her back arches beautifully, where her ass bounces back at him with every hurried pound of his hips as he begins to pummel her into the bed. Every squeal and whine comes muffled by the mattress, but they’re still just as loud, just as wild.

“Yes,” he growls, followed by a jumble of Russian. “Take it.”

Thoughts are hard to come by as the slam of Ilya’s hips steal every inkling, but she has enough willpower to feel the tingle of her orgasm gathering. She tries to alert him, but all she does is flail and cry, and Ilya leans back to bring a heavy palm down sharply over her ass.

“Tough girl,” he coos. “You will take it.”

He knows by the way she convulses when she finishes, the way the sheets below her soak with tears. Her fingers squeeze around whatever’s closest—the mattress, the sheets—and don’t let go.

And Ilya doesn’t stop.

He slows down, just barely. A steady push and pull, a torturous rhythm when she’s already on edge.

“Ilya,” she cries into the bed, reaching back to press on his abdomen with a trembling hand.

He relents, carefully lifting his hips until his cock slips free. She collapses against the bed in a weak pile of limbs, legs twitching as she gasps for air. Ilya flops onto the other side of the bed and carefully peels off the condom.

He barely has a moment to reach for his own throbbing cock before there’s movement next to him, a rustling of the sheets. They bunch up when she twists around and crawls his way, bent over his thigh to put her mouth over his cock.

“Oh,” he groans, hands flying to her hair.

Despite the fact that she couldn’t lift herself up if she tried, her head works up and down, mouth hot and tight and wet over him. She lets her tongue glide along the underside of his cock, wriggling when she got down to the base to sweep over his balls. His leg jerks at the sensation, another moan rumbling through him.

“Fuck, milaya. I am—“

Spurts of warmth enter her mouth and coat her throat. She holds herself steady, cock lodged deep to pulse in her mouth. She swallows as much as she can and carefully lifts up, pausing to suckle on the pink head as she goes. Ilya chuckles, sweeping his hand over her hair to her cheek, where his thumb rubs under her eye.

Her cheek presses to his thigh, collapsing once more with a tired sigh. Ilya lets his hand rest atop her head, equally as spent and draped against the headboard. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, knowing he’ll be collecting his clothes and trudging back to the hotel soon.

But for right now, he can rest.

♡♡♡

Ilya startles some time later to a sharp clacking. He lifts his head, suddenly a leaden weight, away from the headboard. A few blinks bring the room back to him, an unfamiliar territory. Large windows give view to a city skyline, looming buildings with very few lights on, and the pale lilac sky of the space between dusk and dawn. The bed is soft beneath him, a pale pink comforter and matching sheets.

He doesn’t have to search long for the source of the clacking. It’s directly across from him, pressed against the wall at a wooden desk. A white glow illuminates the space before her, a laptop opened on the desktop. A bright blue shirt covers her now, knees tucked up on a round, green chair. Her fingers work quickly over the keyboard—very loudly.

“You are clicking very loud,” Ilya announces.

The girl gasps, twisting around. A pair of glasses rest on her nose now, oversized and interestingly adorable. She pushes them up to rest at the crown of her head when she sees Ilya blinking back at her, hands resting in his lap. She’d drawn the blankets over his legs at some point, though he remains naked beneath them.

“Sorry. I just had to get this idea down.”

She turns back around to the computer and Ilya hums. He throws the blankets back and carefully steps down, wincing at the cold floor beneath him. He locates his boxers near the end of the bed and plucks them from the ground, slipping them over his hips with a snap of the elastic band.

He comes behind her at the desk, one hand bracing the chair and the other beside her laptop. He squints at the computer screen—far too bright for this time of night—and watches the words appear at lightning speed.

“My god. You work a lot.”

She shrugs. “I guess.”

He pulls back to gaze down at her and immediately plucks at the shoulder of her t-shirt.

“Uh, davai—what is this?”

She continues typing. “Huh?”

“What are you wearing?”

She stops and glances down at her chest and the stark white maple leaf on the center of it. “This is my bed shirt—“

“Uh, no. Get up.”

He only sounds like he’s half joking, and she furrows her brows together as she gets to her feet. Ilya immediately frowns at the Maple Leafs shirt over her body, hanging loosely down to her thighs.

“You cannot wear this around me,” he says, shaking his head at it. “This is…this is wrong.”

She laughs, pulling at the hem. “What?”

“Take it off.”

She peers up at him, brows raised. “Are you serious?”

Ilya folds his arms over his comically large chest, and even with his dick out, it’s intimidating. He mirrors her look of expectation and juts his chin out.

“Take it off,” he repeats.

She huffs, quickly lifting the shirt over her head. She tosses it on the bed, standing there naked except for a pair of clean panties.

“Happy?”

Ilya drops his arms and hums, a soft smile touching his face. “Yes. Much better.”

She rolls her eyes playfully, and he closes the gap between them to grip her jaw in that overbearing hand. He tips her head back and plants his mouth over hers. A firm, punctuation of a kiss. When he pulls back, Ilya grins again.

“What is your name?”

A giggle bursts forth from her mouth, her cheeks blazing with warmth. “Oh my god, I never told you my name?”

“To be fair, I do not think I asked.”

They chuckle together, and she gives him her name in a gentle murmur. He repeats it, his accent thick around the syllables.

“You are like animal, by the way,” he says, releasing her face to step back.

She follows him through the door of her bedroom, folding her arms over her hardening nipples.

“An animal?”

“Yes.” Ilya pads into the kitchen, collecting his clothes one by one from the floor. He tosses his t-shirt over his head and drapes his pants over the back of the couch, facing her as he does. “Like animal in heat.”

She flushes, gazing down at her bare feet over the rug. “Oh—“

“Like bunny. Is cute.”

She peeks up at him through her lashes, relief flooding her at the small smile on his face. He hoists his jeans over his hips and pulls the zipper, belt tickling loosely over his thigh. Her lip quirks up, and she hopes he can’t see very well in the darkness of the apartment.

Ilya keeps his jacket off and folded over his arm as he approaches, tucking a curled finger under her chin. He bends at the waist, shoulders broad and wide, and hovers his mouth near hers.

“I bring you better shirt next time.”

Her eyes bulge as he pecks a gentle kiss against her mouth. “Next time?”

Ilya stands to his full height, humming approvingly. “Yes. We play Toronto again next month. You will still live here, yes?”

She follows him to the door. “Uh, yes?”

“Okay.” Ilya twists the knob and opens the door a few inches, turning to flash another grin. “I will see you next month.”

She breaths a small laugh. “Okay. Um, goodnight, Ilya.”

He steps into the hall, poking his head through the gap in the door. “Goodnight, Bunny.”

The door snicks shut, and she exhales softly into the quiet of the apartment. She walks back into the bedroom and closes her laptop, turning to the disarray of her bed. There, she finds the flash of blue—the Toronto Maple Leafs shirt.

She folds it carefully and opens her closet, putting it at the very top.

♡♡♡

It’s not until the next day, sometime in the evening, that there’s a knock at her door.

“Coming!”

She hurries from the couch, her movie paused on the tv. She trips over her slippers on the way there, curses herself, and opens the door.

On the welcome mat, a black shirt and a ripped piece of paper await. She bends to collect them and glances down the hall, catching only the square of Ilya’s shoulders as he walks away.

The Raiders t-shirt smells like him, soft and worn from wear. Tucked between the folds is a front-row, bench side ticket to the Toronto v Boston game next month. On this, a yellow sticky note that reads:

So you can watch me beat your boyfriend.

The torn legal pad paper on the t-shirt is wrinkled and scrawled with horrible, nearly illegible handwriting.