The knock on Ilya’s hotel door is rapid with nervous energy. When he answers it, Shane spills through, frenetic, hands tangling in Ilya’s hair as soon as the door is shut, kisses hot and open.
First contact is a tingly bright static shock, an electrical surge. Ilya groans, hands scrambling to hold Shane close, to wrap around his ribs, but he’s wearing too many fucking clothes, so he rips the zipper of Shane’s hoodie open and pushes it off his shoulders. And there, finally, he can feel the heat of Shane’s body under his hands, warm and soft and alive.
He pushes Shane towards the bed, eager, tongue still in his mouth. The vibration of every one of his barely choked off sounds reverberates through Ilya’s body, down to his bones. He shoves Shane back onto the mattress and he grins up at Ilya like he’s just as excited, just as relieved that this is happening again. It sends Ilya’s heart soaring, his stomach plummeting. He follows immediately, barely letting their bodies separate for half a second.
There’s another knock at the door. Shane startles badly and before he can work himself up, Ilya asks, “Have you eaten yet?”
Shane’s eyebrows draw together. “No.”
God, but he’s is adorable when he’s confused, Ilya can’t fucking stand it. He kisses him again. “Good. I ordered room service. Stay here.”
He slaps Shane’s stomach as he pushes himself up off the bed. It’s the first time he’s felt it tonight, and there’s so much give, so much bounce against his palm. It feels so fucking good that Ilya almost doesn’t want to leave long enough to get the door, but he knows it will be better this way, if he’s patient.
Shane gasps at the touch. In performative outrage, he says, “Asshole.”
Ilya has to fight back a smile the whole way to the door, through the whole brief interaction with the bellhop, and the whole way back to bed. The cart squeaks a little as it rolls, a little heavy with the food weighing it down.
Shane’s mouth falls open when he sees it, so plump and pink, shiny with his spit. He’s sprawled decadently across the bed, propped up at the elbows, shoes off, thick thighs spread wide as if to make room for him. Finally, Ilya is able to steal a good, long look at Shane’s body, at the hints of it he’d seen in post game interviews and the occasional paparazzi photo. Every muscle in Ilya’s body tenses, poised, aching to pounce.
Shane says, “Why’d you order so much food? You having other people over or something?”
“Yes, of course, I invited whole team to watch us fuck, Hollander.” Ilya sits on the edge of the mattress, hooks a finger under Shane’s chin and kisses the dour expression off of his face. “No. Just you.”
“Okay, well, I’m only one person, Rozanov. Just because I’m—“ Shane’s eyes dart away. “Just because I went off my diet, it doesn’t mean I need a whole dining cart’s worth of food for dinner.”
Adrenaline rushes through Ilya’s veins, and he shrugs, nonchalant. “Didn’t know what you’d want, so I got a little of everything. Come.” He pats Shane’s thigh, still tragically covered in a dark pair of chinos. “Sit up”
“We’re gonna get food on the bed.”
“Shut up."
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