Ilya smirks. Not just any guy nor girl tonight. This one looks... different. Quiet intensity instead of drunk giggles and flirty touches like all those other girls flocking to hockey players after wins. Without hesitation, because when has Ilya ever hesitated?...he walks across the floor with that confidence only an NHL star like him could pull off without looking ridiculous. He slides into the seat right across from you casually without saying anything yet.

The Russian leans forward, elbows resting on the polished bar table, his broad frame taking up way too much space. He studies your face: sharp jawline shadowed with stubble, exhausted eyes staring into nothingness, that doesn’t blink often but holds a cold sort of focus. A nine to five worker? Or just someone who has seen too much and just wanted to reserve himself instead of stepping on the dance floor.

The music pulses louder. Some bass heavy tracks blast through speakers but Ilya barely pays attention to it. His full attention is here, on you. He reaches over without breaking eye contact and takes a slow sip from your whiskey glass before setting it back down. Ice cubes click slightly against each other in the glass.

“You usually do that to strangers?” you scolds quietly, just enough for Ilya to hear. The Russian man gets to look into those eyes of yours now, similar to a cold fish’s, unamused and deadpan like that. Ilya doesn’t flinch at the scolding, hell, most people would’ve beat his ass by now. But you? You spoke like you don’t even care that much: no yelling, just that low, level tone that people can tell you have seen enough bullshit in your life. A beat passed between you two before Ilya grins again…not cocky this time but intrigued.

"Only when they look interesting," he admitted smoothly. "You always sit alone after work?” judging by your suit and work bag? He can tell you’re just another work slave going out for a drink after a long day.

“Mhm. It's better this way.” you muttered, eyes busy checking Ilya out with a quick swift glance.

Ilya caught that glance quickly, observing, like you were mentally filing him under “Random annoying guy at the bar: very handsome" before even finishing the drink. And honestly? Ilya kinda likes it. He props his chin on one hand now, studying you in return the way the dim bar lights caught those weirdly pretty eyes of yours but somehow made them look even more lifeless.

"You a lawyer?" he asked aloud, voice rising slightly over the music just enough to be heard clearly. "You got that whole I’ll ruin your life with paperwork vibe on ya." A smirk tugs at his lips, teasing but not mocking. Curious? Plenty.

You sigh, sipping the whiskey again and respond: “What gave it away?”

Ilya flips the sleek ivory white business card between his fingers, each letter catching the glow from above: your full name, office address, office plus your own phone numbers. Fancy… He didn’t look guilty for stealing it. Guilt wasn’t really in his vocabulary. Instead, he held it up in front of your face with a slow grin like a cat presenting its catch.

"Just figured" He said "Most people have their cards in their wallets and you carry yours... here?" His finger tapped against your jacket pocket again, close to where he has swiped the card without permission when he sneaked up to you from behind earlier. God, you must have pocketed it this afternoon when a lady refused the card offer from you, instead of putting it back in your leather wallet!. Your expression hasn't changed at all. No anger yet either, which intrigued Ilya even more. Who is even this increasingly annoying guy?

The tall man tosses the card back onto the table with a quiet clack, still grinning, though now it was softer, less performative. And you? Don’t even react to him stealing your shit. Most people would’ve either punched him or called security by now.

He signals the bartender without looking away from you and orders another whiskey, the same as what you’re drinking.

"You always work this late?" he asked casually once his drinks arrived. Not small talk exactly, more like... testing the water again. "Must be boring as hell arguing and slaving over paper work all day." A jab, but not exactly a mean one. Just Ilya’s version of communication: poking at things he notices until someone reacts.

“Sure….and you? What do you do?” You ask back, sort of out of politeness. You should have just ignored him and called it a night here before the bastard opens his mouth and yaps further.

Ilya flexed his arm, like he couldn’t help showing off those thick biceps when asked about his career.

"Play for the Boston Raiders" he answered with that same easy confidence, like it was obvious. "Centre" He took a swig of whiskey before adding "You watch hockey?" Not assuming you did, just checking. Most lawyers probably had better things to do than sit through two-hour games. The bar noise swirled around them, someone cheered nearby as another victory shot got taken, glasses clicked loudly and way too blasting music speakers.

“Do I look like I watch hockey?” You huffed, sipping the whiskey to feel the sensation of the alcohol slide down your throat, it burns good.

Ilya laughed out loud and unapologetic, your deadpan response was gold to him. You only raise an eyebrow, silently judging that.

"Fair," he admitted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You look like you'd rather bury your face in papers than watch guys check each other into boards." He leans forward again, looking directly into your eyes then goes:

"What do you do for fun then? Since lawyering clearly doesn’t count as fun to your face." He snorted. The question was genuine curiosity this time. Ilya couldn't picture you at a friend’s barbecue party or karaoke night out. What do you even do for fun, boring little thing?

“I do have my fun digging into people's business to defend them but... other than the gym and bar. I don't really care about anything else” you shrugged, answering half heartedly. It’s not like you just go around and spill information about yourself, you usually keep things hidden to yourself, even colleagues don’t even know much about your whereabouts, other than how you prefer your coffee.

Ilya’s smirk widened, he didn't expect the answer to be so…lack of interest.

"Damn" he said "You’re boring as hell." But he didn't say it like an insult, more like an observation and amusement. How could someone’s life be so uninteresting?

"So you just... lift weights? Run on treadmills? What kinda workout?”

“I just saw muscular men in magazines and decided I want those one day” you slowly slip off your suit jacket. Is it getting quite hot in here?

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up, that’s quite a ridiculous reason to begin building muscles at the gym but cute too. Those men in magazines either look like greek sculptures or have biceps the size of your head. Then, because Ilya couldn’t help himself:

"No wonder your shoulders and arms look like that." He reaches out suddenly, not asking and… pokes your bicep through the shirt sleeve, testing the density of it like asian moms inspecting a piece of meat at the market.

“Like what…?” You scold, eyeing the man touching your arm, eyebrow raising slightly, silently judging the dude in front of you.

The Russian’s grin turned wolfish at your expression. Finally, a reaction. Not much, but anything counts.

"Like someone who could bench press me” Ilya said with zero shame. Still that cheeky gin on him, hoping he has shoot his shot successfully.

“Would you like me to bench press you?” you mutters, that made Ilya’s smirk widen. He took it the wrong way though. Ilya was familiar with the hooking culture and anything flirty occurred in the bar will lead straight back to the bed. So Ilya did think you wanted to take him home, while you thought you’re just going to roll up your sleeves and bench press him right there.

Ilya’s smirk turned downright predatory at the challenge, misreading your blunt offer as flirtation (Typical Ilya move: assuming everything sexy like that was an invitation.) He leans in, voice dropping to a low, rough purr over the music:

"You offering to take me home?" The question wasn't subtle. His dark eyes flickered down to your lips for half a second before meeting those eyes of yours again. Then he added with playful arrogance "Bet you fuck better than you flirt”.

What. In. The. World. You stare at him, flat and weirded out expression. Well, your colleagues often joke about how you absolutely need to get laid, because of how close off and bitter you are to the surroundings. While you don’t think sex will fix anything about your personality, some part of you still wants to give this thing a try because of how touch starved and lonely you are. Male lonely epidemic is real. You agreed to take him home. Your hand quickly slips a hundred dollar bill under your empty whiskey glass to pay and for Ilya’s also, plus tip. While Ilya one hand texting one of his teammates aka his hotel roommate:

| not coming back until 11 don't wait up

…

The elevator dings softly as it reaches the 32nd floor. The doors slide open to reveal a long, elegant hallway, plush carpet underfoot, soft yellow lighting casting warm glows on expensive looking art hung along the walls. You walk ahead without needing to look back, knowing Ilya is following just right close behind. He takes in details the moment you open the door to your apartment with a swift wipe of your home card: this place screamed boring lawyer man with no hoes. There's no colorful decoration, no sign of disorganization either, just a spacious place with modern furniture and a good view of the city by the huge to-the-ceiling glass side.

“What do you think?”

Ilya steps further inside after kicking off his shoes. It felt... cold. Not in a bad way, just minimal. Like you live here functionally rather than actually enjoy living.

"I think it's boring as hell…but very clean" he said bluntly, circling around to face you again after glancing at everything once. "You always this neat?”

“I organize everything on Sunday when I actually have time. Usually not this neat during the weekdays” You answered casually. Fair enough, for a busy lawyer like you. You were barely home anyways, it doesn’t really matter.

His lips twitched…so the lawyer did let things go sometimes. Not a total robot, then.

"Ah" he steps closer now that they were inside his space. The air between them thickens, no more elevator silence or car ride distraction. Without asking because Ilya never asks, he takes, he closes the distance and kisses you, firm but not aggressive, testing first to see if those cold lawyer lips would respond or freeze him out. The kiss deepens as you respond with a quiet hunger, like his body remembered touch even if your schedule doesn’t allow for it often. Your hands lift slowly, hesitantly at first, then one settles on Ilya’s chest while the other curls into the fabric of his shirt. Ilya groaned softly against your mouth, this wasn’t some eager makeout session where passion burned hot and fast. It was measured… careful… like you were relearning how to want someone.

He backed you gently toward the couch without breaking contact, careful not to bump against each other as they moved. The kiss lingers, less frantic, more curious. Like you are mapping out Ilya’s mouth with focus, as if you haven't kissed someone in months. Your fingers trace the lines of Ilya’s shoulders through the fabric. Ilya doesn't mind taking it slow. Usually he would be all teeth and impatience by now, but this? Your restraint is weirdly hot, controlled even when turned on. He broke away just enough to glance down at your face, those eyes half lidded with daze for once instead of icy…and smirked before dipping back in again.

“About damn time you get laid, handsome” Ilya whispered, that thick Russian accent followed by a wink.

Your eyes roll, annoyed, maybe even a little embarrassed at Ilya’s blunt comment. But you don't snap back with words, instead, you grab the front of Ilya's shirt and yank him down into another kiss, harder this time, less hesitant.

A silent scolding “Shut up”.

Ilya grins against your mouth but lets you take control for once. You’re not some shy virgin, you just move differently than most people Ilya hooked up with. Slow... careful like you’re trying to memorize this... He works with quick motions, peeling off your tie first, loosening it before sliding it free. Then buttons on the shirt popped open one by one under his fingers, revealing what he looked forward to the most underneath. The belt came next, he flicked the buckle open with only one hand, practiced ease and pulled it through the loops in a smooth motion. No teasing or dragging this out, Ilya wasn’t patient when he wanted something. He undresses you like unboxing a christmas present, full of curiosity what he would find under that suit. Soon enough, you were down to nothing, no fabric covering your big frame. The polished lawyer looks exposed into something far more casual… intimate in front of Ilya now.

“You must have done this a hundred times before…” you muttered

Ilya paused mid licking your neck and smirked…unapologetic.

"Maybe" He admitted shamelessly "You think a hockey player doesn’t get laid after every win?" But there was no arrogance in it, just fact. The lifestyle of them came with... things. Groupies, bar pickups, hotel hookups. It happened. Nothing new.

Your fingertips trace Ilya’s skin with quiet fascination…mapping every scar, every mole, every ridge of muscle like you are studying a legal document for clues. The hockey player has marks everywhere: old bruises from checks, faint white lines where stitches had been years ago… proof of his passion on ice.

The man didn’t flinch or get self-conscious, he was used to people staring at his body. But you aren’t gawking, you are admiring, learning, touching with the focus of someone who paid attention to details. The contrast made something warm curl in Ilya's chest, weird for him but not exactly unwelcomed.

The condom wrapper is tored open by Ilya with a quiet crinkle as he rolls it on you. No sweet talk, no longer foreplay beyond what you two have already done. His mind is simple right now: get a load of you. Then leave.

He nudges you back against the couch cushions with his hand, not rough but not gentle either and lines himself up without another word.

“Let me prepare you properly first” you said, you do have lube here, the cheap durex one you got from somewhere you can’t even remember, just in case, but nothing ever happened until now. Giving Ilya a few fingerings to stretch wouldn't hurt, or steal anyone’s time in the world, at least not Ilya’s.

You reach into the drawer, squeeze some onto your fingers. No hesitation, no awkwardness, just calm focus on making him less tense. You press two fingers gently into Ilya, giving him a moment to adjust before slowly pushing further. The hockey player tensed for half a second out of instinct, not pain, just surprise at the sudden sensation, but doesn’t pull away. The Russian exhales sharply through his nose, this isn’t how he usually does things… but it’s not that bad either.

You work your fingers with careful precision, stretching, pressing slightly to test Ilya’s comfort level. Ilya clenches his jaw but doesn’t complain. It is prep, not something he usually tolerated from hookups who just wanted him inside them already. A moment passes before you add one more finger, stretching further while watching Ilya's face for any sign of discomfort. You were careful with him, not that you were scared he couldn't take you, it is just in your nature to. Ilya buried his face in the crook of your neck, warm skin, faint scent of cologne. The stretch burned a little but in that familiar way he knew would feel good soon.

"Most people just let me do whatever" he admitted gruffly, voice muffled by skin and hair. "No prep shit. Or stuff like you do" not quite a laugh, more of an annoyed exhale. He thinks you’re being too careful and slow. Your fingers are removed from him by now, slightly moist from the lube lingering.

“Yeah?” your hands steadies Ilya at his hips as the hockey player sank down, slowly adjusting to the stretch. No rush, you seem content to let him set the pace anyways. Once fully seated, Ilya exhales sharply through his nose, adjusting. It isn't bad… just different. Normally he has someone doing this on his cock, not like this…

Not to mention, you weren't small by any means. Broad shoulder, just as muscular as him and now very present inside him. Ilya bit his lip to stifle another sound but failed, another quiet groan escaped as he shifted slightly, testing. You fill him completely, no room for doubt about that. For a second, you two just stay like that, no movement yet. Just breathing each other, you’re not the type to rush intimacy either. This gorgeous Russian man can have all the time in the world, sitting on your cock right now.

Ilya rolls his hips experimentally, testing how you feel like, inside of him before taking full control of the ride. He sets the rhythm, strong, confident thrusts from his hips rather than yours. He is not passive here, even being a receiver, he took charge like it was a game and he had to win. Or at least dominate you. The couch creaked slightly under the combined weight of you two as Ilya moved with firm precision, every snap of his hips made you start to daze. Your hands from gripping the cushions to touching Ilya’s hips… letting him take what he wanted without complaining.

Ilya rides you with relentless energy, his powerful thighs and core doing all the work, turning the motion into something intense, almost aggressive in its rhythm. Every bounce sent a jolt through them both. He is determined to get this handsome lawyer to come tonight. Your breath hitched, low groans escaping your lips with no restraint. The grip of yours on Ilya helped stabilize him as you take each punishing movement without complaint... because honestly? It felt incredible.

Your bodies move in sync now, you meet Ilya’s downward bounces easily with sharp upward thrusts of your strong hips from working out, creating a burning hot rhythm that builds heat inside. Ilya’s jaw clenches, not from discomfort but intensity. Every exhale through his nose was sharp like he always breathed during high pressure hockey plays. His legs burn like fire, muscles tighten each bounce. No words passed between them, just the sound of skin against skin and your breathing growing heavier by the second, both of you chasing that peak without rushing it.

For a moment, Ilya’s large hand reaches forward to wrap around your throat, not squeezing hard yet, just firm pressure, testing. His thumb pressed lightly against the pulse point there, feeling how your heart races under his palm. You don’t flinch nor protest…if anything, your breath hitched slightly at the contact, a small smirk appears on your face. A good sign. Since Ilya needed something to anchor himself, this grip gave him control while keeping him steady as their bodies moved together relentlessly. The pressure of Ilya's hand on your throat was not enough to cut off air, just a dominant claim. His other arm placed on your chest for balance as he bounces on your cock, his tightness feels punishing, squeezing you every time he rolls his hips.

No words spoken between the two of you, just pure physical and lust now. And you? You weren't some delicate thing to be held and adored, you could take this level of roughness without blinking.

Your hand wrapped around Ilya’s neglected cock, warm and firm in your palm. No hesitation, just soft strokes timed with your shared movement. Each pump makes Ilya suck in a sharp breath through his teeth, the added stimulation pushes him closer to the edge fast. His hips stuttered slightly for half a second before he regained control.

Ilya’s vision blurred, his whole body tensing as your strokes became faster, tighter. The pleasure shot through his body sharply, overwhelming his senses. His hips couldn’t maintain the pace, erratical now, no control left. Just pure instinct chasing that climax. The kiss swallows your groans as Ilya finally comes, his release hitting hard, intense and all consuming. You suck slightly on his bottom lips, sharing breathless moans through the wave of pleasure. Ilya slumps against you, his body going sore, just pure surrender to pleasure. The climax rolls through both you and him, trying to catch your breath while he already wants to get off from where he was sitting, his bottom slightly numb from the shock. You don’t shove him off or complain about his full weight being put on your body, you find yourself rather enjoying his warmth. After a while, Ilya rose from where he was sitting, the compliment slipped off: “you’re really good” before collecting his discarded clothes on the marble floor and heading to the bathroom like he owns the place.

Under the warm spray of water, he scrubs himself clean, may or may not steal your shampoo to wash off the sex scent off his body. Minutes later, he was done, pausing at the door and taking in the sight of you, his glance silently saying: clean up now? Or still sprawling on that couch like a satisfied cat?. Either way didn’t matter much, Ilya was mentally ready to go.

Ilya dips down to kiss you, slow this time, not really a sloppy goodbye kiss, but a proper press of lips that lingered for a second longer than necessary. His mouth tugs playfully at your bottom lip before pulling away. Meanwhile, his other hand quickly swipes and pockets the business card of yours from the coffee table where it had been sitting, smooth as stealing pucks in overtime. The kiss was soft, the theft was quiet. Then Ilya straightens up and walks out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.