Chapter Text
Ilya sat in their home office, the scent of cedar and old books grounding him before his meeting. The worktable was cleared of everything that could possibly cause a distraction to his wandering mind, everything except his laptop and a glass of water. He was a professional. He was the anchor point of the Centaurs’ blueline. He had handled pressure in Game 7s, in international tournaments, and under the crushing weight of public expectation.
He was going to be fine. He just had to survive thirty minutes of a Zoom call with the boardmembers group.
He had tamed his hair for the meeting, combing it back into neat curls that framed his face. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the top button undone, and his boxers. He honestly didn’t see the point in wearing a full suit at home for a meeting that would only see his chest up on camera.
Focus, Rozanov, he told himself, closing his eyes for a heartbeat. It is just business. Numbers, strategy, trade assets. Do not think about Shane or that he is probably bored in the living room.
He could hear Shane in the other room and that was the problem.
Shane had fully embraced his new persona at this stage, which meant the entire penthouse was subjected to his not-so-new restless and high-frequency energy. He heard the sharp clack-clack of Shane’s heels as he moved around on the hardwood floors, followed by the sound of him rearranging things. Ilya could only presume that he was moving his expensive vases or framed photos just because he felt like the room’s energy was off.
Ilya loved it, and the novelty of his husband owning who the fuck he was, was certainly a turn on.
"Ilya?" Shane’s voice drifted down the hallway, bright and demanding. "I’ve decided that the living room is still giving 'bachelor pad in 2005', so I’m going to reorganize, okay? I love you!"
Ilya didn't look up from his monitor, though his pulse ticked a little faster in his throat. "Okay, but leave the pantry alone, Shane"
"Yes, okay my love-"
Ilya heard the distinctive clink of a glass, followed by the sound of Shane humming. Shane had been practically vibrating with energy all morning, insatiable in bed, and Ilya knew exactly what that meant. Shane was bored, and a bored Shane was a fucking menace. And menace Shane would probably kill him one day, he had decided long ago. Accepted his fate.
Eh, could be worse, Ilya thought, gripping his pen so tightly that the plastic creaked. My gorgeous, annoying, brilliant, chaos-inducing husband. Do not let him into this office, Rozanov.
The office door creaked open and Ilya felt the sudden shift in the air. It was like the temperature dropped, signaling the arrival of something, or someone, sharp and intoxicating. The aroma of Shane’s expensive body oil and his cologne wafted in the door behind him.
"Ilya," Shane said, his voice dropping into that smooth, predatory drawl he used when he wanted something.
"I have a meeting in five minutes, Shane. A very important one."
"I know," Shane replied, “I’m just saying hi.”
Ilya heard the thud of Shane’s boots as he kicked them off, strutting across the floor towards him. Ilya knew this look, the glint in his eye he had come to recognise as trouble. He felt the weight of him overpowering Ilya as he moved around the desk and stood behind him. His hands came down gently to rest on Ilya’s shoulders. Shane’s fingers were cool, tracing the line of his collarbone beneath his shirt before sliding down to finger at the buttons of his crisp dress shirt.
"You’re so tense," Shane whispered, leaning over his shoulder and brushing his lips against Ilya’s ear. His breath was hot against Ilya’s skin as he continued, "Your shoulders are up to your ears, Rozanov. You need to relax before you have to talk to the suits."
"I am fine," Ilya rasped, his voice dropping an octave as Shane’s hand slid lower, brushing against the outside of his thigh.
"You’re nervous," Shane purred in his ear. He leaned down, resting his chin on Ilya’s shoulder, his eyes wide and innocent in the reflection of the laptop screen. "So, I’m going to make you feel better. I’m going to make you completely forget about salary caps and trade rumors."
Shane’s hand slid further, his palm pressing firmly against Ilya’s hardening bulge, his smirk visible in the glass.
"You’re going to have to pretend that you’re a serious, professional hockey player while I do my best to make sure you relax, да?"
Ilya sucked in a breath at the Russian falling from his husband's lips so casually, his dark brown eyes melting into his own. Fuckfuckfuck. Ilya’s laptop dinged, signalling that the meeting room was opening. The board members were logging on one, by one.
Ilya stared at the glowing laptop screen, at both of their reflections staring back. He adjusted his collar for the tenth time, his heart hammering against his ribs as his husband shuffled around the chair and slid to his knees, tucking himself neatly under the desk.
He cannot be serious, Ilya thought, his hands clenching into fists beneath the desk. I am minutes away from a call with the board of the fucking Ottawa Centaurs’. The board members. The people who sign the checks.
But the soft, rhythmic sound of Shane humming a melody that was far too cheerful for a man about to commit professional sabotage told a different story. Ilya’s mind was going a hundred miles a minute, he was painfully aroused but absolutely fucking terrified.
Ilya glanced down at Shane who was kneeling on the rug, looking like a disheveled angel in that fucking silk robe, his eyes gleaming with that dangerous, high-voltage mischief that meant Ilya was about to have a very bad, very exhilarating day.
Then Shane reached for the belt of his robe. He slid the silken fabric down his shoulders, shimming slightly until it pooled around his knees on the floor.
I am a grown man, Ilya reminded himself, his breathing hitching as Shane’s hand brushed up past his knee. I am a professional athlete. I have checked players into the boards at forty miles per hour. I can go on this call and focus.
Liar, a smaller, treacherous voice whispered in the back of his mind. But he knew he was lying to himself, he was a goner.
Ilya looked at Shane, currently watching him with wide, innocent eyes that belied the chaos he was about to unleash upon Ilya. Shane’s fingers traced a slow, deliberate line up the inside of Ilya’s thigh, his touch light and testing, agonizingly slow. It was a calculated power play. Shane knew exactly how much Ilya needed to focus, and he was clearly deciding that Ilya’s focus was secondary to his own entertainment and needs.
He’s going to make me moan in front of the GM, Ilya thought, a wave of cold dread and hot, searing anticipation washing over him and twisting his stomach. He’s actually going to do it. He’s going to ruin my career and I’m going to thank him for it.
Ilya felt his composure fracturing as each second ticked by. He looked at the screen once more, focusing on the little green light that was blinking, ready to record his slow, painful descent into humiliation, and then back at Shane.
If I say no, he’ll pout, Ilya realized, his stomach doing a slow, heavy flip. If I say nothing, I am going to have to speak to the owner of the team while my husband- .
"Shane," Ilya managed to rasp, his voice sounding thin and shaky even to his own ears. "Please. Just sit still. Or leave. Or just- don't do this."
But Shane’s expression didn't change. If anything, his eyes darkened as he pouted his bottom lip out and tightened his grip on Ilya’s thigh, his thumb pressing into the muscle.
"Ilya," Shane murmured, batting his long lashes up at ilya. Ilya gulped. "I don't think you want me to leave, not really.”
Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, letting his head fall back against the headrest. The meeting chime sounded again. A sharp, digital notification that the members had started to enter the lobby.
I am going to lose my job, Ilya thought, even as he reached out to click 'Join Meeting’. And I don't even care.
He looked down at Shane one last time, at the bratty, beautiful, terrifying center of his world and let out a shaky, surrendered breath. "God help me, Shane."
"God isn't on this call, Ilya," Shane whispered, his smirk widening as he began to paw at Ilya’s hard length under his boxers. "But I am."
The camera light turned solid green. Ilya willed his face to become composed as he sat stiffly in his chair, his hands clasped over the desk. Beneath the mahogany surface, Shane was a blur of pure malice.
Shane didn't start with anything direct, that would have been far too easy. Instead, he ran his fingernails in slow, agonizing lines up the inside of Ilya’s thighs, right along the seam of his boxers and over his cock.
Ilya’s breath hitched, covered by a cough. On the screen, the GM was mid-sentence. " -and we’re looking at a restructure of the defensive pairing, Rozanov. We want to see more initiative in the transition game."
"Yes, I agree," Ilya said, his voice coming out as a strained, gravelly baritone. He gripped the edge of the desk until his skin stretched white over his joints.
Under the desk, Shane let out a low, muffled laugh against Ilya's knee. He was clearly enjoying the sheer absurdity of the power dynamic they had going on. His eyes watched as Shane reached up with a slow, deliberate hand and hooked a finger into the elastic of Ilya's boxers, pulling it away from his skin and letting it snap back with a sharp slap.
Ilya flinched, his entire body jerking in the chair.
"Is something wrong, Ilya?" one of the owners asked, squinting at his screen. "You seem restless."
"The AC," Ilya managed to grit out, his eyes fixed on the webcam while his soul was currently being dismantled by the man kneeling at his feet. "Sorry, it is malfunctioning. I am quite warm."
Shane had barely gotten started. He shifted his weight under the desk, his hair brushing against Ilya’s bare skin. He wasn't even touching him properly yet, he was still teasing. He traced the sensitive skin of Ilya’s inner thigh with the tip of his tongue, then pulled away just as Ilya’s hips bucked forward. A desperate, involuntary reflex for more.
Shane looked up from the shadows beneath the desk. His hair was slightly disheveled but his eyes were bright with glee. He reached for his boxers again, his hand gently tugging the waistband down and over Ilya’s ass. His thumb began to trace a slow, hypnotic circle around the head, smearing the leaking precum and making Ilya’s vision swim.
He is going to be the death of me, Ilya thought, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. And I am going to let him kill me.
Shane leaned closer, his warm breath hitting Ilya’s bare skin as he locked eyes. He didn't speak, but he didn't have to. The way he looked at Ilya all smug and possessive was enough. Shane leaned forward and blew a gentle, teasing puff of air against the head of Ilya’s cock, a move so calculated and so cruel that Ilya actually let out a short, jagged gasp.
"Ilya?" the GM pressed, his voice sharp. "You’re off-focus today."
Ilya gripped his pen, his hand shaking. His eyes snapped up, looking directly into the camera while his entire body felt like it was being set on fire from the waist down.
"I apologize," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a dark register. He sounded like a man who was moments away from losing his mind, he could hear it. "I am distracted. I have a lot on my mind."
Shane, obviously hearing the desperation in Ilya’s voice, smirked up at him. He barely licked at the tip of his arousal, a small kitten-lick, before pulling back and letting the cool air of the room hit his wet skin.
Ilya groaned a low, trapped noise that he turned into another cough.
"The defensive structure," Ilya continued, his eyes glazing over as Shane began to drag his nails down the length of his inner thigh, "is currently under review. I suggest we take a recess."
"A recess? We just started," the GM countered.
"Recess," Ilya repeated, his voice soft. Beneath the desk, Shane’s hand closed around him, tight and firm, and Ilya’s world narrowed down to the sensation of Shane’s hand wrapped around his cock. "Now."
The GM’s voice turned clipped, bordering on annoyed. "Ilya, we don’t have time for a recess. The board is on a hard deadline. We’re discussing the roster expansion. Stay focused."
Ilya felt his jaw lock. He couldn't leave. He couldn't move. And Shane was currently listening to every word of the rejection with a look of pure, wicked delight. Ilya felt his warm breath brush across his exposed skin sending shivers shooting up his spine.
Shane’s hand tightened around him, a silent challenge in his touch. Oh, so we’re staying? Shane’s eyes seemed to say. Let’s make it interesting, then.
Ilya trained his eyes back on his laptop screen. If he couldn't end the meeting, he had to at least control his eyes and the visual. With a hand that was visibly trembling, he reached out and ‘accidentally’ knocked his glass of water toward the edge of the desk. As he lunged to ‘catch’ it, his shoulder slammed into the tripod holding his webcam, sending it spinning toward the floor.
"Damn it," Ilya growled, the audio picking up the clatter of plastic hitting the rug. He kicked the tripod further away and crashed into the wall, leaving the camera tilted at a useless angle, pointing at the dark wall paint and the corner of a bookshelf.
"Ilya? We’ve lost your feed," someone said. "Your camera is black."
"Connectivity issues," Ilya grunted, his voice tight and breathless. "I’ll- I’ll stay on audio. Please continue."
Ilya turned his mic off for a second, his voice dropping to a growl, "Don't test me, Hollander. You have no idea what I’m going to do to you when this meeting ends."
Shane laughed and leaned back on his knees, clearly enjoying the fact that the most powerful people in the NHL were about to hear exactly how much of a nuisance he could be when he wanted to be.
Before Ilya could get another word in, and after just unmuting himself, Shane’s mouth was wrapping around the head of his cock, his tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles.
Ilya’s fingers clenched into fists on the desk. He bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, willing himself not to make a sound, but Shane wasn’t having it. He took Ilya deeper, his throat working around the shaft as his hand gripped the base, stroking in time with his bobbing head.
A muffled groan escaped Ilya’s throat before he could stop it. His hips jerked involuntarily as Shane’s mouth worked him over.
Shane’s free hand slipped up to cup Ilya’s balls, rolling them gently in his palm as his mouth continued its vicious assault. Ilya’s thighs trembled, his cock twitching in Shane’s mouth. He could feel the pressure building, the tight coil of pleasure in his gut, but he gritted his teeth and forced it back. He wasn’t going to have a fucking orgasm on camera.
The board members droned on, oblivious to the war raging beneath the desk. Shane’s mouth was relentless, his tongue tracing the thick vein running along the underside of Ilya’s cock before swirling around the sensitive head again. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as he pulled back, then took him all the way down and into his throat.
Ilya’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. He risked a glance at the screen, but all he saw were the board members nodding along to their own conversation, their expressions as unreadable as ever.
Shane must’ve sensed his struggle, digging his fingers into Ilya’s thigh and holding him in place as he doubled down on his efforts, his head bobbing faster now, his tongue working overtime. Ilya’s vision blurred, his cock throbbing and leaking in Shane’s mouth. He bit down on his lip again so hard that he tasted blood, but it wasn’t enough. A low, desperate sound tore from his throat, and he couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Fuck- fuck Shane- ” The words tore from him before he could stop them, his hand hitting the spacebar and muting his mic a second too late. His hips jerked off the chair as Shane swallowed around the head of his cock, milking every last drop of pleasure from him. His release spilled into Shane’s mouth, pulsing thick ropes of come onto his tongue, and Shane drank him down, licking his lips clean as he pulled back.
Ilya’s chest heaved, his cock still twitching in Shane’s grip and still hard. The board members were still talking. Ilya’s face burned with humiliation and pleasure, his cock growing unbearably hard again just from the thought of what just happened.
Shane grinned up at him, his lips glistening. “You good, Captain?” he asked, voice loud enough for the mic to pick up.
Ilya’s glare could’ve melted steel. “Not a word,” he hissed, reaching for his boxers with shaking hands.
Shane’s grin turned wicked as he gripped Ilya’s hand in his, stopping his movements. “Where do you think you’re going?” He whispered sharply.
Shane started to move, leaning back on his knees and moving to a half-lying down position under the desk. Finally realizing the camera was down, and the playful teasing blowjob had only been the warmup, he got to work.
A bottle of lube that Ilya hadn’t noticed was now in his husband's hand, squeezing the liquid over his fingers and trailing slowly down his stomach. Ilya wasn’t quite sure when his boxers had been discarded, but he couldn't take his eyes off his strained cock and puckered hole. His mouth was open, he could feel himself gaping down at Shane, but he physically couldn’t help himself.
He watched as Shane’s finger trailed lower and lower, brushing past his own cock and aiming straight for his entrance. His finger swirled around once, twice before dipping inside. Ilya felt the desk rattle as Shane’s head thumped against the hard wood, his lips falling open as he opened himself up.
Ilya was going to pass out, his mouth had gone bone dry.
Shane pumped his finger in and out slowly before adding a second finger and scissoring them slightly. Ilya watched his body suck in his fingers greedily, the muscle stretching and swallowing around his digits.
Before Ilya could actually breathe, Shane shifted again, gracefully moving out from under the desk and moving forward and up into Ilya’s lap, straddling him. The friction of the desk’s edge and the sharp press of Shane’s body against him was sensory overload.
He looked down at Ilya, his eyes blown wide, dark, and hungry. He wanted to feel every bit of Ilya’s struggle, every bit of his professional collapse as he moulded their mouths together. Ilya clawed at the supple skin of his ass, hauling Shane in closer and settling him right over his own cock. His head hit the headrest with a dull thud as Shane consumed him.
It started with a low, guttural growl that tore through Ilya's chest, a sound of pure want and need that made Shane’s knees weak. Ilya’s large, calloused hand gripped the back of Shane's neck, his fingers tangling deep into his hair and anchoring him in place while the other kneaded and massaged his left cheek greedily.
Shane’s mouth crashed against his, hard and demanding, his lips parting Ilya’s with the authority of someone who had been starving for a taste.
Ilya let out a shaky, splintered gasp into Shane’s mouth, his hands working overtime to touch and feel, pulling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air left between them. Ilya’s other hand swept up to the small of Shane's back, his palm scorching his own personal brand into his skin and pressed him flush against his chest. Ilya gripped him so tightly they could almost merge into a single entity.
Shane shifted on top, tilting Ilya’s head slightly to deepen the angle, his lips moving relentlessly against Ilya’s. He moved with his entire body, leaning in and grinding down with a crushing, suffocating weight that made his head spin.
Every time Ilya tried to pull back an inch, every time he tried to gasp for air, Shane followed him. Tracking the location of his lips with a painful precision. It was messy, breathless, and entirely fucking hot. It was the kind of kiss that demanded their complete attention and was total surrender. About to leave them both dazed and incapable of thinking about anything but each other.
"The salary cap projection- " the GM droned on, somewhere on another planet. Ilya wasn’t too sure and couldn’t find it in himself to really care anymore.
Encouraged by Ilya’s current state, Shane made his next move. He disconnected their lips, trailing featherlight kisses up Ilya’s neck towards his ear, pulling the lobe between his teeth and tugging. Shane’s tongue grazed his ear as he whispered, “Hold on to something, Rozanov.”
Shane pulled back, sitting to his full height in Ilya’s lap and smirked. He was already slick and ready, one hand bracing against Ilya’s shoulder as he positioned himself over his throbbing arousal. The chair groaned quietly as he teased the head against his entrance, dipping past the rim and pulling back again.
Ilya could only sit and watch in awe as his husband then sank down on his cock in one sweep. Ilya’s cock stretched him open in one slow, relentless slide. Ilya’s knuckles whitened around the edge of the desk, his other hand gripping Shane’s hip hard enough to bruise. Shane began to move, rocking in shallow, torturous strokes.
Ilya was sure he was dead. He knew he looked no more than a fool, his mouth hanging open, barely drawing in breaths and staring wide-eyed at Shane Hollander riding him during a business call like it was happy hour. His eyes locked on Ilya’s, and he swore he could see the stars bursting behind Shane’s just as much.
Shane bit back a moan, rolling and grinding his hips in a rhythm that had Ilya’s breath hitching, his free hand clenching Shane’s ass in a death grip. The client’s voice was still blurred into static as Shane lifted slightly before sinking down again and taking him deeper, his own cock dripping untouched against Ilya’s abdomen. Ilya’s jaw flexed, his English fleeing his mind with every tight, wet squeeze of Shane’s body. When Shane leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of his ear, the words were barely a whisper: “Think they’ll hear if you come on camera?”
Ilya’s head spun. The sensation of filling Shane so completely, of feeling his husband’s body moving against his own while he was forced to discuss hockey was a special kind of hellish ecstasy.
"Ilya?" the GM asked. "Are you still there? You’ve been silent for a while."
Ilya’s hands were clawing into the mahogany as he was gasping for air. He had to speak.
"I’m- here," Ilya breathed, the words came out as a strained, broken rasp. He had to force the air out of his lungs as Shane tightened his muscles around his cock, his grip punishingly tight. "Regarding the.. the- cap hit. I agree. We- we need more flexibility."
Shane leaned forward, his chest pressed against Ilya’s and his hips rocking faster and faster. He was watching Ilya’s face for every crack in his composure as he leaned up, whispering against Ilya’s ear again, "Such a good boy, Ilya. Tell them more about the strategy." He clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of his keyboard hard enough to feel the plastic flex.
Focus.
But then Shane’s tongue traced the shell of his ear, and his throat went dry mid-sentence.
Ilya’s hips bucked, a purely physiological response that Shane immediately countered by grinding down harder, trapping them in a friction-heavy lock.
"We need to.. leverage our assets," Ilya managed to gasp out, his voice thick. He squeezed his eyes shut as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside Shane and watched his husband throw his head back in ecstasy.
"Leverage them how?" the owner pressed, oblivious to the fact that his star captain was currently having his composure systematically dismantled by the fucking golden boy of hockey.
Ilya’s back arched, his entire body shuddering as Shane chased his release, moving faster now, his smirk turning into a desperate, silent grimace of pleasure. Ilya clamped his hand over his own mouth to suppress a groan.
"We need.. to be.. aggressive," Ilya squeezed out, his voice a strangled mess.
He barely managed to cover his stumble with a cough, as the member continued, “Yes- yes, the projections align with last quarter’s-”
Ilya’s free hand shot to Shane’s hip, holding him still for a fractured second- too much, too fast- before Shane rolled his hips, and words evaporated from his brain.
Every bounce, every grind was a test of control. Shane’s breath hitched against his neck, fingers tangling in his hair and dragging him deeper into the heat of his body. Ilya swallowed a moan as his hand slid up Shane’s thigh, gripping hard as he bucked up into him hard, just once, just to watch Shane’s lips part in silent pleasure.
"Is that a cough, Ilya? You sound terrible," the GM noted, annoyed.
Shane's nails dug into his shoulders as he arched back, riding Ilya with deliberate rolls of his hips that made the leather chair squeak beneath them. Ilya's hands clamped down on Shane's waist, fingers pressing into bruises as he fought to keep his thrusts controlled - each lift of his hips met by Shane's downward grind in perfect, maddening rhythm.
Ilya's breath came in ragged bursts through clenched teeth, every muscle straining as Shane tightened around him.
“S- Sorry. I don’t feel good right now, I have a sudden headache.” Ilya stammered out.
"You're not even - ah - paying attention," Shane purred, dragging a fingertip down his chest and circling Ilya's nipple, pinching at the taut bud.
Ilya's hips stuttered when Shane clamped down again, his cock pulsing as precome dripped between them. The spreadsheet on the monitor blurred as Shane leaned in, teeth scraping his jaw. "Keep fucking me just like that," he murmured, rocking deeper with each word.
"I have everything I need. I’ll sign the paperwork later. We’re done here." Before they could argue, Ilya’s finger slammed the disconnect button, the screen blinking to black and effectively cutting off their confused questions and finally ending the charade. Just as Shane dropped onto him with a force that knocked the chair back into the desk.
The chair's hydraulics hissed as Ilya finally surrendered to the rhythm, pistoning upward in sharp, unprofessional thrusts that sent Shane's moans vibrating through the forgotten microphone.
“Shane- fuck” Ilya all but hissed out.
Papers scattered to the floor as their movements turned frantic - no more pretense, no more control. Shane's thighs trembled around him, his cock leaking against Ilya's stomach as he rode him now with rough, desperate strokes.
"Fuck, fuck- " Ilya growled, hands gripping Shane's hips and driving up into him with abandon. The chair creaked dangerously, wheels skidding against the floor as Shane's rhythm fractured, his body tightening around Ilya as his release crashed through him in waves.
Heat coiled low in Ilya's gut, his release barrelling through him as Shane spilled between them with a choked off cry.
The silence in the office was heavy, broken only by the ragged, synchronized rise and fall of their chests. The adrenaline that had been surging through the room, that dangerous, high-stakes thrill of the meeting was rapidly cooling, leaving behind a thick, syrupy haze of afterglow.
Shane remained slumped against Ilya, his head tucked firmly into the crook of Ilya’s neck. His robe was a discarded heap on the rug, and Ilya’s shirt was rumpled and pulled askew, but he didn't care. He was boneless, his limbs heavy and limp, his skin still prickling from the lingering electricity of their climax.
Ilya’s hand was splayed wide across Shane’s back, his palm hot against Shane’s spine as he trailed it lazily up and down. He was just breathing, his chin resting on top of Shane’s head, his heart rate slowly decelerating from its frantic pace.
"You're a fucking menace," Ilya rasped, his voice still shredded with the remnants of their frantic coupling. “You are going to actually kill me, you know.”
Shane let out a low, content hum that vibrated through Ilya’s chest as he nuzzled deeper into Ilya’s skin, inhaling the scent of sweat and his expensive cologne.
"I know," Shane murmured, his voice barely a breath. "But you loved it. You were shaking the whole time, Ilya. I could feel your heart trying to jump out of your chest."
Ilya tightened his arm around Shane, pulling him tight against his torso. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s temple, his lips lingering against the skin. "I was terrified. I thought Miller was going to ask me a question I couldn't answer."
"But he didn't," Shane pointed out, his tone smug despite his exhaustion. "And now you don't have to worry about salary caps for the rest of the afternoon. You’re welcome."
Ilya let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan.
"You do realize," Ilya whispered, his fingers tracing slow, hypnotic circles at the base of Shane’s neck, "that I have to call them back. I have to apologize for the 'connectivity issues'."
Shane finally lifted his head, his eyes hooded and glassy as he met Ilya’s own. A trace of his usual mischief flickered in them, but it had softened now, mellowed out by the sheer weight of his exhaustion. He looked at Ilya - really looked at him - with a gaze of such stark, unguarded adoration that it made Ilya’s throat constrict.
"Tell them you were hit in the head during practice," Shane suggested, his voice tiny. "Tell them you have a concussion and you need to take the rest of the weekend off to lie in a dark room. With me."
Ilya stared at him, his thumb brushing over Shane’s swollen, flushed lips. "You are crazy."
"I'm exhausted," Shane countered, closing his eyes again and sinking back against Ilya’s chest, his body turning back into dead weight. "And you're not allowed to move. I've claimed this lap. It's mine for the next three to five hours."
"What if I have to work?"
"Then work while I nap," Shane whispered, his breathing evening out into the rhythmic pattern of impending sleep. "But if you move, I’m going to spend all night being so annoying that you’ll wish I was in the office again."
Ilya smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged to no one but the ragdoll in his arms. He leaned back into the chair, listening to the silence of the apartment and feeling the steady thrum of Shane’s heart against his own.
He knew as he settled into the chair and let his own eyes drift shut, that he would do it all over again in a heartbeat just to see the proud, satisfied look on Shane’s face.
"Three to five hours," Ilya agreed, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "I can do that, Hollander."