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Shane had known the second he put them on that the black lace panties would be enough to send Ilya. They weren’t subtle—nothing about them was—but then, subtlety had never really been their strong suit. Lace riding high on his hips, a color so rich and fucking audacious against his skin like a taunt of things to come, a promise hidden beneath the layers of everything else he wore. He could practically hear Ilya going crazy with it all night, once he discovered.
They were in the off-season, finally, blessedly. Their last bit of time before Shane would be on the ice playing on the same team as his husband. The months ahead would be busy, hellacious really, all schedules and road trips and an all-out sprint to the playoffs, but for the time being, they had room to breathe. They’d carved out a little space for themselves with this summer vacation that was their honeymoon, post both camps for them, entirely off the grid and to themselves.
They hadn’t gone many places on the trip, really. A couple of lazy afternoons at the beach, toes in the warm sand, some wanderings here and there for food when their stomachs required it. Mostly, they’d stayed bundled up in each other and in their suite, their world outside of the sound of the ocean and the slow sway of the ceiling fan. Days stretched into nights, and the only time they kept was to the pull of touch and laughter.
But tonight, Shane had coaxed Ilya out. There was a restaurant down the road a ways, someone at the resort staff had insisted was worth the trek—fresh seafood and good wine and a view that just didn’t quit. Ilya had given him a half-eyebrow at the suggestion, suspicious of any distractions that kept them out of the cocoon they’d made, but Shane knew how to talk him. A few kisses, a lingering smile, and the whisper of something special were all it had taken.
It was as good as the reviews had said, and more. Warm light spilling over tabletops with crisp white linens, a breeze to carry the saltwater scent through the open terrace, food arranged on their plates so artfully that Shane felt nearly bad at disturbing it. They’d eaten to the point of excess, sharing bites across the table, lingered long over drinks as the sun started to drop lower in the sky, painting the horizon in hot liquid gold.
All the while, Shane had kept the lace secret to himself, savoring the thought of when Ilya would discover.
Halfway through dinner, candlelight glowing along Ilya’s cheekbones and the warm buzz of wine humming through Shane’s bloodstream, Ilya had started the prodding low on his thigh. It was a quiet touch at first, lazy play of fingers along the seam of Shane’s pants, but there was nothing lazy about the heat behind it. Shane had caught the faint curl of a smirk at the corner of Ilya’s mouth, the kind that could only ever lead to torment in the best way.
Shane let it drag, fork paused over his plate as if nothing at all were happening. But eventually, after teasing Ilya with the slow, sinful dip of his hips when he shifted in his seat, Shane had decided to let him in on the secret he’d been wearing since they’d left their suite.
He’d shifted in his seat, angling toward Ilya just enough that their shoulders had touched. Without breaking eye contact, Shane had eased his hand toward his zipper. The sound of the metal teeth parting was muted beneath the low murmur of the restaurant, but Shane had sworn he felt Ilya’s attention sharp as a knife at the gesture. He’d caught Ilya’s wandering hand, fingers warm through the cloth of his pants, and led it inside, into the open fly, over the heat of his body, across the slick satin and thin lace that barely contained his cock.
The air between them had shifted at that, grown heavier, hotter. Ilya’s breath had hitched, his fingers tightening momentarily, like he wanted to memorize the feel of it. He leaned forward, mouth so close to Shane’s ear he could feel the ghost of his words against his skin.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya had said, voice low and hungry. “Fuck, we’re not even going to make it to dessert.”
Shane’s lips had tilted, satisfaction a slow, steady drumming in his chest. He let Ilya’s hand linger for only a moment longer, long enough to feel the needy flex of his fingers, before guiding it back out. Zipped his fly up with a clean, final tug, a sealing away of a secret.
Dinner had been a blur after that, neither of them tasting the final bites of food, conversation chopped into half-thoughts, and glances between them so hot they rivaled the wine in their veins. The drive back to the resort had been quiet and charged, every bump of the road a reminder of how much Shane wanted and how much Ilya was holding back. It had been a test of wills for both of them.
The door to their suite had hardly shut before Ilya had Shane pinned against it, hands on either side of the frame and mouth claiming, hot against Shane’s. Shane tasted wine and need on his tongue as the slow, inexorable grind of Ilya’s hips robbed him of breath.
It wasn’t rushed, as Shane had expected. Ilya kissed him leisurely, as though he had all the time in the world, as though the hours that had passed between the restaurant and here had not been a torment for them both. His thumbs were slow, sweeping circles against Shane’s ribs, riding under his shirt and up, until the hem was hiked up.
Shane’s heart was erratic and loud. “You’re killing me,” he groaned against Ilya’s mouth.
“You don’t get to rush this,” Ilya said, voice low and almost taunting.
His shirt was gone in one fluid motion, but rather than going for his fly, Ilya stroked his palms down Shane’s chest, then over his stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband to brush over bare hip, thumb rubbing upwards, dragging over heated skin.
Shane’s pulse was erratic and loud. “Ilya, come on,” he said, rolling his hips against Ilya’s unyielding wall of muscle.
Ilya hummed, and Shane could feel the rumble of it against his spine. “You want this to be good?”
“I just want you,” Shane grumbled, even as Ilya went on sucking kisses up his stomach. “I don’t care how you do it, I just—”
“You want this to be good?” Ilya repeated, leaning in and kissing Shane hard, tongue demanding and low against his mouth. “Do you want to be good for me?”
Shane shivered. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he said, even as Ilya shifted, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of Shane’s slacks. “I’ll be so good for you.”
It was the patience of a predator, the kind that waited all day for their prey, that Ilya had with this, pulling them down inch by agonizing inch, fingers resting on Shane’s hips between long seconds of Ilya’s hands trailing over his thighs, pausing to brush so light against the edge of Shane’s cock that his thighs twitched. Inch by inch it went, until the slacks were finally pooled around his ankles and Shane could only pant, every nerve on edge between wanting to beg and wanting to see just how far Ilya was willing to push him.
The panties were next, dark black satin and lace trim that shimmered in the low light when Ilya’s fingers traced over them. He circled the waistband, slow and low, all the way around Shane’s hips, the soft drag of his nail against flesh enough to have Shane trembling.
“Perfect,” Ilya murmured, not looking up, the darkness in his voice vibrating with want. He leaned in and brushed his lips over the fabric stretched tight across Shane’s cock, so light it was a fucking tease.
Shane hissed through his teeth. “Ilya—”
The smile Ilya gave him was vicious and satisfied as he pulled the panties down, agonizingly slow, the satin clinging and catching on the head of Shane’s cock before finally sliding free. He let them fall to the floor, but did not touch, did not even brush against him. Instead, he sat back on his heels and stared.
Shane moved; the need to press forward was too much. Ilya’s gaze followed every slow inch of movement, and the heat in his eyes was like a caress in itself.
“I want you on the bed,” Ilya said, finally, but still did not move, as though he wanted to see if Shane would comply without complaint.
Shane moved toward the bed, his muscles taut and twitching with the desire to rebel just a little, and it was only when he felt the warm, deliberate press of Ilya’s mouth against the small of his back as he walked past him, the final irritating tease, that the tension finally snapped.
Now, Shane was naked on the bed, skin flushed and sweaty, while Ilya fucked into him with a frenetic pace. When Ilya had laid Shane out on the bed, he found the other secret Shane had been playing with tonight—the other toy—the plug deep inside of him. Shane had put it in earlier, knowing it would speed things up when they got back, knowing the satin and lace would already have them both nearly insatiable by the time they got back. He’d been right.
Ilya’s pace was ramped all the way up now, hips snapping forward in a blur and thrusting Shane even deeper into the mattress. Shane was sprawled out beneath him, legs held tight to his chest and open for taking. He could feel the slick slap of Ilya’s balls smacking against his ass with every full-body thrust, each one sending a burst of pleasure through his body.
He wasn’t trying to be quiet. Neither of them were. They didn’t have to be—their suite was tucked into the absolute back end of the resort, nowhere close enough for anyone to hear, even if the windows had been open. Their sounds filled the room without inhibition. Shane’s shameless whimpers and cries, Ilya’s low, throaty grunts and groans, the wet slap of flesh on flesh. Collided in a heady, desperate symphony that seemed to bounce back from the walls, cocooning them in their own little world.
Shane could feel it coming. He could tell from the weight of Ilya’s cock buried so far up against his prostate, from the deep, gasping breaths roiling over him, that they both were close. Each time Ilya slammed into him, a direct hit at his sweet spot, it stole the breath from his lungs. The coil of heat at the base of his spine was taut and tight, each slap of their bodies together a challenge that pushed him closer to the edge.
“Ilya—” It had torn from Shane, high and unrestrained, loud against the whine of moans and slap of cock on cock. The sound had seemed to pull them both over the edge.
Ilya had growled something low and indistinct, and just kept coming. Ilya’s hips kept snapping forward in short, powerful strokes as they came undone. Shane’s vision had started to white out around the edges, his whole body trembling with the force of it. Ilya had slowed gradually, drawing out every aftershock and echo until both of them were shaking and breathless.
When Ilya finally stilled, he’d let himself fall forward over Shane, pressing him into the sheets as their mouths met in slow, languorous kisses. The taste of them was salt and heat and the kind of intimacy that threaded itself deep into the bones—love made manifest in every press of lips.
Eventually, Ilya softened and slid free, and the sudden emptiness had tugged a needy whine from Shane’s throat. Ilya’s hand smoothed over his hip to still him, murmuring quiet shushes between kisses to his temple. After another long, loving touch, Ilya eased away, padding toward the ensuite.
Shane stretched out loose-limbed and satiated, listening to the water start up. At first, Shane had thought Ilya was just rinsing off, but then the sound had shifted, deeper and more constant. The big tub.
By the time Ilya came back, the room had started to faintly steam from the doorway. He held a damp, warm cloth and set to work at cleaning him up with gentle hands. Wiping at the mess of come and lube painted on Shane’s skin. The cloth was soft, but the way Ilya touched him—slow and steady—made Shane’s chest ache with love. When he finished, Ilya leaned down to press a kiss to his lips, languorous and unhurried.
“Join me for a bath,” he murmured, voice warm and coaxing.
Shane didn’t even hesitate. They’d taken more than their fair share of baths on this trip already, this suite having the most wonderful big soaking tub with wide edges that they were both so broad in that were perfect for sprawling all over the place, just soaking in the heat as their bodies shuddered back into rest. It had been a lovely indulgence, and after tonight, the idea of sinking into hot water with Ilya had sounded just right.