Heated Rivalry: Las Vegas Remix

Today is the fifth(!!!) anniversary of the release of Heated Rivalry and to celebrate I am sharing a little something. I’ve been asked quite a bit about Ilya’s thoughts and feelings during the “Las Vegas scene.” Specifically, readers have been interested to know where exactly Ilya was when Shane was waiting for him backstage at the NHL Awards. Now the question has been answered!

Thanks to everyone who read Ilya and Shane’s books, and who shared their love of them with me and with other readers. I know I’ve said it before, but I am overwhelmed and touched by how much readers have embraced these guys. I promise you haven’t seen the last of them, but for now please enjoy a bit of vintage Ilya and Shane, when they were still too stupid to realize they were in love.

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June 2014—Las Vegas

Ilya only had three minutes to pull himself together.

Two minutes and fifty seconds, actually.

He was gripping the counter in a bathroom backstage at the NHL Awards, trying to force down the panic that had taken hold of him. It had been simmering all day, finally boiling over when he’d spotted Shane Hollander backstage.

It had been a wild few months. He was a Stanley Cup champion now, and it intermittently felt incredible and surreal and…empty.

His father wasn’t well. If there had been any uncertainty about that before, going back to Russia for the Olympics had ended it. It had to be Alzheimer’s, and Ilya needed to deal with it because no one else would. Not his brother, not his father’s wife. They both insisted that nothing was wrong with Grigori Rozanov.

Ilya was flying to Moscow next week. First back to Boston tomorrow to pack and take care of some things before leaving for the rest of the summer. He wished he could stay in Boston, or go somewhere else entirely. Somewhere relaxing, or fun. When was the last time he’d enjoyed a summer?

He’d bet Hollander enjoyed every moment of his summers. Soaking up the sun along with the adoration of his friends and family at his stupid fucking lake house thing. Not a care in the world.

Ilya hadn’t seen Hollander off the ice since the Olympics. Hadn’t spoken to him since then.

He’d thought about him every day.

He’d thought about the way Hollander had found him in the stands of the Sweden vs. Finland game in Sochi, and had asked if he was all right. He’d thought about how strong the urge had been for Ilya to wrap Hollander in his arms and just hold him. Pull him against his chest so Ilya could bury his face in his short, glossy hair and breathe him in. It had been so fucking scary, that urge. The way Ilya’s heart had skipped when he’d spotted Hollander approaching him, and the way he’d wanted to tell him everything.

Hollander was waiting for him, now. Not because he wanted to see him, but because they were presenting an award together. Most Sportsmanlike, which, Ilya had to admit, was funny. He’d told himself all day that it would be fine, seeing Hollander again. But as soon as he’d laid eyes on him, Ilya had felt an overwhelming need to hide. He’d dashed away, hopefully without Hollander seeing him.

So now Ilya was hiding in a bathroom when he was supposed to be standing at Hollander’s side, about to walk onto a stage to play up their rivalry for laughs. He stared at himself in the mirror. Despite his father’s unhappiness with the length of Ilya’s hair, Ilya hadn’t cut it since well before the Olympics. Maybe because of his father’s unhappiness. It was now long enough that he often tied it back, as he had tonight. He thought it looked good, with the tuxedo. Distinguished. Sexy.

He could really stand to get laid tonight. He’d love to stop thinking for a while.

He checked the time on his phone and decided that, yes, he needed to get out there. Uncurling his fingers from the counter, he straightened and rolled his shoulders back. He took one slow breath, forced his face into a more relaxed, unbothered expression, and left the bathroom.

He spotted Hollander at the edge of the stage, glancing around frantically. Ilya sauntered up behind him. “Looking for me?”

Hollander spun around. He was wearing a tuxedo and a scowl, and his hair was neatly parted on the side like a child who was getting his school picture taken. “Fuck, Rozanov. What the fuck? We’re on in like five seconds!”

Every time Ilya encountered Hollander, whether on the ice or off, he hoped that maybe this time he wouldn’t find him so fucking irresistible. He hoped he wouldn’t want to watch the irritation in Hollander’s dark eyes shift to desire. He hoped he wouldn’t want to be thrown against a wall by the man, and let him take his anger out on Ilya for a bit.

This time, like every time, those hopes were swiftly shattered.

“Fifty seconds,” Ilya said calmly. “We are fine.”

Hollander’s mouth dropped open, eyes blazing. “Does it matter to you that everyone backstage has been having a heart attack looking for you?”

“Not really.” At the moment Ilya didn’t care about anything other than the way Hollander’s freckles looked darker than usual, as if he’d been out in the sun recently.

“Where were you, anyway?” Hollander asked tightly.

Ilya went with the most infuriating answer. “Busy.”

Hollanders eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? With who?”

God, was he jealous? Did he hate knowing that Ilya slept with other people? It was dangerous to even consider. “We’re on.”

He walked quickly onto the stage, wishing he could see the furious expression on Hollander’s face as he trailed behind him. The audience—most of whom hated Ilya, loved Hollander, and were jealous of both of them—applauded as he made his way to the podium. Ilya found the teleprompter with their dialogue, and took a breath. He wasn’t a fan of reading English aloud to an audience.

“Sportsmanship,” he said cheerfully, “is very important.”

The audience laughed.

“I didn’t know you knew what that word meant, Rozanov,” Hollander read. He sounded authentically angry with Ilya.

“Of course I know. It is like when I steal the puck from you and score a goal, you are not a sore loser about it.”

“Or when I score a hat trick against your team, you graciously accept defeat.”

“Or,” Ilya said in his most obnoxious tone, “when I win the Stanley Cup, you are impressed by my achievement.”

That got a lot of laughter.

“Anyway,” Hollander said grumpily, “here are this year’s nominees.”

“Hey,” Ilya said, still reading from the teleprompter, “before we give out the award, can I get a selfie?”

“What?”

“Just a quick one. I mean, when will this happen again, right?”

“Fine, but hurry up.”

Ilya was excited for this part. He took out his phone, actually opened the camera app, then wrapped one arm around Hollander’s shoulders while holding the phone out with the other. He could see Hollander’s irritated expression on the phone screen.

Ilya took several photos. It was stupid, wanting to have them, but that didn’t stop him. He did want the photos, even if Hollander’s face was all tight with disapproval. Even if Hollander never wanted to touch him again, Ilya would have these photos.

He curled his fingers against the soft fabric of Hollander’s tuxedo jacket, and into the hard muscle beneath. He turned his head, just slightly, to bring his lips momentarily closer to Hollander’s hair. He smelled like mint and citrus, just as he had the last time Ilya had been this close to him. When Ilya had kissed him breathless before pushing him onto a bed.

Hollander’s irritation was so strong that Ilya could practically see the waves of it radiating from his tense shoulders. Ilya wanted all of it. He wanted Hollander to unleash it on him, then kiss him and order Ilya to fuck him. Ilya wanted Hollander to overwhelm him until he couldn’t think of anything else.

Ilya let his fingers drag across the back of Hollander’s neck as he removed his arm from around his shoulders. He didn’t miss the tiny gasp that escaped from Hollander’s lips. Ilya’s own lips twitched with the urge to stretch into a wide grin.

When they finished their spiel, and after Hollander grumpily thrust the trophy into the winner’s hands—a forward for Edmonton. Nice guy. Whatever—Hollander turned on his heel and marched off the stage. Ilya sauntered after him.

Hollander entered the same backstage bathroom Ilya had been hiding in earlier. Ilya silently counted to ten, then followed him, not at all surprised that Hollander had left the door unlocked.

Ilya barely managed to lock the door behind him before he had Hollander pressed against a wall. Hollander’s dark eyes gleamed with anger and lust, a combination that Ilya had never been able to resist. A combination that Ilya had missed.

He’d missed him.

“Well?” Ilya asked.

“Well what?”

Ilya’s stomach flipped and his cock twitched. This fucking guy. Ilya decided to push his luck, and pointed to the floor. “Are you not going to suck my dick?”

“Fuck you! Why don’t you suck mine?”

That definitely wasn’t going to happen in this gross bathroom, but Ilya kept his expression neutral and hummed softly, as if considering the offer. Helplessly, he brushed his fingertips along the sharp line of Hollander’s smooth jaw. “Maybe ask nice.”

Ilya wondered if he had pushed too far. If anger would overtake the lust in Hollander’s dark eyes and Ilya would be shoved backward. If Ilya would have to watch him walk awa—

“Please.”

It was barely a whisper, but Hollander’s single word rocketed through Ilya. He managed to maintain his cool exterior, but barely. Instead of giving in to what they both wanted, Ilya pushed further.

“You want me to kneel on this dirty bathroom floor? You have to ask nicer than that, Hollander.”

“Please,” Hollander said again, his voice strained and shaking, probably from the effort it took to not punch Ilya. Or to not die of embarrassment. “Get on your knees and suck my dick. Please.”

Ilya raked his gaze over Hollander’s body, pausing at the obvious bulge in his tuxedo pants. Ilya cupped him through the sleek fabric, and enjoyed the way Hollander had to close his eyes, and the way he gasped.

Ilya leaned in, hovering his lips next to Hollander’s ear and said, “No.”

Hollander’s reaction was even better than Ilya had hoped. His eyes flew open, brow pinched with confusion. “What?”

“No. I will not do anything to you in here.” Ilya was suddenly struck by a fantastic idea. “We will go back out there, and sit in our seats, and then go to the party. And then, when you have been waiting all night for it, you will come to my hotel room. And I will maybe do more than suck your dick.”

“You’re really going to leave me like this?” Hollander asked, stalling pointlessly.

“Yes. For now.”

Another few seconds of hesitation, and then, with an absurd amount of irritation, “Fine.”

“Aw. I will make a deal: if you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you…whatever you want.”

Hollander stared at him, and Ilya could practically see the suggestion rolling around in his brain. He would say yes to this. He wouldn’t be able to resist such an offer. Not when Ilya had made it a competition with a winner and a loser.

“And if you win?”

Ilya grinned. He knew this man so well, without really knowing him at all. “I will let you know.”

Now would be the moment to make his exit. Leave Hollander confused and horny without showing how badly Ilya wanted him too. How much he’d missed him. But Ilya couldn’t resist stealing a kiss, now that he finally had him alone.

Before he could overthink it, he grabbed Hollander’s lapel and kissed him. It was hard and messy and probably more urgent than Ilya would have liked. It still wasn’t the way he wanted to kiss Hollander. But if he kissed him the way he wanted to—a slow exploration of Hollander’s mouth that would provide Ilya with enough memories to get him through the long summer ahead—they would never leave this bathroom.

It was fucking stupid.

Ilya let him go. “Good luck tonight.”

He left without looking back.

***

Why was Ilya so nervous?

He’d won the MVP award (of course), and now he was waiting for his real prize. Hook-ups didn’t ever make him nervous. And Hollander was just a hook-up. More interesting, maybe, than other people Ilya slept with. More fun to tease. And, yes, hotter. Objectively.

But still. There was no reason for the butterflies in Ilya’s stomach.

In his hotel suite, Ilya removed his tuxedo jacket and his bowtie, then his shoes and socks. He felt over heated when he wanted to seem perfectly in control of everything, including his own body temperature. He unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt, then, after a quick glance in the full-length mirror, a fourth button.

He smoothed his palms over his slicked back hair, taming any strays that had escaped.

Jane: I’m here.

Ilya smiled at his phone, the butterflies settling immediately. He unlocked the door and opened it just in time for Hollander to grab the handle on the other side. Ilya walked to the middle of the room, and turned to face him.

Hollander was still wearing his tuxedo jacket, but had removed his tie. His cheeks were slightly pink, either from rushing up to Ilya’s room, or from alcohol.

“Here to congratulate me?” Ilya said calmly.

“I guess.”

Ilya playfully spread his arms, waiting for Hollander to actually say the word.

“Congratulations,” he said, not sounding like he meant it at all.

“Thank you. Now take off your clothes.”

To Ilya’s delight, he obeyed immediately, and in a very Shane Hollander way. Each piece of his suit was folded flat and draped over the back of the sofa, as if he’d need to wear the tuxedo again tomorrow or something. Ilya watched him, finding the whole thing more amusing than seductive.

“Shouldn’t we—” Hollander said when he was wearing only his boxer briefs. “I mean. There are windows.”

“We are on the sixteenth floor.”

“Yeah, but…”

So much for fucking Hollander against the window with the Vegas strip stretching out beneath them. Oh well. Ilya had lots of ideas. He silently headed for the bedroom, letting Hollander follow behind him. He drew the curtains closed, but didn’t let Hollander get too comfortable.

“On the bed,” Ilya said firmly, without looking at him. When he finally turned to face him, Hollander was already on the bed, still in his underwear. His skin looked flawless and golden in the low lamplight, his hair slightly disheveled from undressing. He was absently chewing on his lower lip, and staring at Ilya as if awaiting further instruction.

Ilya left the room.

He shouldn’t have invited Hollander to his room. They’d managed to avoid each other for months and Ilya could have simply let that continue. Forever. Because that was what made sense. Shane Hollander sprawled out on Ilya’s bed, offering himself as a fucking prize, did not make sense. The way Ilya was more tempted to gather Hollander in his arms and hold him all night than fuck him didn’t make sense. The way Ilya knew that if he kissed him he’d never stop didn’t make sense.

He needed to be careful tonight.

Ilya poured vodka into a glass, downed it, then poured another. Finally, after a long, steadying breath, he returned to the bedroom, drink in hand. Hollander was still on the bed, still waiting. God.

Ilya sat in a chair at the end of the bed, and silently took a sip of vodka. “Mm. I am impressed with this hotel. This vodka is not so easy to find.”

“Okay,” Hollander said. There was clear impatience in his tone, which only made Ilya want to stretch this out more.

Instead, he decided to test the limits of Hollander’s obedience.

“Touch yourself.”

Hollander’s eyes went wide. “What?”

This wasn’t something they’d ever done before. Maybe Hollander would give his own dick a few lazy strokes while waiting for Ilya to put a condom on, or a few desperate strokes to get himself over the edge while Ilya plowed him. But not like this.

“Show off for me,” Ilya clarified. “Let me watch you.”

Hollander did not seem any less confused. “You—what?”

“Is my special night, Hollander. I want to watch you.”

Blush spread across Hollander’s cheeks and down his neck to his chest. “I—I’ve never…”

Of course he hadn’t, which is exactly why Ilya wanted him to now. For him. “I thought maybe not. So show me. How do you touch yourself, Shane Hollander?”

For a long, tense moment, both men were silent, their gazes locked. Ilya certainly wasn’t going to be the one to speak first. He took another sip of his drink, and waited.

“Give me some of that vodka, then,” Hollander finally said. “I’m too sober for this.”

Ilya wanted to pump his fist in celebration, but he kept his cool. “No. The vodka you can have after. As reward.”

“Fuck. You.”

Ilya was having a great time now. He’d forgotten how much fun it was with Hollander. “Is good vodka! Come on. Look at your poor dick, Hollander. Give him some attention, yes?”

The bulge in Hollander’s underwear was hard to ignore. As much as Hollander looked like he was going to punch Ilya, he must have been dying to touch himself

“Close your eyes,” Ilya said encouragingly. “Pretend you are alone. How do you start?”

Finally, slowly, Hollander brought his hand to his stomach. He kept his eyes closed as he dragged his fingers gently over his skin, barely touching. It was somehow sexier than anything Ilya had ever seen in his life. Hollander was nervous, but he was doing this. For Ilya.

When Hollander finally pressed his hand to his erection, it was like a switch was flipped. The nerves disappeared, released with a filthy moan as Hollander began to show off. Ilya was mesmerized, impressed, and so turned on he was having a difficult time staying cool. He was leaning forward eagerly in his chair, and didn’t realize it until Hollander opened his eyes, catching him.

Ilya fought for control. “Come on, Hollander,” he managed to say. “Show me.”

Hollander slid his underwear down until it stretched across his enormous thighs. His cock was already dripping.

“Stroke it,” Ilya heard himself saying. “Make yourself come for me.”

Hollander slowly spread a pearly drop of precome over the head of his cock, watching Ilya’s face the entire time. Ilya was going to have a heart attack.

“There is lube in the drawer,” Ilya said, somewhat haltingly because he’d almost forgotten the English words “drawer,” “lube,” and “the.” He definitely wasn’t the one in charge anymore. “Beside the bed.”

As if to prove it, Hollander said, “Get it for me.”

Ilya got it for him. In an attempt to regain some control, Ilya childishly pulled the bottle away as Hollander reached for it. Then, he tossed it on the bed and delighted in watching Hollander angrily retrieve it.

He wanted more anger.

“Would you like to know how it feels?” he asked as he sat back in his chair.

“How what feels?”

“The Cup. Do you want to know what it feels like to hold the Stanley Cup?”

Hollander’s eyes were furious. “Oh fuck you.”

Ilya laughed. “I cannot describe it anyway. Impossible.”

“I’ll find out for myself soon enough.”

Ilya had no doubt. “Of course. Now, show me how you like it, Hollander.”

Hollander did. He pleasured himself shamelessly—eagerly—as if he was hoping for positive feedback when he was done. He was breathtakingly beautiful, and Ilya needed to be inside him. He couldn’t possibly just watch.

“Open yourself up,” Ilya instructed. “Use your fingers.”

Hollander did. He poured lube over his fingers and began massaging his hole. Ilya’s cock was straining against his pants, and his mind was crumbling apart. “Yes,” he said. “Let me see you open yourself for me.”

It was an unnecessary instruction. Hollander already had a finger inside. “You gonna fuck me?”

Ilya might never stop fucking him. There was nothing ever in his life that he’d wanted more. “We’ll see,” he said, his voice remarkably steady. He sipped his vodka, hoping he wouldn’t give himself away.

But then Hollander broke him with a single word: “Please.”

Oh god. Hollander was begging. Ilya swallowed hard. “Please what?”

“I—I need…”

Ilya wanted him to say it. He wanted him to tell Ilya to fuck him, to hold him, to stay with him. “What do you need, Hollander?”

“You. Fuck me. Please.”

The “You” echoed in Ilya’s ears, pounding along with his blood as he stood. He began to undress, but only got as far as removing his shirt before Hollander—on all fours—was rubbing his face against Ilya’s crotch.

English left Ilya. Everything left Ilya except raging lust and something sharper and more painful that he needed to ignore. “Why does it have to be you?” he said aloud in Russian. “Why are you so perfect? It’s fucking awful.”

He was wondering if Hollander might have been sent as some sort of test from God, something Ilya was supposed to resist, when Hollander wrapped his lips around Ilya’s cock.

Sorry, God.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya moaned, finding his English again. “You love it.”

Hollander kept sucking, and Ilya enjoyed it for as long as he could. When he was dangerously close to coming, he pulled out and said, “Turn over.”

Ilya wasn’t even trying to be cool anymore, not when Hollander was presenting his ass so obediently. Ilya barely managed to get the condom and lube on before he sank into Hollander, fucking him with no finesse or patience at all. He jackhammered into him, mad at Hollander for existing, mad at himself for needing him. Hollander kept repeating “please,” and Ilya tried his best to give him everything he had.

His orgasm was violent and wonderful, and Ilya cried out as it ripped through him. He was dimly aware that Hollander had come too, and wished he could have seen it. He rested his forehead between Hollander’s shoulder blades, panting and breathing him in. Finally, he fell to the bed beside him.

“Jesus, Hollander.”

Hollander looked wrecked, all flushed and glistening and messy. He smiled at Ilya and said, “How about that vodka?”

Ilya laughed, and his heart swelled. “Yes. Give me a minute.” He didn’t want to leave the bed, because when he did, this would be over. Hollander wouldn’t be smiling at him, gorgeous and spent. He’d get dressed, he’d leave. Ilya would be alone.

He let himself look at Hollander, trying to memorize every detail of that moment. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to roll on top of him and kiss him until they both fell asleep. He wanted to kiss him in the morning, and all day tomorrow.

Ilya left the bed. He got cleaned up, and he brought a washcloth and a glass of vodka back to the bedroom for Hollander. He brought a cigarette and a lighter for himself. He wanted Hollander to be annoying about the cigarette, though Ilya knew it wouldn’t make him like Hollander less.

Hollander didn’t say anything about the cigarette, even when Ilya released long, obnoxious clouds of smoke over the bed they were both reclining on. Hollander quietly sipped his vodka while Ilya waited for the moment to crumble apart.

“Are you heading back soon?” Hollander asked.

“Back?”

“To Russia. For the summer.”

Ah. There. Moment ruined. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

Ilya was surprised when, after a moment, Hollander asked, “Why?”

Irritated, Ilya gave a short answer. “It is home.”

“But…do you like going there?”

Hollander may as well have stabbed Ilya in the gut. Ilya could practically feel the blade twisting, tearing up his insides. He hoped Hollander didn’t notice his shaking fingers as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. In that moment, Ilya wanted to tell Hollander everything. Instead, he closed his eyes and said, “I should sleep.”

“Oh.” Hollander sounded disappointed. Or maybe just embarrassed. “Yeah. I should…I need to get going, anyway.”

Ilya kept his eyes closed so he wouldn’t need to watch him leave. “Yes.”

He heard Hollander moving around the hotel room, first in the bedroom, then in the main room, gathering his clothes. Ilya stayed on the bed.

“See you,” Hollander said from the other room.

Ilya dropped his cigarette butt into Hollander’s not-empty vodka glass, watching the ash turn something pure and perfect into something dark and ugly. “Goodbye, Hollander.”