Rozanov pressed Shane against the shower wall, the steam and heat making him feel closer than normal. Shane had to scramble to keep his feet from slipping under him. His large hand was steadily pumping Shane’s cock, so he was no help as Shane whined and grabbed the wet wall. “We can’t do this here.”
“Why not?” Rozanov practically purred in Shane’s ear, his hand moving so steadily and firm it felt like all of Shane’s blood was funnelling through his dick. “You seem to enjoy it.”
“Because someone fucking slashed me,” Shane pulled back enough to glare. “My knee fucking hurts.” Rozanov didn’t have the decency to look guilty.
"Awe, it was not a slash if ref didn’t call it.”
“No, fuck you, if you just turn around…”
Shane pushed him away and stepped out of the shower. He heard Rozanov’s huff of impatience, but they knew each other well enough at this point to dry off just enough to keep from dripping and then tumble onto the hotel bed.
The bruises were real, on both their bodies as it had been a tough game, and they exploited them. They wrestled, rolling a few times, yelping as they pressed painful points, until Shane found himself on his stomach, one arm pinned behind him as the other gripped the bedsheet. Shane gasped as Rozanov bit a purpling bruise on his bicep, an injury courtesy of a game last week.
“Jesus, you dirty bastard,” Shane grimaced as Rozanov sucked the already marked skin, pain blossoming. “Fight fair.”
“No,” Rozanov ground against the back of Shane’s thigh, his erection hard. Shane pushed back, his heart pounding like every time they did this. He hated how much he loved those hands on him, one holding his shoulder down so Ilya could bite his bruised arm again, the other hauling Shane’s ass back in time with Rozanov’s grinding.
His knee hit a painful angle as he spread them, but he didn’t need to tell Rozanov to stop. The man must have felt him flinch because he moved, pulling Shane until he was on his back and Ilya was straddling his hips.
“You were supposed to get out of the way,” Rozanov ran his hands down Shane’s torso, poking another bruise, this one yellowing and older, just under his armpit.
“I would have lost the puck.”
“Stupid. No self-preservation.”
“You would have done the same.”
Rozanov answered with a toothy kiss and pinned Shane’s hands over his head.
There have been threats, chapter 4
