When I just want my sims to fall in love, but their autonomy is set to high, so they're out here doing everything to sabotage it all
Episode 1! I'll be posting the other episodes in "Sim edits" here: anotherhraccount
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey my glorious readers. You know the one,that slow burn hockey drama everyone’s obsessed with at the moment. The ice-cold glare of Russia’s most notorious bad boy Ilya Rozanov.
Yeah… I watched it. And of course I had to make my own spin of the story? because why not 🔥
I had to write this.
Stay tuned.
The best is yet to come... 🔥🏒
Summary: We have the sister of Shane Hollander and his Rival Ilya Rozanov. This story is like playing with fire. You know you'll get burned, but the heat is intoxicating. Every look, every gesture, every word feels charged. It's a dangerous dance, full of lust, desire and unexpected emotions. But sometimes, the thrill is worth the risk. This is the story of two people who found themselves in an unlikely connection, trying to deny the spark that ignites every time they are in each other's presence. Will they resist, or will they surrender to the flames?
2008. The first time Shane met Rozanov, he introduced himself with that easy grin and a firm handshake. Your brother always had a way with people. You, well, you just stood by the players tunnel with Scott,arms wrapped around your duffel, still buzzing from your own practice session on the morning ice. Your blades were tucked in the bag,figure skates, not hockey,but you could still feel the glide in your bones.
And then he looked at you.
Ilya Rozanov. Number 81 for Boston Bears. Fresh off the ice from warmups, sweat cutting through his liner’s scent as he passed by. But he didn’t just brush past you. He slowed. Pale eyes flicked over your face, lingered and then dropped pointedly to your bag. A beat too long on those slender blades peeking out from under zipped nylon.
Then he said something low in Russian to his teammate and walked on. But later? During warmups? You were leaning against the glass near your brother’s bench,the one spot you always claimed and felt it again,that prickle between your shoulders. You turned slightly and caught him skating laps alone along his team’s line… but not looking at goalies or defensemen or even Shane.
Nope.His gaze was locked on you. Tracking every shift of weight.
The sound of crackling speakers takes you out of your gaze and back to reality….The announcer's voice crackles though the arena, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to welcome the Boston Bears for our first preseason game of the season!"
A smattering of applause erupts around you. The stands are filling fast, fans buzzing with excitement, some sporting Montreal jerseys, others representing Boston. You scan the ice, the teams running drills, the puck sailing through the air, and the players moving with a brutal grace. The air is thick with anticipation and your gaze finds your brother Shane. He's skating laps around the rink, stick in hand, eyes locked on the puck. He looks focused, ready, in his element. You can't help but smile, pride swelling in your chest. Shane's always been the golden boy, the one everyone's rooting for. Even now, you can see the fans cheering him on, the announcers calling his number, his jersey a beacon of hope on the ice. And yet, something catches your eye, a subtle movement in your peripheral vision. Just a flash, really. A figure in a white away jersey skating along the boards, his movements a stark contrast to the flurry of colors around him. It's Rozanov, number 81. Despite the chaos on the ice, he looks more at ease out here than any other player, gliding effortlessly. But it's his gaze that draws you in. Intense, almost predatory as it's honed in on you again. Your heart quickens, a mix of nervousness and, you'll admit, something more. Your brother was right. Rozanov was an exceptional player, the kind who could own the rink with a flick of his wrist. And that's the problem, because he's staring at you. No, not just staring ,studying, his eyes darting from your face to your hands, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.
He breaks from the play for just a second, coasting near the glass,close to where you’re standing and taps his stick twice against the ice. A signal? A taunt? Or just him settling in? Then, under the roar of the crowd and a sudden burst of music, he tilts his head slightly. Not at Shane. At you. And mouths two words. "Watch me."
The sound of it is swallowed up by the noise, but the message is clear. He wants you to watch him and that smirk, it's cocky, daring… almost like he knows something you don’t. You blink, unsure if you heard right. But before you can process it, he’s already back in formation, skating backward with effortless precision, his eyes still finding yours one last time.
Then the puck drops.
And just like that,the game begins.
The first period unfolds in a storm of speed and skill. Shane's team is holding their own, the score even. But every so often, your gaze flickers to Rozanov on the ice. He's like a force of nature, carving through defenders with ease, setting up plays that leave the opposing team reeling. And when he scores his first goal, just before the buzzer, his eyes find yours again. That smirk is there, even more obvious now. The message is clear. He's showing off, and you're the audience. The second period starts, and the momentum shifts. The Boston Bears start to build a lead, and every move seems to be orchestrated by Rozanov. He's everywhere, the puck glued to his stick, his mind one step ahead. It's mesmerizing, almost… beautiful.
Meanwhile, you're torn between watching the game and watching him. Your brother's playing his heart out, but Rozanov… he's something else. Dangerous. Exciting. The third period is a nail-biter. The score is close, the tension in the arena palpable. Your hands are clenched around the rail, knuckles white. On the ice, your brother is putting up a fight, but the Bears, led by Rozanov, are relentless. You can see the frustration creeping onto Shane's face, see the weariness creeping into his movements. Rozanov, on the other hand, is as fresh as ever. It's like the game has just begun for him, his stamina and agility seemingly endless. And then, with just minutes left on the clock, it happens. Rozanov breaks through the defense again. You can see your brother trying to catch up, but he's too far behind. The Russian weaves past one player after another, his movements fluid and precise. The crowd is on their feet, screaming,some for him, some against.
And then he shoots.
The puck rockets toward the net... and finds its mark. The arena erupts in a mix of cheers and groans as the scoreboard ticks up another point for Boston. Your heart sinks and it was you that would have to deal with Shane’s skulking all night. But as soon as that red light flashes behind your hometown goalie…
Rozanov turns to you again. Your heart skips a beat, that cocky smile still in place, the sweat on his brow glistening in the harsh rink lights. He's so damn confident, it's infuriating. The final buzzer sounds, the game ends. Your brother's team lost, and Rozanov isn't bothering to hide his victory. He skates near the glass again, his eyes locking on yours. This time, he doesn't say anything, just tilts his head in that same, infuriatingly arrogant way. The crowd begins to disperse, but you're rooted in place, the mix of emotions churning in your stomach: disappointment for Shane, anger at Rozanov's smug demeanor, and… something else, something you're not quite ready to admit.
As the teams file off the rink, you hear your brother's voice, and turn from Rosanov’s gaze. Shane's making his way towards you, jaw clenched, face flushed. He looks pissed. "That guy’s insufferable," Shane mutters, ripping off his gloves as he stomps toward you. "Thinks he owns the ice just ‘cause he scored a few goals."
You open your mouth to respond, but then a low voice cuts through the noise, smooth and edged with amusement.
" a few? No. I can count them for you if you like”
Rozanov leans against the glass beside you, still in full gear, sweat damp hair clinging to his temples. He smirks down at Shane. "You forgot empty net."
Shane scoffs. "Whatever, Rozanov. You got lucky."
"Luck?" Ilya tilts his head, eyes flicking to you for a heartbeat,dark, knowing,before returning to Shane. "There's no luck in this game," he says, "just skill. And I seem to have more of it."
Shane bristles, a flush of anger rising to his cheeks. He opens his mouth to snap back, but you intervene, placing a restraining hand on his arm.
"Shane, leave it," you say quietly, feeling the tension radiating off him in waves. "He's not worth it."
But Rozanov hears you, the smirk on his face widening. "Oh, isn't that sweet," he drawls, the Russian accent thick as he addresses you. "girlfriend?”
Shane bristles even more at that, but you can see the glint in Rozanov's eyes, the smug satisfaction in stirring the pot. You bit out a laugh and the. you snap, stepping forward with fire in your voice, "I'm his sister,you arrogant prick."
Rozanov's smirk doesn't fade if anything, it deepens. His pale eyes flick from Shane to you, slow and deliberate. That look again... lingering just a beat too long on the curve of your waist as you turn away.
You don’t wait for a reply. Grabbing Shane’s wrist, you pull him along toward the tunnel. “Let’s go.” and barge into Rosanov’s shoulder, aggressively.
Behind you, low enough that only you might catch it:
"Ah... sister," Rozanov murmurs in that rough accent. “Even better.”
You don’t look back.
But your pulse does.
And somewhere behind glass and shadow? He watches every step,not because of Shane.
Because of you.
The next few weeks pass in a blur of games and practices, tension simmering beneath the surface. Shane's team is playing better, but Rozanov's still a pain in the ass: scoring goal after goal, taunting the crowds, and sending you those infuriating smirks from across the rink. You, on the other hand, you've been working hard on your figure skating, finding solace in the rhythm of blades on ice. It feels like a world away from his rough hockey games. And then, on a quiet Monday morning, you're alone on the rink at the arena. The lights are dimmed, just enough for visibility. You skate in slow circles, practicing your footwork and spins. It's peaceful here,the world outside fades into silence.
But you're not as alone as you think.
Above in the shadows of an empty press box,Rozanov leans against the glass,his arms crossed,his gaze locked on your every move below.
You don't see him,your focus is inward,on form,on flow,but he sees everything. the arch of your back,the precision in your turns,the grace that defies gravity. You're alive out here.And he's been watching long enough to know it means something. He can't tear his eyes away from you, tracking every glide, every shift of weight. The ice is your element, just as the rink is his. Your movements are poetry, and he's a captive audience. But there's more than just skill in the way you move. There's a passion, an intensity that draws him in. Despite himself, he finds himself leaning closer, his breath fogging the glass. You're completely oblivious to his presence above, lost in the music of your own performance, every spin and pirouette a symphony on ice. As he watches, a flicker of something akin to admiration stirs in him. It's an unfamiliar feeling, one that clashes with his usual cockiness. But here, in the hushed silence of the arena,with you gliding below, it feels oddly right. He's seen you at the games, of course. Cheering for your brother, glaring at him across the rink. But this is different. Here, you're not Shane's sister' or his rival.
You're simply a mesmerizing figure on the ice. And Rozanov is captivated. You finish your routine, breathless but satisfied, and skate toward the bench. Unaware of the eyes still upon you, you unzip your practice jacket and grab your towel ,then head for the locker room. Rozanov doesn’t move.He stays there in the darkened press box a moment longer, fingers tapping once against the glass. The locker room is quiet this early, the rest of the team still hours away. You strip off your practice gear and start the water, letting it run warm before stepping under the shower head.The sound of the water masks everything else, leaving you in your own world of steam and spray. The tension from the week melts away with each drop, your thoughts drifting…
Until the creak of the locker room door interrupts you. You assume it's probably a fellow skater or a staff member. Without thinking, you call out, "Occupied."
There's a brief pause, and you continue your shower, the water running over your shoulders. But then...
"I know." That voice.Low, rough, unmistakably Russian. Your heart skips a beat. You freeze, the shower still running, your back to the rest of the room. It can't be. Slowly, you turn your head, peeking out from behind the partition. There's Rozanov, standing just inside the locker room door, his gaze fixed on you. He's already shedding his hoodie, revealing a form,fitting workout shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. "Don't mind me."
"This is the women's locker room You know," you manage, your voice surprisingly steady given the pounding in your chest. But Rozanov just smirks, leaning against the door. "I’m aware," he repeats, his gaze sliding over you, taking in the droplets on your skin, the flush of surprise on your face as he leans against one of the sinks.
"Then what are you doing in here?"
He shrugs nonchalantly, as if invading a women's locker room is something he does every damn day. "Needed a shower." His eyes stay firmly on you, that smirk turning almost feral as he adds, "Saw you go in."
You swallow, feeling exposed under his gaze. The steam from the shower seems to cling to the air, making every movement, every expression feel heightened. "There are showers in the men's locker room," you point out.
"I like these ones better." Rozanov pushes off the sink, strolling towards you with a confidence you find equal parts infuriating and attractive. He stops just at the edge of the cubical, eyeing you with a smirk. "Besides, I like the view better here."
You feel heat rise to your cheeks, a mix of annoyance and something else. "You're cocky, anyone ever tell you that?"
He laughs, the sound deep and gravelly. "Many times." He takes another step closer, the steam thick around him now. You can see his muscles move under the now damp shirt, the way his eyes never leave your face.
"You should go." Your voice wavers slightly. "Before someone sees you."
"I don't care," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Do you?"
And that's when you realize... part of you doesn't either. That's when the door creaks again, and footsteps echo through the empty locker room. Both of your heads snap toward the sound. You react on instinct, grabbing Rozanov's arm and yanking him into the open shower stall with you. The water is still warm, and he ends up against your back, both of you plastered in tight quarters. He makes a low sound of surprise, his body tense and solid against yours. His arms automatically come up to brace himself on the walls, trapping you in front of him. The footsteps echo closer, and you slam a hand over his mouth to quiet him.
Your heart is pounding, the proximity doing strange things to your senses. You can feel his breath on your neck, his body an insistent heat behind you. And the steam, the water pouring down around you, does nothing to calm your racing pulse.
The footsteps come to a stop outside the row of cubicles.
"Everything okay in there?" You recognize the rink female attendant's voice. Your mind scrambles for an answer. "Y-yes!" you call out, voice slightly strained. "Just... just finishing up!"
There's a pause. You hold your breath, hand still clamped over Rozanov’s mouth.
He doesn't resist. In fact, he shifts subtly—closer—and that’s when you feel it: the ghost of a smirk against your palm.
"Alright miss y/n," the attendant says finally. "if you need anything just shout"
The footsteps retreat. The tension doesn't leave the air,it thickens. You slowly lower your hand from his mouth, but he doesn’t move away. He's looking down, that damn smirk on his face as his gaze wanders over your body. The water has made the thin fabric of your shirt cling to you, leaving little to the imagination. And Rozanov takes full advantage, his eyes lingering on the curves of your hips, your thighs... you feel that gaze like a physical touch. His own clothes are sticking to him, the shirt now almost see through, the outline of his abs visible beneath. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he draws in a breath, his voice low when he speaks.
"You know," he says, his hands still braced against the shower wall on either side of you. "This is a very... compromising position, yeah?"
You shiver, but not from the cold. His proximity is overwhelming,the heat coming off him, the way he towers over you, the fact that you can feel every contour of his body against yours. He's doing it deliberately, that cocky smirk never wavering. You snap out of your daze, covering yourself with your arms and glaring at him. "You don't say."
He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. His eyes flicker to your arms, to the way you're trying to shield yourself from his gaze. "No need to be modest now, darlin'. I've seen more than that already."
Heat floods your cheeks. You know he's teasing, that he's getting a perverse pleasure from how off balance he's got you. And that, infuriatingly, only makes something low in your stomach stir. "And whose fault is that?" you shoot back, lifting your chin. "I could’ve left you out there to get caught like a pervert.”
His grin widens, unrepentant. “You didn’t.”
A beat.
Water streams between you, steam curling in the air as he finally leans in close enough that his next words land like a whisper against your ear.
“...Why?”
The breath hitches in your throat. His proximity is intoxicating, the scent of him,sweat and soap and something more distinctly him clouding your thoughts. And that smirk, goddammit, that infuriating smirk.
You try to respond, but he moves again, his body pressing against yours, pushing you back against the shower wall. The water sprays down on you, but all you feel is his heat.
You want to resist. Want to push him off, to maintain some scrap of dignity after letting him get away with this much. But instead, your hands find his shoulders. They don't push him away, though. They just... rest there. Palms pressed flat against the damp fabric of his shirt, feeling the muscles shift as he moves.
He notices. That smirk turns into a full blown, cocky as hell grin, and his own hands move to your hips, gripping them firmly. Pulling you closer. Your heart is beating wildly, your body responding to his touch in a way that's both thrilling and infuriating. You're acutely aware of every place where he's touching you, the water making everything feel even more intimate.
He lifts one hand from your hip, fingers tracing along your jaw, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. "You didn't answer my question," he says, his voice low and rough. You swallow hard, words failing you as his fingers ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck. "I... I don't know," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. The truth of it hangs in the steamy air between you.
He stills, his thumb brushing over your pulse point,fast, betraying you. His pale eyes search yours, not mocking now. Just... considering.
Then that smirk creeps back, slow and dangerous. "Liar."
Before you can protest, he leans in not all the way,just enough for his breath to graze your lips.
"Next time," he murmurs, "don't pull me into the shower unless you plan to follow through."
And then he pulls away, he actually walks away and leaves you there, flushed and flustered, and you can hear the faint echo of his laughter as he walks away. It takes a moment for your thoughts to clear enough to finish your shower, but the whole time, your mind is racing.
The audacity of that man.
The confidence, the attitude, the... damn it, the attraction. It's infuriating. And yet... you know he's right. You did pull him in here, against all reason. A shiver runs through you as you remember the feeling of his body against yours, the heat of him...
For the rest of the week, you try to push the shower incident out of your mind. You focus on skating, on your craft, anything to distract yourself from thoughts of Rozanov and that damn smirk. But your mind keeps wandering back to it. To the way he looked at you, the way he touched you. The way his voice had dropped, deep and rough as he leaned in... You shake it off. This is stupid. He’s your brother’s rival player. There can't be anything between you.
But you can't forget the way your body reacted to his touch. The next day, you find yourself at the arena again. There's a game tonight,Shane's team versus Boston and as always, you'll be watching from your usual spot. But this time... something feels different. You know Rozanov will be there. You know he'll look for you in the crowd. Two can play that game. The game was brutal.
Boston came in with fire, Rozanov slicing through the defense like he owned the ice. He scored early,that same cocky smirk flashing your way after the goal but Shane’s team answered hard. Hits got dirtier, tempers flared.
And then it happened,a collision in front of your brother’s net. Rozanov went down hard, shoulder slamming into the post. He stayed down for a breath too long… but then rose, jaw set, eyes burning.
He played the rest of the game on pure spite.
But tonight? Luck wasn’t on his side.
A breakaway stolen. A penalty in overtime that cost them everything. And when Shane fired home the winning goal? The arena erupted and you let yourself cheer loud and proud for your brother.
Now?
The stands are emptying fast. Boston's players leave quietly,heads low ,while Montreal celebrates deep into Rogers Room champagne toasts and backslaps. Even Shane texts
“Celeb time! You comin?”
You don’t reply yet.
“Be there in 15,” you text back, adding a smiley just to sell it. “Just grabbing something from my locker.”
You take your time in your own locker room, dawdling as if you're looking for something. You're not, of course. You know exactly what you're going to do. Finally, you leave, making your way through the familiar corridors to the showers. The lights are low when you enter, just a few bulbs illuminating the tiled room. You can hear the faint sound of water running. The men's showers are open, unlike the women’s,just privacy in numbers. But tonight, the room is empty except for one figure under the spray.
Rozanov.
He's standing with his back to you, water cascading down his shoulders and over the sharp lines of his back muscles. Steam curls around him as he tilts his head up into the stream, hands dragging through his damp hair. He's gloriously unaware of you, and you take a moment to appreciate the view. The way the water rolls down his back, following the deep cuts of his spine before disappearing under that perfectly shaped..
Wow.
You bite your lip. No denying it,he’s built like a damn sculpture. And for someone who just lost a game, he carries himself like he already won.
But not tonight.
Tonight? You're here to even the score.
Quietly, you step forward, heels clicking against wet tile until they stop just outside the spray.
"Enjoying that shower?"
Rozanov's shoulders tense at the sound of your voice. But to his credit, he doesn’t whirl around. He just lifts his head from the water, turning enough that you can catch the edge of an arrogant smirk.
"Would be better with company."
He makes no attempt to cover himself, even though he must know you're there. In fact, he spreads his arms and stretches leisurely, the water running in rivulets down the length of his body. You bite the inside of your cheek. Damn him. Always so sure of himself.
He turns slowly, water glistening on his skin as he pivots to face you,fully unashamed, completely on display.
And holy fuck. He’s thick, heavy at half mast just from the shift in posture. The steam does nothing to hide it,the long line of him against his thigh, thick with promise. Your mouth goes dry.
But you don’t flinch.
Instead, you cross your arms and tilt your head with a smirk of your own,one that mirrors his damn arrogance perfectly.
“Luck isn’t on your side today,” you say coolly, “I’m not here to shower.”
His lips twitch. “Then why are you here…?”
You take one step forward,just enough so the edge of the spray kisses your shoes and hold his gaze like steel. Rozanov's gaze is locked on yours, the smirk still playing at his lips. But you see the tension in his shoulders,the set of his jaw. You're getting to him. With a deliberate nonchalance you reach for the shower handle to turn it off, then you reach out and run your fingertips down the length of his arm, watching his muscles tense under your touch. You don't stop there though. Your hand skates over his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. He lets out a low breath, his eyes narrowing as you circle him. Your fingers explore the contours of his body with a teasing slowness, tracing the sharp lines of muscle as water drips down his skin. You move behind him, your breath just barely ghosting across his shoulder. He tenses, but doesn't pull away.
You can hear him draw in a sharp breath as your hand slips to his waist, fingers trailing over taut abs and the defined vee. He sucks in a ragged breath. You can feel his body coiled like a spring, on edge and ready to snap. But he stays still, letting you have your fun. Your hand continues its slow journey down, lower now, and you can feel the shiver that runs through him. You move closer, your body pressed lightly against his back, chest flush with his shoulder blades. Your lips brush his earlobe, and you whisper so softly he barely hears it over the thrum of the shower.
"Seems like you need some help” your eyes glance over his now hard length and then back up to his eyes. His breath hitches,a quick intake that you can almost taste. His muscles are taut,and you can practically feel the tension radiating off him in waves. You pull away slowly, your fingers trailing off his skin as you step back into the dry tile.He doesn't move at first.
Then just as you walk back to leave,he reaches out.
Not for you.
His hand wraps around himself, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours through the haze. Thick fingers slide down his length with a slick glide of water that still lingered there and intent. One stroke. Then another. Your breath catches in your throat as he watches you while touching himself. You couldn’t help but smirk. He was confident, unashamed and he murmurs low enough that only you can hear.
"Keep walking... if you want."
It's a dare. A challenge.
And you never could turn down a challenge. You stay put and you don't look away. Your eyes are locked on his, dark and heavy. Your mind races, and every nerve tingles with anticipation. He wants this. You see it in the way his gaze never breaks from yours. His thumb swipes over the head, and his breath stutters in a soft groan. You swallow, the sound of it audible in the sudden quiet of the locker room. His strokes are slow, deliberate,each one drawing out the tension in his body. But it's not just physical. You can see it in his eyes,the hunger, the heat, the way they darken when you don't look away.
He’s not just touching himself. He’s showing you exactly what you do to him. And he wants you to know he’s thinking of you,your hands, your mouth, your body under his as that thumb circles again and he lets out a low, rough sound from deep in his chest…
"Y/N," he growls,your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
One word.And suddenly... this isn’t a game anymore. You step forward again, closing the distance until you’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Without breaking eye contact, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his length,hot, heavy, pulsing in your grip.
He lets out a sharp breath, hips twitching forward instinctively. You match his rhythm for a few strokes,slow, teasing your thumb gliding over the slick tip as he watches you with darkening eyes. His hands fall to his sides. He’s letting you take control.
And then…
You stop. Pull your hand away. Step back.
Just like that,leaving him hard and breathless under the dying steam of the shower lights. His jaw clenches. A muscle ticks at his temple as he stares at you,want blazing in those pale Russian eyes now raw with want and frustration. He lets out a little laugh at the audacity.
“You little…” He doesn’t finish.
You smile demurely, the picture of innocence as you reply. "Just being helpful,let’s call it motivation."
He lets out a low scoff, almost a growl. You're getting to him, pushing him to the edge.
"Is that what you call this?" he asks, gesturing vaguely at the shower and his very still prominent boner. You smirk. He's practically bristling with frustration, but you're not giving in easily.
"What would you call it, then?" You ask not so innocently. He takes a step forward, water still dripping from his body. "I'd call it torture," he growls, voice thick with desire. "Sweet, beautiful torture."
He's close now, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. But you don't back down.Instead, you reach out and touch his chest again,slick fingers trailing over muscle as your voice drops to a whisper.
"Then maybe next time... you'll think twice before walking away first."
The contact makes him shiver,his jaw clenching as he tries to hold himself together. But you know you've got him. He grabs your wrist, fingers encircling it in a vice grip.
"You're playing with fire," he warns, but there's a ragged edge to his voice now. He's barely holding on.
You tilt your head, looking up at him with a smirk. "And you're losing,big guy."
And just like that, you pull your wrist free and turn, walking toward the door without a backward glance. The cool air hits your skin as you leave the steam behind, but the fire between your legs lingers. You head to the bar where Shane's team is celebrating,loud music, clinking glasses, cheers echoing off brick walls. You slide into a booth beside Shane who throws an arm around you.
"Where were you?" he asks.
"Just had a few things to do, I’m here now"you say with a small smile as you order a drink and scan the room. The night wears on. The alcohol flows, the stories get wilder. You're laughing and talking with the team, losing track of time. The thrill of your encounter with Rozanov still fresh in your mind, but you push it aside,focus on the celebrations.
Shane throws his arm around your shoulders, eyes a bit glassy as he grins.
"You see where those Boston jerks are off sulking?" he slurs, nodding towards a booth across the room. "Looks like they're drowning their sorrows." You follow his gaze to the booth where the Boston players are huddled together, faces long and solemn. It's a stark contrast to the joyous mood on your side of the room.
"Yeah, looks like they're not taking the loss too well," you agree, watching as a few of them nurse their drinks. "Can't say I blame them."
Shane shrugs, downing the rest of his beer. "They deserve to sulk. They were cocky bastards."
His teammate Scott slides into the booth next to you, slapping down a fresh round of shots. "Let em sulk," he says, his grin wide and easy. "Maybe they'll learn a little respect next time."
You laugh at that and take the shot Scott passes you. The burning liquid slides down your throat,adding fuel to the buzz already coursing through you. You're feeling good,relaxed,the tension from earlier all but forgotten. Across the room, your gaze flickers back to the Boston table. There's still no sign of Rozanov.
"You're staring," Shane says, nudging you with his elbow. "Don't tell me you're actually feeling sorry for them?"
You snap your eyes back to him, shaking your head with a laugh. "No. Just wondering where their captain is."
Scott raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment,just gives you a knowing smirk before raising his glass. As the music swells and the night deepens, you slide out of the booth. Time to dance. The floor’s packed, pulsing underfoot. You let the rhythm take over,hands in the air,carefree and glowing in the dim lights, until a familiar presence cuts through the crowd like ice. You’re lost in the beat, body swaying with a slow, hypnotic rhythm,eyes closed, hair swinging as you move through the sea of dancers. The bass thrums in your chest, matching your pulse.
Then… warmth. A broad chest presses against your back. Strong arms slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
No words.
You don’t need them to know who it is.
Rozanov. the scent of him lingering, wearing dark jeans and a half unbuttoned black shirt that smells like cologne and cold air. His stubble grazes your neck as he leans down, voice rough and low near your ear.
“Torture me… then walk away.. moving like this” His hips roll once against yours in time with the music,slow,dangerous. “Not fair y/n”
You can feel him,hard again pressing into you through his jeans. You don’t pull away. Instead, you arch back slightly, your body moving with his as if it’s second nature. The heat between you is electric, every shift of your hips sending a jolt through your system.
"Maybe I just like seeing you worked up," you murmur over your shoulder, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
He growls low in his throat, a sound that vibrates right through you and tightens his grip on your waist. His other hand slides up, fingers threading into your hair as he tilts your head to the side,his mouth dangerously close to yours.
“Careful,” he warns.“Or I’ll stop being patient.”
His words are like a challenge, one you aren’t quite ready to back down from. You turn in his arms, so you’re facing him, still moving with the music but now with that delicious friction of bodies pressed tightly together.
"Who says I want you to be patient?" you retort, meeting his gaze defiantly.His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with desire. The hand in your hair tightens almost painfully as he pulls you even closer. You can feel the hard line of him, the heat of him, and it’s dizzying. “But Not here," you say breathlessly, glancing over at where Shane and the team are drinking heavily, completely oblivious to what's going on.
Rozanov follows your gaze, then his eyes drop back to your mouth, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a wolfish grin. " then where?"
You hesitate, biting your lip. There is something about him, about the way he’s looking at you, makes everything feel inevitable.
"1410" you find yourself saying, the words slipping from your lips before you can overthink it.
He says nothing.
Just stares at you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your hip,like he’s memorizing the shape of it through your clothes.
Then he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. Hot. Possessive. “Be ready.”
And just like that… he lets you go. Disappears into the crowd like a shadow, leaving you standing there,breathless, buzzing, heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with dancing.
You touch your lips absently as you walk back to Shane’s table.
“Everything good?” Scott asks with a knowing look as he eyes where Rozanov vanished into the dark. "Yesss,everything's fine," you say, sliding back into the booth with a small smile.
Scott leans forward, grinning. "Looked like something interesting was happening out there."
You roll your eyes. "Just a dance. Get over yourself."
Shane barely looks up from his beer, laughing at something a teammate said. You catch his shoulder and give it a soft shake.
"Hey, I'm gonna head back," you tell him."Too much to drink,need some air and sleep."
He waves you off with a sloppy grin but adds. “okay, be safe”
“the hotels next door shane,I think I’ll be fine” you peck his cheek and say bye to everyone.
“Don't do anything I wouldn’t do!" Scott leans in to a hug with a smirk.
You smirk as you grab your jacket and head for the door. The hotel room is quiet, the city lights casting soft patterns through the sheer curtains. You kick off your heels, peeling away your clothes with slow, deliberate movements. The silk of your night top slips over your skin like a whisper, cool and smooth.
You're standing by the window when you hear it. A knock.
Not loud. Not impatient.
Just one firm sound that reverberates through the quiet. Your breath catches. You glance at the door, heart hammering in a mix of nerves and anticipation. For a second you think, Maybe it's not him.
But then…Another knock.
You don't move right away. The knock hangs in the air, echoing softly in the quiet room. Your pulse thrums at your throat as you stare at the door, bare feet rooted to the plush carpet.Silk clings to your skin. The city hums beyond the glass. And that knock,so controlled, so certain it feels like a challenge all over again. You step forward slowly, not toward the door, but to the small mirror beside it. Adjusting your top. Running fingers through your hair. Let him wait. Let him wonder if you’ll answer at all.
You stand before the door for one more second, then reach for the handle. Your fingers twist and the latch clicks. And as the door creaks open, there he stands in the hallway.
Rozanov. His eyes lock onto yours, taking in the silk of your night top, the way it drapes over you. A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.
"Thought I might have to knock again."
You lift an eyebrow, leaning against the jamb. "And what if I didnt answer?"
He takes a step forward, crowding you in the doorway without crossing the threshold. His voice drops, low and rough.
"Then I’d have waited. All night."
Your breath hitches. There's something about the way he says it ,no arrogance now, just heat and hunger laid bare.
You step back slowly… letting him in. The door clicks shut behind him. The room seems to shrink in his presence. The air seems to crackle, like the moment before a storm. Rozanov prowls the room, his footsteps silent on the carpet. And when he turns, his gaze finds you.
Then his eyes roaming over the silk. "Silk suits you."
You resist the urge to shiver, trying to stay steady and casual. "You like it?"
He cocks an eyebrow. "What if I said I'd rather have you out of it?"
You cross your arms, lifting your chin with a slow, knowing smile. "That all depends," you say, voice like velvet. "How bad do you want me out of it?"
He goes very still, those pale eyes narrowing with something dangerous and dark.
You take a step forward.
"Show me what I do to you," you whisper. "Take it off. All of it."
A beat passes.
Then another.
And just like that... the cocky Russian finally looks unraveled.
Because no one's ever told him what to do before. But you just did. And he likes it way more than he should. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving yours. The fabric drops to the floor. Then his belt. The slow slide of metal through loops. The zipper coming down with deliberate slowness, like he’s giving you time to change your mind.
But you don’t.
You just watch. And when he steps out of his jeans, fully bare under the low hotel lights,hard, proud, wanting,he doesn’t move toward you. Just stands there. Offering himself to your gaze like an altar at midnight.
You let your eyes wander slowly over him, taking in every inch of the man before you. The powerful thighs, the sharp V leading down to his thick cock,already hard and twitching with anticipation and those pale eyes, so full of fire. You don’t rush. Instead, you walk a slow circle around him, your fingers trailing lightly over his shoulder as you pass behind. When you stop in front of him again, your voice is low,soft but unshaken.
"good boy”
A flicker crosses his face,surprise? Arousal? Maybe both.
You move closer,close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Your fingers dance over his chest, tracing the defined lines of muscle with featherlight touches. The anticipation is almost painful. Rozanov shivers under your touch, his expression still schooled to that dangerous smirk, but his eyes betray his desire.
"You're testing me," he murmurs.
"And you love it." Your nails ghost over his abdomen, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His breath hitches, the rhythm of your touch setting your own nerves alight. You can feel the tension in his body,coiled like a spring. He's trying to stay in control but you can see it slipping.
"Tell me how much you want this," you whisper, your breath brushing over his lips. "Tell me what I do to you."
His gaze darkens, fingers twitching at his side. He's still trying to hold back. To keep that cocky persona intact. But there's no denying it now ,he's desperate to touch you. His jaw clenches,like he's resisting something inside. Then his hand moves,slowly reaching out to graze your hip. That rough thumb tracing over the silk.
"You do this," he growls, voice thick with barely restrained desire. "Every time I see you. You walk into a room and my brain stops."
His hand slides higher,under the silk of your top, fingers skimming the warm skin of your back.
"I think of your hands on me. Your mouth... that night in the shower." His breath is ragged now. "And I don’t sleep."
Your pulse jumps at his words.
"Is that why you came tonight?" you ask softly,half teasing but half needing to know.
He doesn't answer with words.Instead,his other hand finds your thigh,pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. "Only if you're very good," you murmur, your voice a velvet tease as you tilt your head just enough to brush your lips against his,then pull away.
His hands tighten on you, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "You're trying to kill me."
"Maybe." You smile, slow and wicked. "But wouldn't it be a fun way to go?"
His gaze narrows,the heat in his eyes making your breath catch. "Careful," he warns, voice edged with a dangerous desire. "You're playing with fire."
"And you love it, don't you?"
He doesn't get a chance to answer. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you off your feet as if they're nothing. You gasp, wrapping your legs around him on instinct as he pins you against the wall.
The impact pushes the air from your lungs,the sound of his name a breathless gasp. His lips find your neck, hot and demanding, nipping at your skin until you're arching into him,your body burning all over. He's pressing into you, hard muscles shifting against you with every labored breath, and you can feel how badly he wants you. Your hands slide down his back, nails digging in and leaving pale lines in their wake.
His hips roll against you, slow and deliberate, dragging a moan from deep in your throat. The friction is maddening,just enough to tease, never enough to satisfy.
“You feel that?” he growls into your ear, voice rough with restraint. “All for you.”
You bite your lip, pulse racing as your fingers twist in his hair. "Prove it," you whisper. "Show me how much."
He raises his head to meet your gaze, his eyes blazing. There's a challenge there now,a raw, animal need that matches your own.
He wants you. Desperately.
And he's going to show you.
His body grinds against you, slow and sensual,as he leans in to catch your earlobe between his teeth. "You want me to prove it? Then ask nicely."
Your heart stutters at the command,your breath coming in short gasps. You're not used to taking orders,but there's something in the way he says it that makes you want to submit.
"Please," you breathe, arching into him.
"Please what?" he prompts,voice low and rough as he drags his lips down your neck,nipping at the sensitive spot that makes you shiver. You tilt your head back, lips parting as a moan escapes. His touch is maddening, every graze of his teeth and slide of his hands driving you higher.Finally, you arch into him, your voice dropping to a whisper laced with fire.
"Are you going to fuck me... or not… Rozanov?"
His breath hitches.
And for the first time tonight?
The great Ilya Rozanov has nothing to say.Because you just shattered his control with six words. Then a dark, dangerous laugh rumbles through his chest,the sound of control slipping. "Ты меня убиваешь… Но да, я собираюсь тебя трахнуть..." he mutters under his breath.
“if you didn’t know, I don’t speak Russian as fluently as you” you raise an eyebrow. But fuck did it sound hot. He chuckles then nuzzles into you ear, biting.
“it means… You're killing me and yes I am going to fuck you” before crashing his lips onto yours in a kiss that's all hunger and heat.
No more games.
His hands grip your ass, lifting you higher as he carries you across the room like you weigh nothing. You barely feel the sheets against your back when he lays you down, already spreading your thighs with rough possession. Clothes are torn away,silk gives way to skin. Everything is a rush, fever-hot and desperate. Every touch leaves you breathless,wanting more. His hands are everywhere at once, exploring every inch of skin in reach. Then there are his lips... trailing kisses down your neck,your chest, your stomach, each one leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
His mouth lingers on each hip bone before trailing further down. He's close,so close now...Your hands tighten in the sheets… and he pauses. You lift your head to look at him, breathing hard. He's on his knees between your legs,pale eyes smolder in the low light. His gaze travels over you,taking in every detail with almost reverent intensity.
Then he leans forward,hands gliding up your thighs as he bends over you, lips hovering just above yours. "Look at me," he murmurs, his voice like rough velvet. "I want you to watch me when I taste you.. and when I fuck you."
Your heart stutters at the command,heat coiling tight in your core. Then his lips find yours in a slow, searing kiss. You can taste the desire in it, the need... and something darker that makes you shiver. He pulls away, lips curving in a wicked smile as his fingers trail down your body.
"Watch me.. " he says again, voice low enough for you to feel the vibrations in your chest. His head dips down between your spread thighs. He pauses, breathing in deeply,as if taking in your scent. Then his tongue slips out,just a hint of a touch across your lips. It's slow and deliberate... teasing.
You gasp, your hips arching in response. "oh god..."
He looks up at you through pale eyelashes,his eyes burning with need. "That's not my name.."
You nearly laugh,the moment almost shattered by a giggle. Almost.
Instead, you reach down,threading your fingers through his hair. "Then show me…"
You don't finish the sentence.
He shuts you up the only way he knows how... by showing you. His tongue slides through your folds in a slow, firm stroke, and you gasp,back arching off the bed. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, exploring you like he’s memorizing every shiver.
“Rozanov,” you breathe his name like a prayer.
He hums against your skin in response,a low vibration that sends shockwaves through your body. One of his hands grips your thigh tighter,pulling you closer as he delves deeper with his tongue. Circling,moving,sucking just enough to drive you insane.Your fingers twist into the sheets,fingers tugging at them as if trying to anchor yourself while everything else spins out of control. "Don’t stop" you gasp, voice breaking as your hips lift to meet his mouth.
He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’m just getting started,” he murmurs before plunging back in,faster now, tongue flicking with purpose, relentless. One hand slips beneath you to grip your ass, tilting your hips higher like he’s claiming every inch of you. Your breath comes in short, desperate bursts. The pleasure builds,hot and sharp and right when you think you can’t take anymore…
He slows.
Just enough to make you whimper.
“Eyes on me,” he demands again.
Your eyes snap open,meeting his gaze as he looks up at you. His mouth glistening. His eyes burning.
"Good girl.." he murmurs, voice rough with approval. He dips his head down,his lips finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your breath hitches as he moves, teasing with teeth and tongue while holding your gaze the whole time. He moves up your body,slow and deliberate,leaving a trail of kisses until his lips crash onto yours in a heated kiss.
"Can you taste yourself?" he growls against your lips.
You don’t answer. Instead,your hand slides down his chest,fingers wrapping around the thick base of his cock. He groans into your mouth at the contact,his hips jerking forward instinctively.
"Fuck,Y/N.."
"Like that?" you whisper, stroking him slowly, teasing the tip with your thumb.
He lets out a ragged breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder as you squeeze tighter,just enough to make him shudder.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he grits out, voice thick with need.
You grin against his skin. “Good.”
Your hand moves faster now,wrapping around his thick length in a firm rhythm. He groans,hips bucking into your touch as his fingers dig into the mattress.
“Wait,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to catch your wrist. “If you keep that up… I won’t last.”
You pout playfully. "And that's a bad thing?"
He smirks down at you,a dark,hungry look in his eyes before leaning in close again,his lips brushing yours.
“No,” he murmurs.“I want to be inside you when I come.”
You bite your lip, letting your hand fall away slowly. "Then what are you waiting for?"
He growls,low and rough and in one swift motion, he positions himself between your thighs. The broad head of his cock presses against your entrance, teasing, making you writhe beneath him.
“Look at me," he demands again,voice like velvet over steel. Your eyes lock with his as he pushes forward,slow, deliberate, stretching you perfectly. A moan tears from your throat at the fullness, your nails raking down his back. He doesn’t move right away. Just stays buried deep, forehead resting against yours, breathing ragged.
"Ты моя…" he whispers,rough and raw against your skin.
You don’t know Russian. But you feel it. Mine. He gives you a moment to adjust,hands running over your skin in a soothing caress even though every muscle in his body is rigid with restraint. Then, he starts moving. Slow, tortuous slides that drive you mad,his lips finding yours in a deep, drugging kiss.
You wrap your legs tighter around him,fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re trying to pull him closer. Closer.
He pulls back from the kiss,breathless,his eyes darker now.
"Are you okay?" he murmurs.
You almost laugh at the question. Your body is trembling. Every nerve is on fire. It's good, so so good.
"Never better. Now stop asking questions."
He grins,the cocky smirk you love. "Demanding. I like that." He rolls his hips just the way you like,making you gasp. "But you’re in no position to make demands right now."
You grip his shoulders and flip the two of you, pushing him down onto his back. He looks up at you with a mix of surprise and approval, his hands settling possessively on your hips.
You lean down,breathless,your lips brushing against his ear. "Oh, really?"
He lets out a low laugh, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Feisty," he murmurs, his fingers tracing teasing circles on your skin. You can see the playfulness in his eyes, the challenge glinting like a dare.
"You think you're in control now?" he asks, his voice a deep rumble that makes everything inside you throb. You answer with movement. Slow, deliberate rolls of your hips,taking him deep, then rising up until just the tip remains inside. Your hands press against his chest for balance, fingers splayed over the hard planes of muscle as you watch his expression twist with restraint.
“I am in control," you whisper, sinking down again,this time with a teasing grind that makes his breath catch. His thumbs dig into your hips. You rise and fall with slow, torturous rhythm,each slide making him twitch inside you, each roll of your hips drawing a deeper groan from his chest. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s trying to guide you, but you resist,setting your own pace.
“Y/N… fuck” His voice is rougher now, almost pleading. You keep going, rocking against him,your own breathing growing ragged as the tension builds again. One of his hands slides up your back,the touch almost desperate as he pulls you closer.
He lifts himself up,mouth skimming over your collarbone in a trail of hot, open,mouthed kisses. Then he murmurs against your skin, voice raw and rough.
"You're driving me insane, let me fuck you." In one swift move, he flips you beneath him,hard and fast and pinning your wrists above your head. There’s no warning. Just power.
He slams into you with a deep, relentless thrust that steals your breath. Your cry echoes off the walls as he sets a brutal pace, each snap of his hips driving you toward the edge. The bed creaks under the force of it, sheets tangling around your legs as he fucks into you like he’s claiming every inch.
“Mine,” he growls again,voice rough with possession and this time, you believe it.
You can’t speak. Can’t think. Just feel.
And then…
He lets go of your wrists and grabs your hips instead,yanking you back onto him with each thrust,his body covering yours as his mouth finds the curve of your neck in a searing bite.
You’re trembling,fingers clutching at the sheets,far beyond words now.
"Rozanov..." It comes out like a prayer,a plea.
He doesn't slow down.Not even close. Instead,his hand reaches around,your clit already so sensitive...one flick makes stars burst behind eyelids as he fuck you still. "Y/N." The way he says your name is like a command. Sharp,low,a warning. You shiver,your body responding to the dark edge lacing his voice. You know what he wants - what he expects. And for the first time,you want it too.
"Look at me," he murmurs,his tone softer now,barely above a whisper. He leans in,fingers tracing the line of your jaw, the touch almost gentle. Your eyes flutter open,meeting his. The raw need in his gaze hits you like a wave,his hips never slowing,each thrust deep and relentless.
“Ilya..." You say it,fingers tangling in the sheets as he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.
“you going to cum for me y/n?" he growls against your mouth,his voice thick with desire. You can’t lie. Your body is coiled tight,a storm building between you.
"So close.." you gasp, your voice breaking as his hand finds your clit again, circling with just the right pressure.
His thrusts grow harder,deeper,pushing you to the edge.
“Then cum," he commands,ruthless and tender all at once."Cum on my cock.”
Your back arches off the bed,the world shattering around you as pleasure rips through every nerve. Your inner walls clamp down around him,milking him as wave after wave crashes over you.He doesn't stop,keeps moving through it,fucking into you relentlessly until he finally lets go. "Ilya” Your voice breaks as the orgasm rips through you, your nails dragging down his back in wild, desperate lines. He groans at the sting,hips stuttering for just a second before he drives into you one last time,deep and stills.
Hot and pulsing inside you, he buries his face in your neck with a ragged breath.
“fucking perfect,” he murmurs against your skin. You lie there for a moment, both of you catching your breath. Then, he slowly pulls out, collapsing beside you on the bed. The silence stretches, nothing but the sound of your racing heartbeats and the soft rustle of sheets. Your eyes flutter shut,sleep pulling at the edges of your mind as you curl into his chest. The room is warm,the city lights outside casting everything in pale shadows. His arm wraps around you in a possessive hold, pulling you closer. You can feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest with each breath,still a little ragged. He nuzzles into your hair, breath ghosting over your neck in a way that makes you shiver. “fuck," he mutters, voice heavy. "...I think you are going to break me”
You let out a soft laugh,still a little breathless, your hand trailing over his chest idly. "I'm pretty sure you can handle yourself," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He hums in response,the vibration traveling through your body. "You'd be surprised... I think you're dangerous for me."
You prop yourself up on your elbow,looking down at him with a teasing grin. "Are you admitting weakness to your rivals sister rozanov?"
He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Careful," he warns, reaching up to catch a strand of your hair between his fingers. You laugh again, the sound soft and a little hoarse from earlier. "Or what?" you challenge, tugging gently at his hair again. "You'll have to keep coming back to shut me up?"
He pulls you down on top of him with a low growl, one hand sliding into your hair as he captures your lips in a slow, deep kiss. When he finally lets you go, his eyes are dark with promise.
"Maybe I already planned on it."
Your heart leaps at the words, your body responding automatically to his touch. You don't want to admit how much you like the sound of that, so you just bite your lip and try to sound dismissive. "Oh, really?" you tease. "What makes you so sure I'll let you come back?"
He chuckles,a low rough sound that sends a thrill through you. "I can be very persuasive," he murmurs,voice full of promise. "And you've seen how good I am at getting what I want."
You can feel your face heating at the reminder, the memories of just how good he is flashing through your mind. But you stubbornly lift your chin, trying to sound casual. "Maybe I'm not that easy," you say, knowing it's a lie.
He smirks,the corner of his mouth curving up in a way that makes your stomach flip. "Oh, sweetheart. Nothing about you is easy."
He gets up from the bed, stretching lazily in all his naked glory. You watch him, the sight of his muscles bunching and shifting as he moves making you bite back a sigh. "You're staring," he says, glancing over at you with a knowing smirk.
You quickly look away, flushing slightly. "Just making sure you're actually leaving."
He chuckles, pulling on a pair of jeans. "Afraid you'll miss me?"
"Terrified," you mutter, voice thick with sarcasm.
He leans down, bracing a hand on either side of your head. His lips brush yours—soft, almost sweet,before he pulls back with that maddening smirk.
“Then dream of me.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
You’re left alone in the quiet room, sheets tangled around you and his scent still on your skin.
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