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It wasn’t that Ilya didn’t like Boston. It was a fine city. The parks were nice, or so he’d been told. The food was average, though he mostly ate it out of takeout boxes. The nightlife was nothing like the parties he’d attended in Russia, but he reminded himself that as far as boring Americans went, he couldn’t ask for much more.
So when his goalie asked him why he hadn’t bought property yet, Ilya had drawn a blank. More accurately, he’d told his goalie that when you trashed a rental, it was nice to start new the next year. It had been a lie, or a half-lie. He wasn’t leaving his rentals in disrepair, but he had been putting off buying property for the five years he’d spent playing for Boston. He tried to narrow down the reasons: stacks of paperwork, the legality of buying property as a non-American, having to worry about repairs, lawn care, a designer. Even just figuring out how to choose one sounded like more effort than he had to give between games and practices and speaking to the press. By the time summer rolled around, he was the type of tired that couldn’t be fixed with a good night’s rest, and he was already on his way back to Russia to deal with the equally draining task of managing his family for two months. So he’d suffered the pains of rentals, the furniture that had been used by many who had come before, the terrible landlords, living out of suitcases. It was easier that way.
But then his goalie rolled his eyes and plucked a card from his wallet.
“You should call this guy. He found our place here, and honestly, he’s the best I’ve dealt with. Night and day compared to the other two. Dude’s thorough as hell, but he moves fast.”
“Three places?” Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Little greedy, no, Connors?”
“My wife wanted somewhere close to her folks up in Canada, we’ve got our place here, and then, you know, a cottage in Michigan’s kind of a must.” Connors shrugged like this was obvious. Like everyone had a cottage in Michigan.
Was Ilya supposed to have a cottage in Michigan? Maybe he could rent one.
He glanced at the business card, just enough to look like he was humoring the advice before setting it aside. But his eyes snagged on the picture taking up the left half of the paper. Dark hair, dark eyes. Freckled cheeks. A pressed suit. Lips set into a natural frown. Shouldn’t he be smiling? What kind of ad was this?
“Shane Hollander?” he said, mostly because he wanted to hear how it sounded out loud. For some reason, he suddenly found himself more interested in real estate.
“Yeah, but he just goes by Hollander.” Connor set his beer down on the sticky table, already turning back toward the bar’s widescreen TV. “Seriously, man, give him a call. Gotta be better than paying rent forever, right?”
“Rent is not so bad.” Ilya took a long pull from his glass. “Is good for bringing girls home. They cannot find you next year.”
“You’re brutal, Rozanov.” Connors laughed, pulling his phone from his pocket. To call his wife, Ilya knew. Connor spent most of his time off the ice calling his family. He wasn’t the only one. Their team hadn’t had a rookie in years, and most of the guys were settled now. Married. Kids. Fucking real estate.
“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, Hollander’s your guy.”
Ilya flipped the card between his fingers. His father had been telling him to diversify his assets, though Ilya had stopped taking his advice around the same time his father stopped remembering where his mom had gone. Still, maybe he’d held onto one good thought, even through the fog that clouded his aging brain.
“I buy house right next to yours,” Ilya said flatly, sliding Shane Hollander into his wallet, “and I throw party every weekend. Very loud. Your children never sleep again.”
Connor’s face lit up at the mention of his daughters.
“Did I tell you Annie had her first lesson the other day? Jesus, seeing her in skates made me feel like a kid again. Hold on, I gotta show you.”
“Show me picture and I drop phone in beer.” Ilya tapped the rim of Connor’s glass.
“You don’t remember your first pair?” Connor went on anyway, ignoring the threat. Maybe Ilya had made too many of those lately and they were losing effect. He’d need new material if he wanted to avoid another photo.
And, okay. That was actually pretty cute. Annie’s curly red hair was tucked under a helmet a size too big, tiny Bauers on her feet, a Boston jersey swallowing her frame. He’d deny it with his last breath, but Ilya’s mouth tipped into a quick smile before it vanished.
“Put her in net next year. Maybe she stops glove side better than you.”
“Hey.” Connors scoffed. “Didn’t you spend half the game in the box tonight, Rozanov? Hard to stop everything when we’re killing penalties all night and our top guy’s leaking blood on the bench.”
Ilya touched his swollen lip on instinct, finding fresh blood. “Calgary started it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Connors waved him off, then glanced at his phone. “I gotta take this. Hold on.”
Marriage seemed like fun.
Connor disappeared into the crowd, and Ilya leaned back, letting his gaze roam the bar, seeing who might look back. With his growing reputation, it wasn’t hard to find someone willing to come home with him, rental or not. Especially tonight, in their own city, after a game-winning goal late in the regular season that had the crowd begging for more.
But he lost interest halfway through, because he wanted that card again.
He checked the time: 10:34 p.m. Probably too late to call. Probably. But if Shane Hollander was any good, he wouldn’t care, right? Commission work didn’t sleep, and Ilya had money to burn. More than that, he wanted to hear the voice that matched the face.
So he dialed the nine digits printed cleanly on the front of the no-nonsense card, lips pressing together as it began to ring.
The real estate agent answered without hesitation. “Shane Hollander.”
“I know,” Ilya said by way of greeting. “I have your card.”
“…Sorry?”
“I have your card,” he repeated. “I know your name already. And your job. You know Connors?”
“A few of them, yeah.” The agent sounded like he was scrambling to catch up, and Ilya found himself amused by the confusion in his voice. Enjoyed witnessing his quick attempt to recover, too, like this wasn’t definitely the strangest call he’d had all day. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Connors says you are thorough,” Ilya went on, tapping the edge of the card against the table, “and quick. He says if I want to buy fast, and I don’t want many boring emails, you are the one to call. Yes?”
There was a beat. Then his voice smoothed out, like he’d found the right script. “Sure. I focus on getting my clients the property they want at the right price. I think buyers should feel good when they get the keys.”
“You think?” Ilya teased, mostly because it amused him to poke at his polished tone. One of his favorite things about playing in the MLH was that very few people expected him to act uptight and professional; in truth, the media loved him for doing the opposite. “Okay. I want a house. Four million. Before playoffs are done. You watch playoffs, Hollander?”
A pause. Then, “You play in the MLH? Oh. Oh my god. That Connors. You’re on Boston?”
“So you do watch.” Ilya drained the rest of his beer and lifted the empty bottle toward a passing server. “Do I get discount since you are my fan?”
“When did I say-” Shane cut himself off and took a very audible breath. “That’s not really how it works. I represent you, negotiate on your behalf, but the final price is always up to the seller. That said, four million shouldn’t be a problem in most neighborhoods.”
“Okay, Mr. Real Estate,” Ilya said, grinning. “So how do we start?”
“I can start with your name,” Shane replied, sliding back to business, and Ilya wondered if he wore the same faint frown from his headshot when he was concentrating.
He rolled his name out slowly, thick with a Russian accent. “Ilya Rozanov.”
The pause that followed was longer this time. Long enough that Ilya figured Shane had known already, or at least suspected, and just needed to hear it spoken aloud to be sure. Ilya was halfway to tossing out another taunting remark when Shane spoke again.
“Alright, Mr. Rozanov. Before we set anything up, I’d need to know a few basics. Are you looking for something turnkey or are you open to renovations? And are you planning to buy it personally or through a holding company?”
He knew only what half of those words meant, so he kept his response as simple as possible without admitting his lack of understanding.
“Turnkey,” Ilya said after a beat. “And I buy myself.”
“Great.” Shane’s tone stayed steady, pushing forward. “My next step then is getting you listings that fit what you’re looking for. I’ll need a way to send those over. Email works best, but if you’d rather loop in a manager or assistant, that’s fine too.”
“No email,” Ilya said quickly. “I hate email.”
He could practically hear the eye-roll. “Okay,” Shane said slowly, finding his patience. “Text works for you, then?”
“No. Postal only.” The hitch in Shane’s breath and the almost-stuttered response was what Ilya had been waiting for, winning him the advantage back. He put him out of his misery before he could ask for an address. “I am joking. Yes, Hollander. Text is good.”
A tired sigh slipped through the line. “Alright. I’ll pull a short list tonight and send it over. We can discuss details after that. Talk to you soon, Mr. Rozanov.”
The line went dead before Ilya could tell him that if he called him ‘Mr. Rozanov’ one more time, he’d have to speak to his father. And if Shane thought Ilya was bad, he hadn’t met Grigori.
As he slipped the phone away, Connor returned to his chair and caught him tucking the business card back into his wallet.
“You actually thinking about it, Rozanov?” Connor asked. “Settling down like the rest of us geriatrics?”
Not settling down, that much was sure. But Ilya was sure of one thing: he very much wanted to get under Shane Hollander’s skin again.
“Sure,” Ilya said, eyes drifting back up to the TV. “Yes. Cannot wait to be neighbors, Connors.”
Connors sighed.
Mr. Real Estate:
LINK: Luxurious waterfront duplex penthouse offering style, comfort, and breathtaking views.
Mr. Real Estate:
LINK: Beautifully renovated four-bedroom single-family townhouse in the heart of the South End.
Mr. Real Estate:
LINK: Expansive two-family residence with nearly 4,000 sq. ft. across three levels. Endless potential for customization.
Mr. Real Estate:
Any of these interest you? Trying to narrow down your preferences
Ilya:
You will find my preferences pretty open
Mr. Real Estate:
So the listings?
Ilya:
I would need to see them
Mr. Real Estate:
Thats what the pictures are for. If you like any of them, we can schedule a viewing
Ilya:
I am not clicking through 64 pictures Hollander
Mr. Real Estate:
Its actually 48
Ilya:
This does not help your case
Mr. Real Estate:
45 Parley Ave
Tuesday @ 7:30 PM
Ilya:
You check my game schedule?
Mr. Real Estate:
I checked availability
Ilya:
Same thing
Mr. Real Estate:
Just doing my job
Ilya:
You watch game last night?
Mr. Real Estate:
No
Ilya:
Liar
Mr. Real Estate:
I have other clients
Ilya:
You missed good game
Mr. Real Estate:
Tuesday work for you, or should I move on?
Ilya:
Tuesday is fine
Mr. Real Estate:
Great. See you there
He pulled his silver Aston Martin along the rounded curb of a single-lane street, private enough that he could enjoy a morning run without fans stopping him. From the outside, the house was nothing too glamorous or flashy. Chalk-blue shingle siding and gray stone finishes. Big windows that would catch the sunrise. The front lawn was dusted with snow, clinging to the pine needles of the tall evergreen sprouting at its center.
Movement in his periphery distracted Ilya from the property. He turned to see a dark green Jeep Cherokee carefully inching its way around the Aston Martin before slipping into the open space ahead. The license plate read FRVR-HME, leaving no mystery as to who the driver was. The brake lights flashed red, then went dark, and Ilya swallowed the sudden déjà vu of being sixteen again, working up the nerve to ask Svetlana to prom.
Where had that feeling come from?
This was just a real estate showing with an uptight agent, in a house he would most likely never buy. In fact, his attendance had everything to do with the fact that he could not seem to get Shane Hollander’s picture out of his mind. Once he met him in person, inevitably breaking the illusion, Ilya was sure he could carry on with his life of cheap rentals.
He waited for Shane’s driver-side door to open before shutting off the engine, watching through the dash as the real estate agent stepped out into the light snow. Dark hair, perfectly combed. A sleek suit coat that could not possibly be warm enough to fend off the cold. A briefcase in one hand, a cardboard tray with two cups in the other.
The cold bit at his skin when Ilya stepped out in clothes that were nowhere near as formal. He offered Shane a casual nod. “Cute briefcase.”
“Uh.” Shane glanced down at it. “Thanks?”
Was he blushing?
Ilya found he couldn’t look away. Sure, Shane looked the same as he had in the picture on his card, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the solid width of his shoulders, or the length of his fingers, or the subtle twitch of his lips when he tried to conceal his confusion. They stood nearly the same height, though Ilya would have to step closer to be sure.
“Here.” He reached forward to take the drinks from Shane’s hand, nodding toward the front door. “You remember keys?”
“Obviously,” Shane muttered, digging a set from his coat pocket. Then, realizing his lack of professionalism, he cleared his throat. “Great to meet you, Mr. Rozanov. I think you’ll really like this place.”
“Oh yeah?” Ilya fought back a smile as they headed toward the door. “What makes you think that?”
“Most of the players like a little extra privacy,” he explained without missing a step, feeding the key into the lock. “It’s got lots of space for a home gym, for off-season training. Extra rooms if you’re having the team over. You’re captain, right? Probably host a lot of team dinners. The dining room is massive.” He stepped into the foyer and slipped his loafers off. “The family that was here before already optimized the space for growth, so you’ll find it won’t be a hard transition if you’re thinking of settling here permanently.”
Ilya didn’t bother telling Shane that starting a family was very low on his list of priorities. In fact, it wasn’t even on his radar. Instead, he followed him inside, silent, his gaze roaming over the interior.
“The mahogany stairwells are original to the building,” Shane said as Ilya trailed behind him, moving through the main floor at a dizzying speed. “Custom tiles the original owners brought in from France. The hardwood flooring has radiant heat built beneath it, which is great in the winter. The decorative moldings are a big seller, too.”
The kitchen opened up around them, and Shane paused at the island, cracking his briefcase open and pulling out a few papers. The one laid on top was a contract of some sort, to which Shane set a ballpoint pen beside. “It’s a Buyer Representation Agreement,” he said, in a deliberately easy fashion. “Nothing dramatic. It just outlines that I represent you and your interests while we’re looking. Standard stuff. Term length, commission, that kind of thing.”
Ilya drew the contract closer. As a rule, he didn’t sign anything without reading it top to bottom, but he wasn’t really here for business. After a beat, he shrugged, signed his name, and slid the papers back across the island.
Shane blinked, glancing down at the signature before nodding, like he’d just accepted a small but none-the-less meaningful win. “Thanks.” His gaze flicked to the drink tray. “One of those is for you, by the way. Just black coffee. There’s sugar around here somewhere, if you’re into that.”
“No sugar,” Ilya murmured. He took the cup from the tray, and while he didn’t usually drink coffee in the evenings, preferring something stiff and closer to forty percent liquor, he didn’t want to be rude. “Place is nice.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” Shane said, gesturing vaguely around the space. “Custom wood cabinetry, polished granite countertops, stainless steel appliances. The gas range is professional-grade. Natural light, obviously.” Ilya glanced out the wide window spanning the wall above the counters, toward the private backyard. “Really impressive craftsmanship. Though I’ve realized most professional players don’t spend much time in the kitchen. It’s usually more of a benefit for their wives.”
“Ah,” Ilya said. “I am not much of a cook. Prefer takeout.”
“There are great delivery options around here,” Shane replied, and Ilya realized that no matter what he said, Shane would find a way to turn it into a selling point.
Ilya called his bluff. “Like what?”
But Shane had come prepared, pulling a paper from the thin stack. “Here’s a list of neighborhood features. Restaurants, parks, shopping. The walk score is an eighty-two, which you don’t see often this far from downtown.”
Ilya glanced briefly at the paper. “What is walk score?”
“As in, how many essentials are close enough to walk to,” Shane explained, straightening his jacket. “Ready for a tour? The neighborhood is great, but the real selling point is the master. It’s upstairs.”
Ilya nodded, feeling out of place. A little bad for wasting Shane’s time, because he seemed genuinely invested in Ilya’s satisfaction and Ilya had only shown up to get a better look. A part of him almost told Shane the truth, but then he would leave and Ilya would likely end up on his blacklist, and despite his previous intention, he wasn’t done looking yet.
They trailed across the first floor, through a long dining room with a table for ten set along white-framed windows that stretched the length of the wall, past a living room boasting a marble fireplace and a cherry-oak pool table, and up the polished stairs.
“There’s a guest bathroom here,” Shane noted, flipping on lights as he confidently walked the floor. Ilya absently wondered if that confidence vanished when Shane was outside of his element, paying little attention to the rooms Shane pointed out as they strolled down the wide corridor. “And then, finally, the master.”
The double doors opened without a creak, and Shane stepped beneath the skylights, bathed in a winter glow pouring through the glass.
“Is very far from entrance to house,” Ilya said, brushing lightly past Shane to assess the space. The brief touch lingered on his skin longer than he’d expected as he explored the room. It was large enough to comfortably fit a king-sized bed, a seating area arranged around the fireplace, and from this angle he could see the jacuzzi tub in the master bathroom and a walk-in closet on the opposite side.
“That’s a new one,” Shane noted, his eyes narrowing. “No problem. If we have to keep looking, I’ll keep that in mind. Any reason why? Sore after the games, or…?”
“No.” Ilya shook his head, his gaze trailing over Shane from head to toe before drifting slowly back up and settling on the wide set of his cupid’s bow. “I just do not need guests to see whole house before I get them into bed.”
Shane nearly choked on his coffee. Then Ilya saw it, a flicker of someone else beneath the professional face. He was practically giddy when Shane replied, “Scared they’ll change their mind before they get up here?”
This was what Ilya had been hoping for, and he had to answer before Shane regretted his lapse in decorum. He took a long stride forward, fixing Shane with a sharp, steady gaze. “Oh, no, this is not problem. I am gentleman. And I do not want to make anyone wait too long.”
Surprise widened the edges of Shane’s dark eyes, and whether it was Ilya’s sudden closeness or the promise in his voice, the real estate agent took a step back, running a hand over his coat. “Right. Well, there are two other guest rooms downstairs, closer to the front door. Like I said, this place is built to fit a family. Or…guests.”
“How much?”
“Four point two,” Shane answered. “It’s been on the market for a couple of months, though. Winter’s a slower season. You could start lower, and I can see where they take it.”
Ilya had to get out of this, and quickly. He should have told Shane that he’d changed his mind about home ownership, but what came from his lips instead was, “We see a couple more, first? I decide after?”
Shane nodded a little too fast. “Yeah. Of course. I’ve, uh, got something to do tonight, but we can slot something in for Friday evening.”
If Ilya had needed further confirmation that Shane was paying attention, he’d found it. They had an away game on Wednesday and another on Thursday before a stretch of home games starting Saturday. If Shane was this proficient with his clients’ schedules, what else was he practiced with? Ilya’s mind traveled quickly to places it shouldn’t have with the suited real estate agent in mind.
“Yes,” he remembered to answer, only because Shane was shifting nervously as Ilya undressed him with his eyes alone. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Shane was hiding beneath the sleek suit and white button-up, about whether his leather belt was easy to slip from the loops. “Friday.”
“I’ll set something up. Anything else you’re looking for?” Shane’s hesitation was a clear indication that he hoped Ilya wouldn’t say anything else that set his cheeks alight.
Ilya shrugged. “Close to airport. Good for travel.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Big garage.”
Shane had relaxed, his shoulders loosening, when Ilya smirked and added, “Walk-in shower. Wide enough to fit two. Maybe three.”
The lump in Shane’s throat bobbed like a fishing lure.
“Should be enough to help, yes?”
“Yeah,” Shane blurted. “Yep. That’s great. Helpful. I’ll, uh, dig up some listings that fit closer to your…” The word drew Shane’s gaze to Ilya’s face. “Preferences.”
Ilya hummed. If he wasn’t mistaken, they were on the same page. And by the same page, he meant that Shane wouldn’t mind being the guest Ilya led to his master bedroom. His eyes flicked to Shane’s hand, confirming the absence of a ring.
He didn’t get the chance to comment on it before the real estate agent turned back toward the hallway. “Feel free to look around some more. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready to wrap up.” He winced. “I mean, finish.” Shane’s shoulders tightened when he hissed, and Ilya bit back a smile when Shane slowed his speech this time. “Just let me know when you’re done.”
“I am satisfied,” Ilya said, low enough that he hoped Shane was forced to picture it in another context. “Looking forward to next one, Hollander.”
Mr. Real Estate:
LINK: An extraordinary expression of urban luxury, this penthouse redefines refined city living.
Mr. Real Estate:
Let me know what you think
Ilya:
Just send me address, Hollander
Mr. Real Estate:
You sure you dont want to take a look at the pictures first?
Ilya:
Nope
Mr. Real Estate:
1 Avery St
8 PM
Ilya:
9 PM is ok?
Mr. Real Estate:
No problem
Mr. Real Estate:
Good luck tonight
Ilya:
Will not need it. Buffalo sucks
Mr. Real Estate:
Fine, luck revoked
They had lost against Buffalo. Ilya hardly wanted to show his face in Boston tonight, when the loss was still fresh and he hadn’t yet figured out why his team had fumbled so badly against one of the most underperforming teams this season. It was the second of two straight away games, which he was blaming on their slow skating speed, but still. He’d had a dozen opportunities to score, and each one had gone wide, or hit the post, or landed neatly in the goalie’s glove.
He adjusted his cap over a mess of untamed curls before stepping into an opulent lobby of white marble floors and a statement chandelier, a doorman waiting behind a long desk.
“Am here to view penthouse,” he murmured to the gray-haired man in a black-and-white suit, who smiled like he’d been expecting him.
“Mr. Rozanov, then?” He nodded as he handed over a key card. “Click PH and hold this against the scanner. Mr. Hollander is already in the unit.”
Ilya nodded and moved quickly toward the oversized elevators. Once the doors slid shut, he stared at his reflection, at the shadows beneath his hazel eyes and the frown etched into his face. He hated away games, especially when they involved more time on a plane than on the ice. He’d never been able to sleep while flying, and it showed now in the tired set of his features and the hoarse edge of his voice.
The elevator opened into a bright living room, and Shane jumped up from a sleek white couch. “Mr. Rozanov.”
“Ilya,” he corrected as he stepped into the penthouse suite. “I am late.”
“No problem,” Shane replied, business as usual, plucking a coffee cup from the glass-top table and handing it to Ilya. “Here. How was the flight?”
“Rocky,” Ilya said, forcing a smile.
“Right.” Shane shifted in place, as if he wasn’t sure where to go from there.
Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Am here for viewing, yes?”
If his bluntness startled Shane, he recovered without missing a beat, pivoting to present the room. “Absolutely. This is a full-floor unit, which gives you privacy and consistent natural light throughout. Three bedrooms, so it’s a bit smaller than the last property, but the amenities are great. Concierge services, private parking, on-site security. A great gym. Like staying at the Ritz permanently. A lot the players prefer something like this over a house, just for ease of living when the season gets busy.”
While he hadn’t voiced most of his opinions out loud during their previous viewing, it seemed like Shane had some sort of real estate sixth sense, because this place was checking boxes Ilya hadn’t even known he had. The view of the Charles River weaving between high-rises through long-spanning windows. Clean design and a bright interior, exactly the kind of space he liked to come home to. Most people assumed Ilya would prefer something darker, given his less-than-cheery disposition, but he was a sucker for a place that felt like sunshine.
He followed Shane into the kitchen, listening to his spiel as he eagerly sipped his coffee. “You’ve got a temperature-controlled liquor fridge here, fully integrated appliances, and additional cold storage concealed behind custom paneling.” He tapped the counter lightly. “Extra height on the counters, too.”
Ilya nodded. It was, admittedly, kind of perfect. If he was serious about buying, he might actually consider this one. “How long have you been Mr. Real Estate?”
The question knocked Shane off script for half a second before he smiled. “Six years. I got my license right out of high school, joined one of the top agencies in Boston, and I’ve been there ever since.”
As long as Ilya had been playing hockey. He crouched to peer into the liquor fridge, quickly spotting a half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya on the shelf. “Previous residents have good taste.”
“Yeah?” Shane leaned in over Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t really drink.”
Ilya took the bottle and straightened, opening cupboards in search of glassware.
“Oh,” Shane started, then faltered. “I don’t think—”
“Who will notice?” Ilya asked casually, settling on two mugs when he couldn’t find a glass. Shane watched, wide-eyed, as he poured a shot into each and slid one across the island. “Give me break, Hollander. We both know you saw game.”
Shane’s lips pressed together, then curled faintly. “Wasn’t your best.”
“And you have seen my best?” Ilya asked, eyeing him over the rim of the mug as he replaced the lingering taste of coffee with crisp vodka. When Shane neither confirmed nor denied it, Ilya rounded the counter and stopped an arm’s length away. Standing this close, he could smell the clean, herbal edge of Shane’s aftershave. He could count the freckles scattered across his cheeks, not in clusters but like stars on a clear night. He noticed his lashes, thick and dark, fluttering quickly when Ilya took the second mug and placed it between Shane’s palms. “Is rude to make someone drink alone.”
“It’s also rude to drink someone else’s vodka,” Shane muttered, complying anyway. To Ilya’s amusement, Shane’s nose wrinkled as he swallowed a careful sip, eyes watering when he set the mug back on the counter. “There. God, that’s gross. Are you ready to see the rest of the unit now?”
Ilya had nearly forgotten why they were here, settling into the space as if it already belonged to him. As if he might sit Shane down on the couch and show him exactly how well he treated his guests. He kept his expression neutral, tightening his grip on his imagination. With a small gesture toward the kitchen exit, he said, “Lead the way, Hollander.”
As expected, Shane slipped back into action without delay. “Right,” he said, still smacking his lips as if the vodka lingered. Ilya carried his own mug as they moved back through the living room, feeling the tension in his muscles slowly loosen while Shane pointed out each element of the floor plan. “Each bedroom has its own two-piece bathroom,” he explained as Ilya poked his head into the first two guest rooms, “but I figured you’d be most interested in this one.”
He pushed open the door to the primary bathroom, and Ilya almost laughed. What he’d meant as a way to get under Shane’s skin had been taken with complete sincerity. The real estate agent looked openly pleased with himself as they both took in the shower, which was twice the size of the one in Ilya’s current rental, complete with built-in benches at either end, dual rainfall shower heads mounted to the ceiling, and a sliding glass door. Shane glanced at him, lips tugging into a smile. “Well?”
“Is nice,” Ilya admitted with a shrug. “How is water pressure?”
“Um.” Shane frowned. If he expected Ilya to retract the question, he was clearly unfamiliar with him by now. With his brows drawn together, Shane shrugged out of his suit jacket and folded it carefully on the counter, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. When he wasn’t showing listings, Ilya had to assume he was spending time in the gym, because where had he been hiding that? His mouth went dry as he watched the thick muscles in Shane’s arms flex beneath the stiff cotton as he reached into the shower and twisted the dial.
The spray kicked on faster than Shane expected, splashing the front of his hair and spotting his sleeve before he could react. He wiped the water from his eyes. “Does that answer your question?”
Ilya barely heard him. His teeth dragged over his bottom lip as he stepped closer, stopping with barely a foot between them now that Shane had gone completely still. He reached past him, sliding his hand beneath the stream, which was mostly an excuse to brush his fingers over Shane’s broad shoulder on the way. To his credit, the pressure was nothing to complain about, either.
“Another point for penthouse,” Ilya murmured as he cranked the dial off.
Shane smiled. “What was the first?”
“The view,” Ilya admitted. Standing this close to Shane, he wasn’t sure which view he meant. “Nice to be reminded Boston is bigger than a few crappy nightclubs and TD Garden.”
“The twenty-fourth largest city in the U.S.,” Shane added brightly, then winced. “Sorry. Habit.”
Ilya couldn’t hide his smile. “What else?”
“Um.” Shane leaned back against the counter. “The Tremont Street Subway was the first in America.”
Ilya’s eyes narrowed. “What year?”
Color crept up Shane’s neck. “Opened in 1897.”
Ilya let the quiet stretch before murmuring, “How many more boring fun facts you have, Hollander?”
“Wow,” Shane said, a soft smile tugging at his mouth as his gaze flicked from Ilya’s lips to his eyes and back again. “None for you.”
Maybe the vodka had gone straight to Ilya’s head, because he could swear Shane was leaning in. That he was doing the same, almost inadvertently, like unseen force was pulling them toward one another. With only inches between them and his fingers buzzing with the need to touch, Shane’s eyes widened, as if the realization hit him like a stray puck.
“The master,” he blurted, slipping sideways and leaving Ilya standing in the lingering steam, his hand hovering where Shane had been a second before. “Uh, it’s the last room to show you.”
Ilya’s reactionary instincts were failing him, and the best he could offer was a shallow nod.
“Okay,” Shane said, tugging his sleeves back down and gathering his suit coat into his arms. “Alright. Yeah. This way.”
Had he misread the signals? It seemed unlikely, as Ilya prided himself on reading a room, but Shane was retreating from the bathroom like his heels were on fire.
Ilya followed at a languid pace, painfully aware that he didn’t care what the master looked like. What he wanted to know was the version of Shane that existed outside of briefcases and real estate listings. The one who might have closed the distance between them and, maybe, tested the size of that shower in the best way Ilya knew how.
Shane had regained an ounce of his composure by the time he flicked on the lamp in the master, revealing another wall of windows that opened onto a balcony wrapping around the corner of the building. His posture had gone rigid, too stiff for Ilya to appreciate the ridges of his stomach or the breadth of his chest when he looked so restless.
“The terrace looks out over the harbor,” he supplied, avoiding eye contact with impressive dedication, much to Ilya’s growing frustration. “Oh. Did I already mention the parking? There’s space for three cars. Private spots. Valet available, if you prefer.”
“Okay,” Ilya said simply.
“So, that’s it,” Shane continued, speaking too fast now, tripping slightly over his words. Wasn’t that what Ilya wanted, to throw him off his game? The satisfaction he expected was harder to find when his core was tight with need and he hadn’t been able to get the real estate agent out of his head for nearly a week. “Think about it for a couple days. If you want to put an offer in, just give me a call, alright?”
Ilya’s chest tightened at the thought of admitting he was never going to make an offer. “I don’t know. It is good, but…we can see one more, maybe?”
“Another one?” Shane echoed, then nodded quickly. “Alright. Uh. Is there anything missing here that you’d like to see in the next place?”
It was a difficult question, because Ilya had genuinely liked everything about this one. He could already picture himself stretched out on the couch, the two-sided fireplace lit, a game on the flatscreen. Shane on his lap. Fuck. He needed to think about something else.
“I will know it when I see it, I think,” Ilya said, aware it was a terrible answer and wildly unhelpful. “You are smart agent. Do your best.”
Shane rubbed the back of his neck before nodding. “Yeah. No worries. I’ll figure something out. Are you, uh, parked nearby?”
“Block away,” Ilya confirmed, reminded of the commute back to his rental and the early morning practice he wasn’t nearly rested enough to tackle. “I should go.”
“I’ll have to tidy up,” Shane replied, and the tension between them had grown so thick that Ilya worried he might trip over it on his way out. “Thanks for coming, Ilya. Sorry we haven’t found it yet, but I think we’re close.”
“Hope so,” Ilya forced a smile, and left Shane standing in the master as he swallowed the disappointment lodged in his throat. “Night, Hollander.”
“Uh, Shane is fine,” he said.
Ilya nodded. “Good night, Shane.”
The changeroom smelled like sweat and victory, and Ilya let out a loud holler as they poured back into the tight space, red-cheeked and buzzing with a renewed sense of purpose.
He clapped the goalie on the back, grinning wide. “That is what I am talking about, Connors!”
Someone cranked a speaker, and the post-win playlist kicked in. The boys cheered, their excitement bouncing off the cubby-lined walls. This was his favorite part of being captain, watching his team savor a win they’d earned. He’d done his best to keep their energy up, but they’d made it easy. There was something special about tonight, about the ease of their passes and the precision of their goals. If he could bottle this feeling and stash it away, they’d never lose again.
“Not so bad, eh?” Connors flashed him a smile, tossing his helmet onto the bench. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Rozy. Great job keeping them busy on the other end.”
The celebration swirled on around Ilya as he pulled his phone from his cubby and stared at the blank screen. Three days. He turned to Connors with a frown. “Your real estate agent is, what do Americans call it, ghosting me?”
Connors’ voice came out muffled as he peeled his jersey over his head. “No way. Hollander would never. What’d you do to him?”
Ilya bristled. “I did nothing. I am perfect client.”
Disbelief spread quickly across Connors’ face. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”
Maybe he should have let it go. It was probably better this way, since Ilya wasn’t actually in the market for a place. At least he wouldn’t have to tell Shane the truth. Still, it gnawed at him as they changed out of their gear, and it followed him all the way to his car, where he sank into the driver’s seat, trying to cling to the rush of winning. The roar of the crowd. The smiles on his teammates’ faces as they took one solid step closer to the playoffs.
Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about Shane.
Ilya:
Giving up, Shane?
Mr. Real Estate:
No. Just want to make sure its the one
Ilya:
Am I making it hard?
Mr. Real Estate:
Yes
Ilya:
You can handle it
Mr. Real Estate:
15 Peachtree Rd
Wednesday at 2 PM
Ilya:
Where is link?
Mr. Real Estate:
You don’t even open them
Ilya:
Where do I leave Mr. Real Estate Agent Yelp review?
Mr. Real Estate:
See you Wednesday
Ilya:
Maybe
After twenty minutes on the I-93 N, Ilya found himself driving through a densely wooded stretch, sunlight slipping between bare branches as his tires crunched over fresh snow. The road curved gently, lined with three-story homes set back on acre-wide lots, and he could already tell the kind of people who lived here. Happy families with snowmen staked out on front lawns. The adventurous types, Jeeps parked in driveways with canoes strapped to roof racks.
He knew which property Shane would show him before he even checked the address, pulling into the driveway with a knowing smile tugging at his lips. The long paved drive led to a trio of garage doors, one for each car he preferred to keep out of the snow. White siding clad the modern home, framed by black-trim windows and a gray slate roof.
He slid out of the Aston Martin and grabbed the coffee tray from the passenger seat. The drinks had gone cold, but he carried them up the cobblestone walk anyway, following the path to maple-wood double doors accented by natural stone. He took a moment to collect the nervous excitement buzzing in his chest and shove it down before rapping his knuckles against the door.
A minute later, Shane pulled it open. The usual suit jacket had been replaced with a thick cream-colored knit sweater and worn-in blue jeans. He tilted his head slightly. “There’s a doorbell, Ilya.”
Ilya reached over and pressed the button, listening as a cheerful chime echoed through the house. “Better?”
A warmth bloomed behind his ribs at the sight of Shane’s soft, involuntary smile. “Come in.”
Ilya stepped inside, brushing Shane’s shoulder as Shane shifted back to make room.
A flicker of nervous anticipation crossed Shane’s face. “How was the drive?”
“Are we even in Boston anymore?” Ilya asked, setting the tray down on the entry table.
“Technically, no.” Shane watched as Ilya kicked off his sneakers, leaning casually against the wall. He looked comfortable here, like he’d spent more time in this house than he was willing to admit. “It’s Lexington. I know it’s a bit of a drive, but just let me show you around first, okay?”
It didn’t matter if it was twenty minutes or two hours. Ilya wasn’t actually here to buy property. He was here to see Shane. Still, he played along, unsure how to bridge the space between client and something else, whatever it was that existed beyond the expectations of a viewing. Did Shane want that too? His smile came easier today, his voice lighter, his gaze lingering on Ilya without drifting away for long.
“You are excited about this one,” Ilya observed. “More than last two.”
Shane didn’t bother hiding it. “Yeah. I think they’ve got something really special here.” He took the coffee from Ilya’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.”
Bashful had never been a word associated with Ilya, but the way Shane murmured his gratitude, sincere and genuine, made it impossible to feel anything else. He nodded once, his lips pressed tight together.
“Just through here,” Shane said a moment later, leading them from the foyer into an open-concept space with a living room to the left, a small dining area centered beneath pendant lights, and a grand kitchen to the right. “Custom white oak cabinetry,” he continued. “You seemed to like the bright interior in the penthouse, so I thought this would suit you. And the exposed wood beams,” he added, gesturing overhead, “gives it that warm, cottage-like feel.”
They stepped into a chef’s kitchen with a large island, high-end appliances, and a walk-in pantry. “I know you’re not a big cook,” Shane said easily, “but it’s a nice bonus.”
He kept moving, easily guiding Ilya through the space. Ilya liked the house well enough, but seeing Shane in casual clothes, coffee in hand, shoes left by the door like he lived here, he liked the way Shane looked in it even more.
“Two separate living areas,” Shane said, leading him through an arched opening into a cozier room anchored by a long electric fireplace. “This one’s my favorite. It feels more…intimate.”
The word on his lips landed low and heavy in Ilya’s stomach. “You seem to know this place well,” he said mildly. “Has it been on the market long?”
“Just listed,” Shane replied, a hint of color creeping into his cheeks. Ilya’s eyes narrowed, but before he could press further, Shane was already moving again.
“This opens to the yard,” he said, sliding the door aside and letting in a brisk winter breeze. “Two-level patio, about point seven acres total. Plenty of room for hosting. Barbecues, outdoor heaters, the whole setup.” He smiled, slipping easily into his pitch. “The trees give you privacy from the neighbors without feeling boxed in.”
Ilya’s theory was growing roots. He stepped in behind Shane, close enough that he could whisper over his shoulder. “And who are neighbors, Shane? You know them?”
Shane’s breath hitched. “Hm?”
“Your terrible car is not in driveway,” Ilya added casually. “Did you walk here, Shane?”
Shane turned, eyebrows crossed “Terrible car?”
Ilya took another step closer. “Answer the question.”
“Uh,” Shane stumbled, words tangling together. “What? Walk? No. Of course not.”
A low laugh slipped out of Ilya. “You are terrible liar.”
“Fine. I’m not, like, next door, but…” Shane ran a hand through his hair, biting back a smile that ruined any hope of keeping his story straight. “Whatever. Stop looking at me like that. It’s just a great property, okay?”
“Let me guess,” Ilya tapped his chin. “Yours is same?”
The silence stretched just long enough. Ilya had his answer before Shane murmured, almost to himself, “Pretty close. Same contractor.”
“Is not often you get chance to choose your neighbors,” Ilya said slowly. When Shane didn’t move away, Ilya inched closer. The real estate agent stayed put. Better still, Ilya had his answer; he had a couple inches on Shane and was enjoying the advantage, especially when Shane was peering up at him through dark lashes. “You would choose me?”
A cool breeze slipped through the open door, doing nothing to temper the heat gathering between them. “Doesn’t usually take me this long to find a good fit,” Shane said lightly. “I was kind of running out of options.”
“Ah,” Ilya hummed. “So I am becoming problem?”
A soft laugh escaped Shane, his gaze dropping to Ilya’s lips. This time, Ilya knew he hadn’t imagined it. Something went unspoken, carried in the tone alone, when Shane replied, “Something like that.”
As he weighed his options, his pulse skipped into overdrive. He could reach out, brush a finger beneath Shane’s chin, do what he’d been wanting to do since the first viewing. But coming on too fast might scare him again, make him regret bringing Ilya this close to his neighborhood, to his life.
Or he could wait for Shane to act on what was clearly there. Given his restraint and his devotion to professionalism, that could take another five showings. Maybe more.
“Is a good kind of problem to have, no?” Ilya’s voice was low, too rough for so early in the day. It was a tone he reserved for dimly lit rooms and the hours past midnight.
Blinking twice, Shane seemed to understand what Ilya was suggesting. That if his problem was deciding what to do with Ilya, he had full permission. The problem was that he didn’t seem to know what to do with it, quickly turning away to close the patio doors. He wasn’t running, exactly, but Ilya felt the distance between them as Shane battled the urge to keep things technical and resist the obvious pull between them.
Ilya almost groaned when Shane paced the length of the room, pausing at the arched frame leading into the living room. “I should show you the second floor.”
Ilya had never considered himself a patient man, and Shane was putting his self-restraint to the test. Swallowing a sigh, he nodded. “Sure. Yes.”
There was conflict tugging at Shane’s features, a subtle tick in his jaw, an imperceptible pull between his eyebrows. And yet, Ilya didn’t miss the way his lips parted and closed, like there was something he wanted to say.
Then he turned, and Ilya followed, like he’d done three times before.
They were at the base of the staircase when Shane turned on a pivot. “Are you serious about this? About buying a property? Or are you just fucking with me?”
Ilya felt his poker face slip like silk sliding off bone. He reached for it out of instinct, but it was already gone, pooled somewhere between them where Shane could see it plainly.
“I am serious about some things.” Ilya leaned against the bannister, holding Shane’s attention like it was covered in oil and made of glass, determined not to let it slip from his grasp. “About seeing you again, yes. About buying house…not as much.”
Shane pinched his fingers on the ridge of his nose. “I’m at work, Ilya. You can’t…say things…like that.”
“Why not?” Ilya stepped forward, finally curling his thumb under Shane’s chin. Relishing in the way that his breath slipped out in a soft gasp, gaze flickering wide open. “Is empty house, yes? Seems perfect place to say things like that.”
Shane chased Ilya’s touch, tilting his head into his hand when he dragged his finger up his jaw, wrapping his palm behind his neck. There was no echo of the real estate agent still when he replied, “It doesn’t work like that.”
Ilya smirked. “But you live nearby, yes?”
“Yes,” Shane whispered with a slight snag in his throat. To Ilya’s immediate disappointment, he frowned, shaking his head. “No. I have another viewing at three. Besides, I can’t take a client home. And you signed a BRA, Ilya. This is…I could get in trouble with the agency.”
“I read BRA,” Ilya said, though in truth, he’d only read the first line. “You are to act in my best interest, yes?” He leaned forward, and Shane’s eyes fell closed when Ilya brushed a delicate kiss against his lips. Barely a second of contact, but his stomach flipped at the prospect of more, at the barely-audible whimper that he’d pulled from Shane. “I promise it is in my best interest.”
A hesitant hand came behind Ilya, wrapped around his side. He wasn’t even sure Shane had heard him, his eyes gleaming with a curious hunger when he reached in and sought another kiss, less brief, chasing it with the light caress of his tongue. Conflict and need kept him frozen in place until Ilya’s hand drifted to the front of his chest, fingers curling into the warm wool.
“Wait,” Shane blurted, “If you really aren’t interested in buying, I’ll have to drop you as a client. Write up a mutual release that ends the contract.”
Ilya’s mind clung to ‘drop,’ and it settled strangely on his chest. “You will not be my agent any more?”
“Does it matter?” Shane blinked.
He hadn’t thought so. In fact, if all he’d needed to do was sign a termination paper and they’d be free to do whatever they wanted, it should have been an easy decision to make. But still, he thought of the penthouse. The second property that Shane had showed him. Later that night, he’d dreamed about it, the large shower, the balcony off the master. He’d found himself annoyed with every feature of his rental the next day, scowling at the low ceilings and small windows. So maybe he wasn’t quite done with his real estate agent.
“Maybe,” Ilya said, hating himself for it. “How quickly can you contact sellers for penthouse?”
The question took Shane by surprise, and he stepped back, searching Ilya’s gaze like he had to be sure he wasn’t messing with him again. “You’re serious?”
“Connors said you are fast,” Ilya wanted to drag him back into his arms, especially because he looked so…pleasantly surprised. “Prove it.”
The silence stretched while Shane’s thoughts practically swirled in the air around him. “And then?”
“And then I will give you five star Yelp review,” Ilya smiled.
Shane glared back. “Asshole.”
Maybe it was because he was finally catching a full glimpse of Shane, not real-estate agent Shane but the off-duty version of him that Ilya was dying to meet, but he grabbed him around the hips, spinning him against the bannister. This time, he was neither brief nor delicate. Their lips clashed in a messy, delicious scramble, and Ilya’s head was spinning with a demand that he’d been staving off for days. His hands slipped beneath the knit sweater, finding soft skin, and Shane melted into his touch, trailing his own fingers up Ilya’s back. He was seconds from carrying up the stairs and finding out how close the master was to the front door when Shane broke their contact in a breathless gasp.
“I’ll call the sellers,” Shane panted.
Ilya was equally struggling to regain his composure, though he figured he did a better job of hiding it. “Soon, Shane.”
The promise of what came after lingered between them like a frayed wire, dangerous and electric. Just as he considered how much they could get away with in the meantime, they turned to the sounds of tired crunching on gravel outside the front door. “That’s my clients.”
Ilya frowned. “I am your client.”
“My other clients,” Shane huffed, “You should go.”
Ilya’s eyebrow raised. “Should I?”
“Oh my god, Ilya,” Shane grabbed his arm, momentarily stalling at the muscle he found. Ilya smirked, only coercing another groan of annoyance from his agent. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have a number, alright?”
“Okay,” Ilya quipped. Before Shane could protest, he stole a final kiss, savoring the way that Shane’s lips followed his own like they’d been waiting to meet for a lifetime, “Bye Shane.”
Shane didn’t reply, either because he didn’t trust what he’d say or the words had gotten lost in the warm haze that Ilya felt in equal measure. But he watched, his stare unbreaking, as Ilya brushed his curls back and disappeared out the front door.
He thought back to the sight of Shane’s business card for the first time, the immediate interest he’d been unable to shake off, not sure how to really discern why he’d become a fixture in his imagation. He had plenty of options, in whatever city he flew to, with whatever man or women flashed a look of interest in his direction, but he’d never felt so…determined before. He’d booked a viewing with the intention of getting under Shane’s skin, but Ilya couldn’t deny the fact that Shane, however unintentionally, had done the same thing. Not only that, but Ilya’s bank account would be roughly four-million dollars shorter, and hopefully soon, because Shane Hollander was a fantastic real estate agent.
Mr. Real Estate:
They’re willing to come down to 4.1
Ilya:
I would pay 5
Mr. Real Estate:
You really shouldn’t say that to me
Ilya:
Why?
Mr. Real Estate:
Because if I know how much you're willing to spend then I lose my leverage. And I like having leverage
Ilya:
Just say yes, Hollander
Mr. Real Estate:
I’m sending you the counter. Youll need to check your email
Ilya:
Actually I dont want penthouse anymore
Mr. Real Estate:
You are singlehandedly competing for worst client of the year
Ilya:
I am excited to display with my other trophies
Mr. Real Estate:
It will look great in your new penthouse :)
It had taken seven days, which Ilya considered a lifetime, but Connors had insisted it was the fastest he’d ever seen a deal close. He’d been told the speed was thanks to paying in cash, waiving most contingencies, and buying the furniture used to stage the penthouse. That part suited him fine, he could live with the staged setup until he had the time to replace it with his own. If he was honest, though, he’d simply been doing whatever was asked just to get the whole ordeal over with as quickly as possible.
They’d spoken on the phone a few times during the process, between practices and games, while he was driving or lounging on the couch he couldn’t wait to part with. Late last night, after the funds had been wired and the closing attorney confirmed the deed had been recorded, Ilya got the call he’d been waiting for.
“It’s all yours,” Shane said, his voice low and steady over the line. “I’ll meet you there with the keys tomorrow, after your game, if that works.”
They’d won with a three-goal lead, and Connors had been grinning at him from the second they left the ice. “What’s got you so fired up, Rozy?”
“I’m moving into my new place tomorrow,” Ilya told him.
“So Hollander didn’t ghost your ass after all,” Connors quipped, brushing sweat from his forehead before the inevitable post-game press. “What happened to ‘rent is not so bad’?”
Ilya grinned. “Changed my mind.”
The parking spot Shane had promised was waiting for him when Ilya pulled into the underground garage just past eleven p.m. A part of him felt vaguely guilty for keeping Shane up this late on a Wednesday, but he had plans to make it up to him. Detailed plans, and a place of his own to carry them out.
By the time Ilya reached the penthouse floor using the temporary fob the doorman had handed over, along with a brief congratulations on his new home, his chest was thrumming with the heavy beat of his heart against his ribs. The doors slid open, and he stepped into the furnished space, his gaze drifting over the place he could now call his own.
This was what he’d been avoiding for years?
Standing there, he wondered why he’d ever been afraid of leaving rentals behind. Maybe it was the permanence of one place, but playing for Boston hadn’t grown old yet, and on second thought, the city was a little more than just fine.
From around the corner, Shane stepped into view, a bottle of Stolichnaya in one hand and two tall glass flutes in the other. “I’d usually bring champagne, but…”
Ilya set his bag down with a thud, matching Shane’s nervous smile with one of his own. “So you do drink with your clients, after all.”
“Typically I just leave it on the counter,” Shane said, casting a shy glance that made Ilya’s stomach perform what he could only describe as a poorly executed somersault. “Do you… want me to leave it on the counter?”
“No,” Ilya said, crossing the room to take the bottle from Shane’s hand. Holding his gaze, he spun the cap off and poured a shot into each glass, setting the bottle aside before raising the drink to his lips. “We should celebrate together. Is not like I could have done this without you.”
A blush colored Shane’s freckled cheeks as he followed suit, wincing less than he had the first time he’d tipped the vodka back. “Congratulations, Ilya.”
Ilya stepped closer, noting Shane had already shed his coat, dressed simply in a white t-shirt and a pair of slacks he desperately wanted to tug off. It was clear Shane wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon, and he was relieved to be done with wondering. The air between them crackled with something charged and eager, and Ilya reached through the tension, wrapping a hand around Shane’s waist and tugging him closer. “Am I still worst client of the year?”
Shane’s eyes gleamed with playful intent. “I don’t know. I’ll need to read your review first.”
“I’ll give it to you right now,” Ilya purred, dipping his head to graze his teeth along Shane’s neck. “Shane Hollander was very distracting,” he murmured, dragging his tongue over Shane’s pulse point, “makes it very hard to care about your custom whatever kitchen and whatever acres,” his fingers roamed lower, brushing against Shane’s waistband. “And he is a bit of a tease, but-”
“I was working,” Shane hissed through a moan as Ilya’s hands wandered over his backside.
“But,” Ilya continued, lifting his chin to press a kiss to Shane’s jaw, then his chin, “even though I could not stop thinking about taking off sexy coat and throwing stupid briefcase out the window,” he smiled against Shane’s lips, “you are very good at your job.”
“Yeah?” Shane’s voice was thick, his hands tightening at Ilya’s hips.
Ilya nipped at his bottom lip. “Yes. Now show me the bedroom again.”