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    Summary

    “When I get into that room, it’s game fucking over. I’m the best fucking player.” Shane didn’t need Ilya’s validation, not right now. He believed the words deep down in his soul, feeling his rage simmering into the same brash arrogance Ilya wore like a familiar sweater. 

    “Everyone is going to come when they see me. They won’t fucking know what hit them. They’ll know how big my cock is and how good I can use it and how I’m going to fuck Montreal so hard, they’ll beg for more.”

    Ilya’s hips rutted faster against the soft comforter, cock harder than ever before at Shane’s confidence and bravado. He could back all of it up, and his husband now knew it. He tightened the leash again and Ilya couldn’t remember the last time he took a full breath. If he suffocated and died in this magnificent ass, he’d dance his way into heaven.

    “We’re going to win tonight, and they’ll wish they never fucking heard of Shane Hollander. And when we win the Cup, you’re going to fuck me for three days straight until I can’t walk. And then we’ll fuck again and cum all over those three little Montreal plaques.”

    AKA: Shane took a DNA test. Turns out he's 100% that bitch.

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