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Sometimes when they called they only talked. By silent agreement they didn’t discuss their own teams, because the ethics of fucking a rival was one thing and potential match fixing quite another; Shane never wanted to know more about Ilya’s team than what he could read on ESPN. But there were other teams, and always other games. They’d discuss whether Colorado with their newest call-up could beat Tampa, or if the Vegas right winger on their second line looked like he was playing injured. Ilya had a good eye for the direction a goalie would move; Shane mostly mourned the passes that failed to connect, a clear open lane nobody took.
Other times, Ilya would take one look at Shane picking up the call and say, “Take off your clothes,” and it would be like he‘d reached out through the screen and lit up something electric in Shane’s spine. Ilya always looked so intently while Shane undressed. Shane wasn’t doing it in a sexy way or anything; he took his clothes off normally, he was pretty sure. But when he set his shirt aside and picked the phone back up, Ilya’s face would be hot and focused and a little hungry, which made Shane squirm even as it made his dick fill up.
But. That had been before.
Shane had searched up escitalopram side effects five times in the past two weeks. There were a lot. Maybe Shane should have been worried about prolonged QT interval or risk of GI bleed, but that felt purely theoretical and distant, whereas he’d had the evidence of decreased libido and impotence first-hand.
They were still having phone sex. Just a few days ago, Ilya had called demanding a reward for a win in overtime. “Two points in the rankings is the reward,” Shane had pointed out, but Ilya had convinced Shane to switch positions anyway, propped up on one hand and his knees with the phone on a pillow so Shane could reach back and finger himself. It wasn’t like Ilya could see anything, mostly Shane’s face concentrating as he tried to get the angle right, but Ilya had said, “More,” with a rasp in his voice, and then swore when Shane worked another finger in and panted out, “Okay,” so it must have done something for him.
Shane didn't know if Ilya had come, though. Shane had pressed his face into his forearm when his orgasm hit, a good half minute of fuzzy black static before he’d slid his cramping hand free and picked the phone back up. Maybe Ilya had been touching himself. Maybe he hadn’t even bothered, had watched Shane go tight and shocked around his own fingers and then said, “Good night, Shane,” all affection, and never gotten hard at all.
It was fine, Ilya had said. It certainly didn't stop him texting. After a game in Nashville, fresh off a Gordie Howe hattie: Did you watch? Are you hard? The press scrum after, tarp off as was habit, cheek beginning to bruise and his eyes very bright. Yeah, Shane had watched. Ilya dancing around the D, the deke, the sliding backhand pass. One-timer over the goalie’s shoulder, brutally fast.
Yes, he'd sent back, no elaboration. Ilya would already be in the air to Columbus. Shane had a hand on his dick and the replay of the puck slamming into the back of the net. It took him less than thirty seconds, fast steady pulls, Ilya’s triumphant fist punching up on the TV. After Shane cleaned up he sent a follow-up: Nice assist.
So Ilya was happy, or as happy as one could be when their team was 22-17-5. The Metros had won two more games, 4-2 in New Jersey and a shutout against Buffalo, and Shane was having more and better sex than he had ever had in his life. None of this explained why Shane kept thinking about Ilya’s dick. The absence, when Ilya sent things like How should I make you cum, fingers or mouth? The memory of Ilya scratching through Shane’s hair, his dick still soft against Shane’s thigh.
Montreal had a back-to-back at home, the night the Centaurs were due in. Pittsburgh usually made them work for it, and it was worse when they got the no-goal call second period, goaltender interference, still tied 2-2. They went to overtime and lost in the shootout, which happened, couldn't win them all, but Shane kept remembering the puck sliding past the goalie’s skate, silence instead of the goal horn.
He told the guys they played a hard game, a good game, told press the same thing, and went home desperate to tear his suit off. When he got to the apartment, Ilya met him at the door.
“Hi,” Ilya said, and pulled Shane inside by the lapels. “Bullshit call. Sorry.”
The refs make the calls they see, that's the nature of the game. Both teams played hard, it was a good game, and we'll take what we learned and play better going forward. Word for word what he'd said to The Gazette half an hour ago. Shane opened his mouth, touched his tongue to his teeth, and said, instead, “Let me suck you.”
“Shane.”
“I know, I know you won't get hard.” Shane stared at Ilya’s shoulder. He was in a hoodie, the string chewed ragged, completely nondescript except for the fact that it was Shane’s. “But I just. I want to. Please.”
Ilya put a hand at the back of Shane’s neck. “Okay,” he said, stroking over the top of Shane’s spine. “Do you want to undress?”
“Yeah,” Shane said, and it came out wet. “Bedroom?”
Up the stairs, kissing, Ilya sliding Shane’s jacket off his shoulders. In the bedroom Shane tugged off the tie and undid the buttons of his shirt, watching Ilya kick off his track pants. No underwear. “Did you fly commando?” Shane said, disbelieving.
“You would like that?” Ilya grinned. “No, I took a shower when I got here. Thought you might complain.” The track pants, Shane realized, were also his. He imagined Ilya letting himself into the apartment while Shane was slogging through a scoreless third period. Flipping the lights on, finding a towel. Digging through Shane’s closet afterwards, damp, still smelling like Shane’s soap.
“You can,” Shane cleared his throat, “you can wear my underwear.” Shane had had Ilya inside him; surely this wasn't more intimate than that. He didn't know what his face was doing, only that Ilya’s mouth had gone crooked and fond. “What?”
“Maybe later,” Ilya said, and gestured at Shane. “But I think right now you should be taking things off.”
Ilya was fully undressed now, propped up on the pillows on the bed. Shane left the shirt and pants folded on a chair, shucked off his briefs, and climbed up between Ilya’s legs to put his mouth at the juncture of his groin. Ilya’s dick was warm against his cheek and he smelled like clean skin mostly, a little of musk. When Shane bit at the muscle of Ilya’s thigh it jumped under his thumb, hard, again when he mouthed at the soft weight of Ilya’s balls. Then Shane rose up on his forearms and took Ilya’s cock into his mouth, heard Ilya make a low noise in his throat.
The fullness of Ilya’s dick bumped into the roof of his mouth. Even soft, Ilya wasn't small; Shane couldn't breathe without tasting Ilya, and it was like his mouth got wetter, slicker, every time he swallowed. His tongue pressed up against the shaft, feeling the velvety length of it twitch. Ilya was petting at Shane’s hair, rubbing over the curve of his ear. “You like this,” Ilya said roughly, like that was what was important. “Sucking my dick.”
“Yeah,” Shane mumbled around Ilya’s cock. He would be embarrassed, later, at how much he liked it, but there was never room in the moment, only the weight on his tongue, nudging up toward the back of his throat, the way it stretched uncomfortably at the corner of his lips. Ilya’s fingers smeared over one shoulderblade, pressing hard. Heat prickled along Shane’s spine, out from that touch, made him shove his hips down into the bedspread. “Sorry.”
Ilya’s hand stopped moving. “Why are you sorry?”
Ilya wasn't letting Shane hide his face, was tugging him off his cock by the hair. He felt raw on every inch of his skin, nerves exposed, throat closing up. “I know it's not, um. Doing anything for you. With the medication. But I.” He curled his fingers into a fist, dug a nail into the base of his thumb. The pressure on his scalp, flaring as he breathed. “I need it.”
“Shane,” Ilya said. He sounded incredulous. “You think it's hard for me, having a beautiful man suck my cock?” His hand was on Shane’s face now, thumb pressing into the tender place behind Shane’s jaw, tilting his head up to meet Ilya’s gaze. “You think because I don’t get hard that, what, I do not want you?”
“No, of course not,” Shane said. It was just a change. Ilya’s body, familiar, reliable, the thing he could read best on the ice and off. He had learned its tells: how the tilt of Ilya’s jaw might betray the direction of the pass, the angle of his shoulder that meant he would shoot forehand instead of back. He knew the twitch of his lip right before he leaned in for a kiss, and the tremble in his thigh when he was very close to coming and trying to hold off. “I mean, I know it doesn't mean anything, it's just the side-effects. It's not your fault.”
Ilya’s dick had flopped over when it slipped out of Shane’s mouth. Now it lay draped over one thigh, pink and sheened with Shane’s spit, which was fine, it was what he'd wanted, and Ilya wasn't letting him put it back in his mouth, or rub it over his face. Ilya held him, and tapped his thumb contemplatively on Shane’s cheekbone, and then said, “Where is your dildo?”
“What?”
“Your ‘thing’. You told me you had one, so experienced, not scared of fucking at all. You still have it?”
“I—yeah?” He hadn't used it in a while, hadn’t needed to. “You wanna fuck me with it?”
“So impatient,” Ilya said, and let go of Shane’s face. “Go get it for me.”
Shane slid off the bed. When he got to his feet his dick bounced against his stomach, leaving little smears on his abs. All the way to the closet he could feel Ilya’s gaze on his back, heavy like a weight. “Don't,” he warned as he got on one knee. “Ilya—”
“Hollander. The safe?”
“Shut up! I didn't want the cleaning service to find it.” The bag was at the back, half-hidden in the shadow of the shelf above. Shane loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents out onto his palm. When he looked up, Ilya had moved down on the bed, was expectantly holding out his hand. Shane gave it to him. “Um. This is it.”
It wasn't a very exciting dildo. Shane had flinched away from the more lifelike options, so the whole thing was pretty smooth, tapered at the tip, dark blue silicone that felt nice to hold. Smaller than Ilya, a curve to the shaft that meant it filled him differently—but Shane hadn't known that when he bought it. He’d barely known anything except how good it had felt, sucking Ilya’s dick. How it had pushed against his cheek, inside Shane, his body, making space for itself. How it held him open.
He'd paid for express shipping, and then gone hot every time he looked at the box for the next two months. God, he’d been stupid back then. Stupid, and full of wanting, and terrified of it.
“This is nice,” Ilya said, hefting it thoughtfully. “Expensive?”
“I guess? I mean, I did look for something high-quality, I didn't want to have to get another one if—” Ilya’s lips were twitching as he watched Shane’s face. “What?”
“Good,” Ilya said. Wrapped his fingers around the base and brought it down to his crotch. “Now it is my dick.”
Ilya was sitting on the edge of the bed. His broad thighs, dusted with fine hair, the darker patch at his groin and trailing up his belly. His dick, the soft mass of it pressed along Ilya’s wrist, and beside it, the curl of his fist, the dildo jutting up at an angle. Shane’s mouth went entirely dry.
“And if you suck me nicely,” Ilya said, rotating his wrist—the dildo dipped, came back up, lower than before— “enough to get me hard, I will fuck you with it.”
Shane’s knees hit the hardwood floor. He was shoving his way between Ilya’s thighs, heart pounding, before he got his mouth on the dildo and Ilya surged up to meet him, the tip of it scraping over his palate, back and back. Shane could barely breathe, and didn't care.
Not the first time he'd had the dildo in his mouth. It tasted like silicone, which was to say nothing. Less yielding than a dick, none of the hot pulsing life of one, but when Shane pulled back on the shaft to suck hard at the head the dildo jumped in Ilya’s fist, pushed jerkily up into Shane’s mouth. An answering kick at Shane’s groin, pooling in his balls. His tongue felt thick and heavy, pinned down by the dildo.
Lower again. Shane’s cheek was brushing against Ilya’s dick, the real one. Ilya had shifted his hand down so Shane could take in more, the base of the dildo tucked up to the web between his thumb and forefinger. The tip of it hit the back of Shane’s throat; he breathed out through his nose. A memory: Shane alone in this same bed, the dildo in one hand and a private browser window open to how to deepthroat a cock. Shane was not a stranger to practice.
He’d had a lot of practice since then. He blinked against the sensation and swallowed. Took the dildo down into his throat and looked up.
“That’s it,” Ilya said. His thumb slid along Shane’s lip, smeared spit across his mouth. His other hand was cradling Shane’s jaw, fingertips pressing into the side of Shane’s throat. It meant he could feel the dildo when it moved. “So good at taking my cock.” He leaned down; the dildo pushed further in. His face was quite close to Shane’s now. He still wasn't hard but he had a hot focused look in his eyes. Same look when he was deciding how to arrange Shane to his liking; same when he was about to slam him into the boards. “Not always so good. You remember?”
Jesus. Did he remember? That first time, too eager for it, Ilya’s dick filling up his mouth until it hit the back of Shane’s throat and he choked. The way Ilya had pulled him back and thumbed away the tears that sprung up at the corner of his eye. He could have made fun of Shane, but instead he‘d stroked across Shane’s mouth and then kissed him until Shane was breathless for a different reason entirely. Made his way down Shane's stomach and said, “Let me show you how to do this,” warm and sure, swallowing down Shane’s cock deeper and deeper until Shane went cross-eyed.
Shane made a noise, meaningless except that it made Ilya’s grip tighten on his jaw. “Look at you now. Well-trained. Gorgeous.”
Please. Please. Shane’s whole being was ringing with a singular purpose. Sweat in the crease of his hip, his cock heavy between his thighs, his cheek leaning into the curve of Ilya’s palm. Ilya’s dick; Shane’s throat. His body knew how to do that. All he had to do was let Ilya in. Relax. Swallow.
His lips kissed the circle of Ilya’s fingers.
Ilya swore. “Shane, you perfect, beautiful—” He was kissing Shane’s eyebrow, his cheekbone, everywhere he could reach. “Get on the bed,” he said urgently. “On the bed. Fuck.”
It seemed to take forever for Shane to remember how to move his limbs. How to separate his body from Ilya’s body and tilt his head back, away from the cradle of Ilya’s thighs. His jaw ached, and his knees ached, and none of that mattered as much as the dildo sliding out of his throat with a long, wet sound, all of it gleaming, because Ilya was going to fuck him with it.
Ilya heaved himself back on the bed, one-handed. Shane followed him up, watching Ilya’s muscles ripple. He still had the dildo propped loosely against his thigh, and that should have been silly but it hit him low in the gut instead, precisely placed as a punch.
Shane had had that dildo for years. Factually, it had been inside him any number of times. It didn't feel like it, though, as Shane lay down on his front and pillowed his head in his folded arms. He was dragging his hips in a slow circle against the sheets, and his skin was alight, like the nerves had all grown raw and tender, waiting for touch. “Can you fuck me now,” he said into the crook of his elbow. “Please.”
A hand, at the small of Shane’s back. Ilya pushed down—harder, when Shane’s hips gave a frantic jerk. Not just the hand now, but Ilya’s whole body rolling onto him, chest flat against Shane’s shoulderblades, heavy all down Shane’s back. Like this Ilya had all the leverage. There was a knee digging into the back of Shane’s thigh. He’d angled his hip away, but Shane could still feel the shape of his dick, yielding and warm against the side of Shane’s ass.
Ilya leaned down and bit at the top of Shane’s spine. A muffled noise came out of Shane’s mouth. He went still: no friction now, just their bodies combined keeping Shane’s cock pinned beneath his stomach. His breaths were coming shallower, lungs compressed by Ilya’s weight; his heart was steadily beating out, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
“Good,” Ilya said into his ear. Shifted. The drawer rattled as Ilya reached over for the lube.
“Wait,” Shane said. The back of his neck prickled, like Ilya’s regard was a physical thing. “Not too much. I wanna feel you.”
Ilya dropped the lube, swore, and scrambled to get it back. “We have a game tomorrow.”
Shane made a living mapping out the limitations of his body. He had an intimate understanding of the dimensions of the dildo, and how it compared to Ilya’s dick.
If he pressed his face hard against his forearm he could almost ignore the flare of heat. “Not too much,” he repeated.
“You're going to kill me.” Ilya’s voice came out rough against Shane’s shoulder. He shifted his hips, settled back—oh, had tucked the dildo under his stomach so he could have his hand free. Shane could feel the hard wet line of it at the top of his ass.
The cap of the lube clicked, then Ilya was shoving his fingers between their bodies, spreading Shane’s thighs open wider, dragging a slippery trail between his cheeks until he could stroke over his hole and push in. Shane hitched his hips up to meet him, felt Ilya’s exhale at the base of his skull. “You want it so much,” Ilya said.
“Yeah.”
"Always so hungry for it.” Ilya twisted his fingers; Shane could feel himself opening up around them, had to bite the muscle of his forearm as a counterpoint. “Tell me why you like it.”
“Ilya—”
“Tell me,” Ilya said again, with a punctuating little push, until the ridges of his knuckles nudged at Shane’s rim. “You like being spread open on my cock? You like being held down while I fuck you?”
Yes. Yes. “I like that you want me,” Shane said, which wasn't what he'd meant to say at all, except in the way that it was always true. “When you—fuck, use my things—”
“Your things.”
“Wearing my clothes,” Shane panted out, “when you don't ask, because you can just—”
“Take it,” Ilya said. He sounded wild. He tugged at Shane’s hair with his other hand, wrenching his head around until he could get his mouth on Shane’s. A bad angle, but Shane was straining for it, he was pushing into Ilya’s grasp, Ilya’s breaths were coming hot against his cheek— “Because you're mine.”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” Ilya groaned, low and long. “Shane.” He pulled out his fingers, a slow slick motion. “I’m going to fuck you now.” Not asking. Shane didn't need to be asked. He waited while Ilya rose up onto his knees and peeled the dildo off Shane’s back. Set the tip of it against his hole.
Shane’s dildo. A bland line on his credit card bill, discreet packaging, Shane working fingers into himself on this very bed, plenty of lube. He'd tried not to think about anyone at all, very nearly succeeded. Bodily sensation, that was all he was. The dildo slipping into him in unsteady jerks; the fullness. Leaning on one shoulder, adjusting the angle, what would it mean if he liked it, if he wanted—
Ilya pushed into him. Smooth and steady; relentless. He had not used many fingers. Shane had to work at it, relax around Ilya, welcome him in. Exhaling, feeling the stretch of it, the low burn like any other muscle. “Good,” Ilya was saying, “you are doing so well,” mouth smearing wet kisses on his shoulder, his neck, the soft place behind his ear. “My Shane. Begging so sweetly for my dick. Look how you're taking it. Look how—”
Ilya was braced up on one arm, his other forearm wedged between them. His hand—fuck, his hand at his groin, holding the dildo in place, so when Ilya’s hips shoved forward, when he—his knuckles digging into Shane’s ass, his weight bearing down. Fucking him. “Ilya,” Shane said, ragged, pushed a hand beneath himself. Groped for his cock.
Ilya said, low and certain: “You don't need it.”
He didn't, always. Ilya knew the way he liked to be fucked. He had the angle of it now: driving into Shane hard and deep, then pulling back slower, a firm drag over his prostate. Every thrust jolted him against the sheets, wet where Shane had been leaking precome, because Shane was so hard, he'd been hard since he'd gotten his mouth on Ilya—
Shane tugged his hand out from beneath his belly, pushed sideways until he hit Ilya’s splayed fingers and Ilya wrapped them around Shane’s wrist instead. He was panting damply onto his other arm, involuntary little grunts. Ilya was right. Shane was going to come. He was going to come on Ilya’s dick.
He twisted his head back to look. “God,” Ilya breathed. Teeth in his lip, a slow wet blink. “Shane. Are you—”
“Yeah,” Shane said dizzily, “fuck, Ilya, fuck.” The wave of it screwing his eyes shut, his whole body contracting, tensing, shaking apart. And still, the hard pressure around Shane’s wrist, Ilya’s solid bulk curled over Shane’s back. Ilya had him. Shane could let go.
Eventually, Ilya heaved himself off of Shane, then rolled him out of the wet spot. “Come on,” he said, pushing Shane’s thigh up. “You will be sore.” When he pulled the dildo free it was with a wet squelch that made the back of Shane’s neck heat up.
Fuck, he felt tender when he clenched, well-fucked, empty. Shane tried to push his face into a pillow, but Ilya wouldn't let him. “You've had enough?” he said, coming up to drop fluttering kisses over Shane's cheekbone. “Or maybe you want more?”
Shane didn't really have enough breath to laugh. “Fuck you.” His body was trying to remind him it had played a game tonight, bruises stinging, fatigue burning in his muscles, but it had all blurred into a warm distant ache. “I’ve had that thing for like ten years. I can't feel my fucking toes.”
“Maybe you were using it wrong before.”
“I wasn't, I looked it up, and you weren't complaining when I swallowed your fucking dick—” Shane stopped. Realized that Ilya was mouthing I looked it up with incredulous delight spreading over his face. “Shut up.”
“I said nothing!”
“You—” There weren't words, really, for the warm spreading feeling in Shane’s chest. The closest thing was this: wriggling out from under Ilya and getting on top of him, feeling him alive with laughter between his thighs, kissing his grinning mouth. “You're an asshole.”
“Because you like it.”
Because Shane liked him—loved him, with an intensity that nearly hurt, some days. He kissed him again until they were both breathless, and the burn in his thighs became too insistent to ignore. Rolled off and tugged Ilya toward him so they were lying face to face, noses nearly touching. “Hey,” he said. “You know I don't— I don't want you to feel like I only want you for your dick.”
“Oh, I know,” Ilya said easily. “You also want the money, and the fame, and my goals scored record from three years back—”
“You put up two more goals, 70 is just an arbitrary cutoff—” Ilya was trying to distract him. “No, I mean it. If it's like, a lot of work for you—”
“To fuck you.”
“I mean, kind of? I know I need a lot, sometimes—” Shane remembered his earlier desperation to have Ilya in his mouth and flushed. “And it's still good, it's really good, but it was— it was different. Before.” He couldn't stop it; his voice curved up into a question at the end.
Ilya’s head twitched, like he wanted to look away, but he didn't. He rubbed at his nose. “Yes, it was different,” he finally said. “Obviously. When I could fuck you on my dick. When I put you on your knees and you begged so nicely for my come. It was good, Shane.”
“Right,” Shane said. “So—”
“But I can still do that,” Ilya pointed out. “Tonight. You begged.”
He had. He'd wanted so fucking much. Shane swallowed and said, “Yes.”
“I like watching you come,” Ilya said, slowly, like he was thinking as he spoke. “I like making you. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you are Shane Hollander,” Ilya said. “So fast on the ice. Plays beautiful hockey. Second-best player in the league—”
“Hey!”
“—and he would let me do whatever I want to him, I think.” That hot look in Ilya’s eyes again. “He likes it. He likes when he gets to hold my dick in his mouth. He likes when I hold him down and fuck him and tell him not to touch his cock.”
Shane’s throat was so dry, it was a wonder he could make a sound at all. “Yes,” he said again.
“So.” Ilya shrugged. “It makes me feel— powerful. Crazy. Like I’ve done something very good to deserve it.” He exhaled, noisy. “I like that.”
“Okay,” Shane said, and then he couldn't look at Ilya anymore. He pushed his face into the dark space between Ilya’s neck and shoulder. “I love you,” he said. In English, first; then in Russian, shaping the consonants around his tongue, the first thing Ilya had taught him. When he did, Ilya shuddered a little, sighed, and then his hand came down to cup the back of Shane’s head. Held him steady, his big hand: sure on the ice, sure in this.
Ilya had to go back to the hotel. He'd taken another shower, then grinned at Shane while he rifled through Shane’s underwear. The briefs were black and very tight over Ilya’s ass; Shane had an excellent view while Ilya was pulling his own pants on over them, so he nearly missed Ilya saying, “I asked the doctor.”
“What?”
“The doctor,” he said again. He was looking for his shirt. “He said the side-effects—they probably won't go away while I’m taking the medication. But I could try something else.”
“Oh,” Shane said. Over the last year Ilya had left a collection of clothing behind as he came in and out of the apartment. Shane found a t-shirt in the drawer, soft with washing, and handed it over. “But it's working for you, right? For the depression.” Ilya didn't call it that; Shane said it carefully, watched Ilya’s face. “Do you want to?”
Ilya rolled the shirt down over his abs. He was breathing very evenly, with a deliberate lack of tension. “I don't know,” he said. “Probably not right now. Not during the season. It's—” He made a face. “There are problems stopping, too. And the new one might not work. Or have same problem.”
“You don't have to,” Shane said. “Not if you don't want to. The sex stuff—it’s not a problem, right? We’re figuring it out.”
Ilya looked at Shane, an up-and-down so slow it felt physical on his skin. Shane, who was still naked; who was sticky with a variety of fluids; and who was definitely going to feel all of this in the morning, with interest. Another game tomorrow, Jesus Christ. At least there wouldn't be a morning skate.
“Hmm, yes,” Ilya said, with a wriggle of his eyebrows. “Figuring things out. Definitely.”
Was it normal to be this fond of your boyfriend? Was Shane ever going to get used to it? “You’re so—” A yawn, sudden and enormous, swallowed the rest of his words. “I should. Show you out.”
“I know how to get out, Shane, it's been years.” Ilya came back to take Shane’s head in his hands, kissed him thoroughly, gently shoved him toward the bed. “Sleep, so I can beat you tomorrow.”
“You wish.” Shane should probably clean up. Strip the bed. Find the—yes, the dildo, hiding in a fold in the sheets, to wipe off and sterilize later.
“Ah,” Ilya said from the doorway. “Yes, you can keep my dick.” Fuck. Shane’s shoulder jerked. The dildo fell back on the bed. “And maybe, if you win—”
“—you bet we will—”
“—I will tell you exactly how to use it next time.”