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“Good game,” Ilya snarks, he can’t help it, and Hollander shoves him hard enough into the wall that he only narrowly avoids banging his head. “You looked so hot, that goal in the second, you deserve reward—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Hollander says, and he slams into Ilya with hardly less ferocity than they’d hit each other during the game, crushing their mouths together.
Ilya’s vision whites out, his knees nearly buckle. He’s grateful for the wall as he grabs at Hollander and pulls him in tight, shoving a thigh between Hollander’s legs, sucking and biting at his lips, groaning loud and uninhibited as Hollander’s hand comes up to the back of his neck, fingers twisting into his curls. The kiss is furious and wet and hot and so much, Ilya is so fucking hot for it, he’s been thinking about this for weeks, reading through his text thread with Jane, jerking off almost every night with the memory of the last time playing in a loop behind his eyelids.
He’s never wanted anything like he wants sex with Hollander, and it sort of feels like they’ve already been going at it for hours, every glance and chirp and hit on the ice has been building to this, working him, driving him fucking crazy.
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RAVENOUS!!! HUNGER!!!
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