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Shane loved hockey. He loved playing hockey and competing at an elite level. He loved the challenges and what hockey brought to his life. Though if there was a way to do it without the fame, he thought he might go that route. As it is, he loves hockey enough to tolerate it. It isn’t the fans; his fans are nice for the most part. It’s hard when he has a bad night, and the comments are harping on.
The very worst part is the charity galas, which make Shane feel like a horrible person. But the events gross him out, having to pay an exorbitant amount for a plate of food he’ll never eat. And then the donors always have an air of entitlement that sets his teeth on edge. They donate a lot of money, though, so people deal with them out of obligation. It’s just another reminder that money talks, and it talks loudly.
He hated these events because tuxedos were uncomfortable. He is very aware of the suit’s fabric; the bowtie feels like it is strangling him, his shoes are squeaky, and he’s hot. Shane hates that he can literally feel himself getting overstimulated, and the event is only half over. At least the meal is over, and the band is playing songs that can be danced to. But the music is only adding to the noise. Between that and the mixture of cologne and perfume, Shane can feel his patience fraying from minute to minute.
The room was full of people, but he could feel eyes on him no matter where he was standing in the room. He could feel the heat of the gaze and felt his shoulder relax the slightest bit.
Ilya.
His boyfriend was watching him. It made things a little easier, but Shane still very much would rather be anywhere else. Summer had gone quickly. The time with Ilya at his cottage has come and gone within the blink of an eye. It wasn’t something Shane had been able to dwell on, going from summer break into pre-season training quickly. At least, that had been Shane’s intention; instead, he had gotten strep throat, which was a ridiculous thing to get in the tail end of summer. He was on the last day of antibiotics and was finally feeling human again. It was one more reason why he didn’t want to be at this gala.
He grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter and took a big sip. He was hoping alcohol would dull his senses at least a little. Feeling heat at his back, he almost jumped out of his skin as Ilya walked by, grabbing the glass with a censuring tsk of his tongue as he continued moving.
“Rozanov,” Shane growled.
It was low enough that no one else had heard, but Ilya turned around with an eyebrow raised. He held up one finger, and Shane felt himself blushing, before he turned on his heel to put more distance between them. The finger told Shane it was his first warning; he would be given only three.
Asshole.
Shane loved Ilya. He also found himself completely exasperated with the man. It wasn’t fair that he seemed so comfortable in any setting, while Shane was about to vibrate out of his skin. He watched as Ilya moved between donors and other hockey players, able to talk to any and everyone. He took advantage of Ilya’s distraction to head over to the bar. The bartender gave him a beer, and he sipped it as he studied the room. Somehow, Shane had lost track of Ilya. He glanced around the room and didn’t see his boyfriend anywhere. When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he fished it out.
Reading the texts set his teeth on edge.
Fucking bossy Russian asshole.
He wasn’t a dog; he wasn’t just going to go because he was told to. Even though his mind was cautioning him, warning that pushing the man wouldn’t end well, especially if he wanted to be able to sit comfortably any time soon. He purposefully waited until five minutes had passed, finishing his beer. Then he walked out of the room the gala had been in and down the hallway. He opened the door to the bathroom and yelped as hands grabbed him by the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him into the room, only to shove him against the now closed door. The sound of the bathroom’s lock echoed loudly into the silence.
“Was I not clear?”
“I wanted to finish my beer,” Shane shrugged.
Shane resisted the urge to smirk as one of Ilya’s eyebrows rose, seemingly in disbelief.
“You’re not supposed to be drinking.”
“It was the last day of antibiotics, it’s fine.”
“Hollander.”
“Rozanov.”
“Did Doctor clear you to drink?”
“He didn’t not clear me.”
Shane watched in real time as Ilya’s gaze became stern and glacial. It was then that he realized that he may have miscalculated. He had wanted Ilya’s attention, but as his boyfriend, not his Dom.
“That’s strike two, Kotenok.”
“Wrong sport.”
The chirp had come out of his mouth without conscious thought, but Ilya’s grin was all teeth. The hair on the back of Shane’s neck stood on end, which was the only warning he got when Ilya had grabbed his bicep and moved him away from the door, turning him to his side before his other hand slapped down half a dozen times, far too hard. The skin that was struck immediately lit up with sting as he danced onto the tips of his toes with a hiss.
“Thin ice, Hollander. I will see you later, if you want to be brat, I can deal with naughty bratty boys who have forgotten their place.”
Shane could feel the heat of the blush that had gone straight to his face. He was at a loss for words, or at least words that wouldn’t get him upended immediately.
“Behave,” Ilya warned. “Event is almost over.”
He glowered at his boyfriend, who looked entirely unaffected by the dark look that was being sent his way. Instead, he cupped the back of his neck, squeezing tight for a moment. Shane knew he was pouting, but Ilya seemed to ignore it as he kissed his forehead and then gave him a soft kiss on the mouth. When Shane tried to turn the kiss into something filthy, Ilya took a step back.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
“Pretty sure you’ve never complained, Rozanov.”
Shane felt vindicated watching as Ilya’s pupils dilated with clear lust. But he didn’t react to it; instead, he patted Shane on the cheek, his thumb running along his cheekbone. Then the bathroom door was unlocked, and he had left him in the room alone.
Asshole.
He waited a few moments before exiting the bathroom and returning to the event. It was just as loud as it had been, and Shane sighed to himself. He made his rounds and stuck to ginger ale; he may have exaggeratedly pointed it out, but Ilya had only blinked at him. Shane had thought since the Russian had seemed so concerned about his beverage choices, he’d want to be kept informed.
With the way Shane’s luck had been going, he honestly should’ve expected to get drawn into a conversation with two of the top donors of the MLH. They were awful, and it was no secret they were tolerated only because they were willing to donate money. Donald and Karen Limbaugh were everything that was wrong with rich people.
“Of course, now that Hunter had that disgusting display, the faggots are going to think hockey is their sport,” Donald groaned, holding court near the middle of the room. “Exactly what’s wrong with this political correctness nonsense? Why can’t hockey be hockey? Now it’s all about inclusion. Absolutely disgusting.”
“Come on, Donny, it shouldn’t matter who anyone loves, as long as they’re a good athlete,” Someone disagreed.
“They can love whoever; why do I have to hear about it? To have two men kissing on national television?”
“Not everyone will support it,” Karen shrugged. “A lot of players come from other countries, ones that frown on the ‘gay agenda’.”
Shane had thought he hated these people before, but with every word that came out of their mouths, he seethed. They were the ones who clapped themselves on the back whenever they hired anyone who wasn’t white.
“You know who could shut that shit down?” Donald mused out loud. Like his every thought deserved to be spoken and waste oxygen. “Rozanov. He’s Russian. I bet he hates faggots.”
Shane was going to let it go.
He really was.
Then Limbaugh dared to think Ilya would share any hateful view. Shane had formed a plan without really thinking about it. The waiters were still circling with wine, and the dominoes just fell into place. He grabbed a big glass of red wine and made his way to where the Limbaugh’s were holding court. From there, it was all too easy.
He tripped.
The wine flew out of the glass in a perfect arch, drenching Karen’s pale yellow dress and Donald’s white dress shirt. Shane knew there would be a reaction. But even with the knowledge, he had been unprepared for Karen’s blood-curdling shriek, as if she had just been shot.
“Oh, no!” Shane gasped, in faux dismay. “I’m so sorry!”
Both Donald and Karen looked like they wanted to murder until they realized who had spilled the wine. When they caught sight of Shane, both seemed to switch, their expressions evening out.
“I’m so sorry,” Shane repeated.
It was clear that they were going to let it go; after all, he was Shane Hollander, Canada’s Golden Boy. The reputation was good for some things, like going after homophobes.
“It’s all right, dear,” Karen said tightly, through her teeth.
Shane stepped closer as if he was going to touch her, his skin crawled at the thought. He leaned forward so that only Karen and Donald could hear. “Oh, my goodness, your dress, I hope it’s not ruined,” Shane frowned. “I have friends who design dresses, I could send you their way, but they’re a faggot, so you’re probably not interested.”
Karen’s mouth dropped open as if Shane had slapped her. Donald went red with rage. Shane knew neither could say anything, so he stepped back with a grin. “Again, so sorry. I’ll go see if they have seltzer.”
He’s not bringing her seltzer; she could choke.
From across the room, Ilya had been talking to his former World Juniors teammates. He could hear snippets of conversation, his ears locking in when someone said, “Faggot.” He rolled his eyes. Even at formal events, people could be awful. But he heard worse on the ice, so he dismissed it easily. Or he would have if he hadn’t noticed his lovely boyfriend grabbing a glass of red wine. He could feel a sliver of annoyance. What had he said not even an hour before? But instead of drinking it, Shane had a spark in his eye that always preceded trouble. Then it is like Ilya is watching a car crash in slow motion, Shane stumbled, and then the wine spilled in such a way that it drenched the two people who had been talking about gay people ruining hockey.
If Ilya didn’t know Shane as well as he did, he’d almost believe it was a mistake. Shane was just apologetic enough, but then he leaned in toward them, and when he was pulling away, it was clear that he had let them know that it wasn’t a mistake at all.
Little brat.
As Shane walked away from the wine-drenched couple, his features moved from apologetic to satisfied. When Shane’s eyes met his, Ilya mouthed, “Three.”
Shane seemed shocked, which was quickly followed by defiance as the brat bared his teeth at him. Ilya’s eyebrows about flew off his forehead. Hollander wasn’t done, however, making sure Ilya was looking, he deliberately rolled his eyes before mouthing, “You’re welcome, asshole.”
Shane didn’t stop to catch his boyfriend’s look; he had fled from the room the gala had been in like his ass was on fire. The cute ass that Ilya was planning to make sure felt like fire by the time he was done with it. It was clear that he had given Shane more rope than he needed, and the brat was dead set on strangling himself with it.
Ilya had thought he had been nice; his boyfriend was sick after all. That, combined with pre-season training and Shane being off his routine, Ilya hadn’t felt it necessary to be strict. It had been a mistake. That much was obvious. Well, he’d be setting things right. At least the gala had taken place in Montreal, so he knew exactly where Shane would be going, and he knew the passcode to Shane’s front door.
He started saying his goodbyes as he made his way out of the charity gala, much less dramatically than his boyfriend had. He shook his head, spilling wine all over a pair of bigots definitely had caught him by surprise.
Despite Shane leaving the event before him, Ilya got to his apartment first. He knew when he used the pin and entered that his boyfriend wasn’t home yet. It made Ilya pause, where, oh where had his brat gone? He had to come home eventually. In the meantime, Ilya cut up some meal-plan-appropriate fruit and prepared some nuts as well. Ilya brought that, along with a water bottle, to the bedroom so they would be there when needed. He also had the super-dark chocolate that Shane allowed himself as a treat. Ilya thought it was gross, but he had learned to pick his battles with Hollander, and the bird food wasn’t one of them.
Ilya was still in Shane’s bedroom when he heard the front door open. He stayed where he was because he knew the very first thing that Shane would do was change out of his tux. He heard the rustle of a paper bag, followed by the clink of glass as it was set on the kitchen island. Shane was humming to himself as he wandered up the stairs and into his room. He turned on the overhead lights and then about jumped out of his skin when he caught sight of Ilya.
“Jesus fuck!” Shane gasped. “What the fuck, Rozanov?”
“Such language, Hollander.”
“Fuck off.”
“Ah, still being a brat, I see.”
Shane glowered at him. He didn’t dispute Ilya’s claim, but he did cross his arms with a pout. The Russian didn’t let his boyfriend’s silence get to him; instead, he closed the distance between them, a mocking smirk on his face.
“Nothing to say?”
“ ‘M not a brat, you’re an asshole.”
Ilya clucked his tongue in reproach, which only sharpened his Kotenok’s pouty glare. He reached out, grabbing Shane’s chin, tilting his head up so they were making direct eye contact.
“Where were you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re horrible liar, Hollander, you left before me, you should’ve been here. You were not. Where. Were. You?”
He knew he was on the right track when Shane started squirming. The grin that spread across Ilya’s handsome face was wolfish. Shane’s heart thumped painfully against his ribcage; he was suddenly well aware of why predators showed their teeth.
A silent threat.
“What were you doing, moy neposlushny Kotenok?” My naughty kitten.
“Went to the store,” Shane grumbled. “So what?”
“What did you get?”
Shane rolled his eyes, attempting to wiggle out of Ilya’s grip; he was unsuccessful, which only made the brat more restless. Ilya reacted quickly; one hand landed with a clap on his boyfriend’s ass, startling a gasp out of Shane’s throat.
“Ow!” Shane complained. “What the fuck?”
“You’re in enough trouble without the eye rolling.”
“I already reached three,” Shane replied with a shrug. As if to say he had nothing to lose.
“Go get what you bought,” Ilya ordered with a less-than-gentle pat to the side of Shane’s face.
It looked for a moment that Shane wasn’t going to comply, but all it took was Ilya rearranging his face into a stern glare for him to sigh, roll his eyes, and stomp back toward the door. Shane was unsurprised when he felt another sharp blow land on his ass, despite his best attempts to leave the room quicker than Ilya’s reflexes would react. It had been a long shot; he had known that from the moment he rolled his eyes. Of course, Ilya had quicker reflexes than most.
Ilya fought back the impulse to either sigh or laugh at Shane’s antics as he heard the brat stomp all the way to the kitchen, and he stomped his way back to his bedroom. While the Russian waited, he took a seat on the edge of the king-sized bed, his feet planted firmly on the floor. It was difficult not to laugh as the grumpy expression on Shane’s face changed to apprehension as he appeared in the threshold of the room.
“You stopped to buy wine?” Ilya growled.
“Evidently.”
“Careful, Shanya, you’re already going over my knee tonight.”
Shane’s mouth opened and closed multiple times as a variety of emotions flickered across his face. Ilya doesn’t give him time to find his thoughts, knowing there is more than half a chance the brat would find something to say that would only get him into more trouble. He raised a hand, beckoning Shane forward with two fingers, before he pointed to the empty space between his spread legs. Shane blushes furiously at the directive, but he knew better than to ignore it as he slowly listened.
“Why am I about to spank you?”
“Because you’re an asshole. Ow! Ilya!”
“Ty ispytyvayesh’ moyo terpeniye,” Ilya announced conversationally. “I’ll give you one more chance, Kotenok. Dodge my question again, and you lose the chance to have this conversation face to face.” You’re trying my patience.
Shane wrinkled his nose, but knew by the way Ilya’s voice had dropped, becoming lower and more deliberate, that he wasn’t bluffing.
“Not supposed to drink on antibiotics. But I took the last one this morning, and I feel fine.”
“When you’re done with antibiotics, you still can’t drink for 72 hours, or does Voyageurs Doctor not tell you that?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Obviously. Ignorance isn’t excuse, Hollander. What else did you do?”
“Oh, fuck that. They deserved it. Besides, it looked like an accident, and I did it because they dared to think they would have you be some homophobic figurehead.”
“I do not care what those people think. We hear worse on ice, yes?”
“Doesn’t mean we have to deal with it.”
“They’re influential people, Shanya, you can’t go around assaulting them with red wine.”
“Like they can’t afford to replace their clothing a million times over.”
“Not the point.”
“Then what is your point?” Shane demanded.
“You were told to behave, and you were on two strikes. Was this good boy behavior?”
“It was an accident. Wait! Ilya-”
“Mm, no,” Ilya interrupted scoldingly. “Put your hands on your head.”
“Ilya!” Shane whined.
“Shane.”
Shane wasn’t able to stop the whine that had built up in the back of his throat as he stomped his foot. He then hissed out a breath when the display of temper got him swatted on the back of one of his thighs, fuck that stung! With the warning smack, Shane’s hands flew to the top of his head. Ilya reached out his hands, beginning to unbutton his white shirt. Whenever he fidgeted too much, Ilya merely shot him a warning look that managed to keep him still. He then untied Shane’s bow time, setting it aside.
When Ilya’s graceful hands moved to his belt buckle, he undid it with quick and efficient movements. He wanted to squirm away, but Shane could realize that he was already in enough trouble without adding to his tally. The wide leather slid through the loops of Shane’s pants. When the leather had pulled free, Ilya eyed it critically before he doubled it over and set it next to him.
“Oh, no…”
“Quiet,” Ilya snapped. “You do not get choice in how you are spanked, do you, Hollander?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, sir.”
With a nod, Ilya returned to his task, unbuttoning the button on Shane’s trousers, lowering the zipper.
“Put your hands on my shoulders.”
Shane felt his face grow hot as he reluctantly settled his hands on his boyfriend’s shoulders. He could feel the muscles underneath his palms, and he swallowed nervously. Normally, Ilya’s strength was hot; currently, it felt like a threat. Shane squirmed as he felt Ilya’s warm hands drawing his pants down to his ankles. He then tapped Shane’s right foot, a wordless prompt to lift it before giving the same prompt for his left foot. The Russian then grabbed Shane’s pants from the floor, taking the time to fold them before he repeated the procedure with his boyfriend’s boxers. He then removed Shane’s dress socks.
Shane squeaked as Ilya’s hands settled on his bare hips, pushing him back as Ilya rose to his full height. Normally, the five inches of height was negligible, but in times like this, Shane felt small. He watched warily as Ilya pulled Shane’s tuxedo jacket from his shoulders, followed by his dress shirt. Ilya gathered Shane’s tuxedo, and he placed them on the dresser, knowing they would have to be dry-cleaned. Ilya then took off his own suit jacket, placing it on top of Shane’s clothing.
Every movement Ilya made was deliberate, none of it wasted. Normally, watching Ilya was one of Shane’s favorite things, but it was a little different when the man was planning to spank him in the very near future. Lost in his own thoughts, he squeaked when he felt Ilya’s fingers encircling his wrist as he was guided back to the foot of the bed. Once again, Ilya sat, standing Shane between his legs.
“You don’t have to do this,” Shane whispered.
“Ah, no, you have been asking to have your bottom spanked for the past few hours if not past few days. No, Kotenok, you will be very soundly spanked before the night is through.”
Shane resisted the impulse to roll his eyes, already feeling at a disadvantage and unwilling to court more. He was all too aware of his nakedness, especially when his boyfriend was mostly fully dressed. His stomach sank as he watched Ilya undo the buttons on the wrist of one sleeve before he began rolling up the sleeve. He found his mouth going dry with conflicting emotions of lust and dread. Were Ilya’s forearms always this jacked?
“Thank you for the compliment, Kotenok.”
Ilya smirked at him, noting that Shane was blushing all the more vividly. It was adorable. He didn’t say a word as he finished up one shirt sleeve and then the other. Now that his sleeves were squared away, he was ready to deal with his naughty, bratty boy. He patted his lap in invitation. Shane immediately shook his head.
“Shane,” Ilya warned.
Shane frowned, his eyes wide and pleading. “I don’t want a spanking.”
“Mm, you need one, don’t you, Hollander?” Ilya asked. He reached out, grabbing Shane’s hand. When his boyfriend didn’t startle away, he took that as a great sign. Still, he had to ask, “Color?”
God damn it.
As much as Shane didn’t want a spanking, he was still green. Saying green, though, would be cosigning away his ability to sit. Based on the look in Ilya’s eyes, he very well knew that fact. Still, as Ilya ran this thumb along the knuckles in his grip, Shane felt himself start to settle in a way he hadn’t been able to all night.
“Green,” Shane whispered. “I’m green.”
“My good, brave boy, do you need help?”
Normally, Ilya was a stickler for verbal responses, but he seemed to sense Shane couldn’t get the words out, so he accepted his boyfriend’s nod. With a tug, he helped Shane over one of his thighs. The bed supported Shane’s torso, and his feet were on the floor. Ilya hadn’t pinned his feet, but Shane knew he almost never ended a spanking without his feet being trapped within his boyfriend’s legs.
Shane startled slightly as one large, calloused hand settled on the round swell of his ass. He felt Ilya’s other hand wrap around his waist. The man didn’t seem in any hurry to start; he rubbed the bare backside over his knee, watching as Shane slowly relaxed. When Shane felt the rubbing stop, he resisted the urge to tense as he heard the slight displacement of air as Ilya’s palm sped toward his all too vulnerable ass.
The initial impact of Ilya’s hand on Shane’s ass rang in the silent bedroom like a pistol shot. Shane hissed out a quiet breath. It felt like Ilya had branded Shane’s ass with his giant hand. Before he could be too annoyed, Ilya made sure that there was an equal brand on the other cheek. Then Ilya settled into a rhythm that was too quick for comfort. All too soon, Shane was wriggling his hips and fluttering his feet as his stinging ass became his primary focus. Fuck, Ilya was only getting better at this.
“O-Ow! Ilya, please!”
“I know, Kotenok, stay still.”
“Easy for you to sa-ay. Fuuck! Ilya!”
“Lots of sass for someone over my knee.”
Shane groaned before yelping. Ilya thought that if his boyfriend had the wherewithal for impertinence, he wasn’t spanking hard enough. A fact easily rectified, especially as he focused his attention on Shane’s sit spots and the tops of his thighs. Ilya knew that he was getting through to his Kotenok when his feet began kicking more aggressively. He wasn’t about to let Shane wiggle away; he pinned the kicking legs and feet, something that Shane always hated.
The Canadian could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he knew it was only a matter of time before they fell. Once Shane’s behind had a healthy dark pink glow, Ilya slowed the spanking to a stop, placing a hand on one roasted cheek.
“Ow,” Shane complained.
He heard Ilya snort in response and had to fight the urge to bite. Before Shane has time for his hackles to rise, Ilya requested, “Please, pass me your belt.”
“What?” Shane gasped. “Are you serious? No!”
Shane’s outrage at being asked by the man giving him a spanking, a new object to spank him more, is immediately derailed at the censuring tsk of Ilya’s tongue.
“Ah, okay, still feeling bratty,” Ilya reproached. “I will just spank with hand until you give me belt.”
He isn’t even given the chance to argue before Ilya’s hand is once again landing on his already blazing ass. This time, though, it is clear the warm-up is over. Not that the previous hand spanking had been pleasant, but now Ilya is using much more strength and speed. It quickly got Shane yelping and pleading; the tears that had been welling in his eyes flooded over, carving tracks down his cheeks.
“Okay, okay, okay!” Shane gasped. “I’ll g-give it to you, Ilya, sir, please!”
He released a relieved breath as Ilya once again stayed his heavy palm. With a whimper, Shane grabbed the belt that had been lying by his face from the moment Ilya had upended him. With a groan, he raised his hand to give his belt to Ilya. Luckily, it was a less awkward movement thanks to yoga.
“Thank you,” Ilya said, petting Shane’s side. “Good boy.”
Ilya made sure the belt was doubled, his hand holding the buckle. Using the belt while Shane was over his knee was sacrificing range of movement, but with his boyfriend’s bottom already blushing prettily, he knew that he could make his point, just like this.
“What are you not going to do again, Hollander?”
Shane buried his head into the comforter. He hated it when Ilya asked stuff like that. Spanking didn’t readily lend itself to deep thoughts. Most of the time, Shane’s thoughts were limited to ow and fuck and if it was possible to shrink someone’s hands. He was willing to give Ilya’s question consideration, however, especially with a belt hovering threateningly over his ass.
“Not going to drink on antibiotics.”
“And?”
“And?” Shane repeated, angrily.
It was clear that Ilya hadn’t liked Shane’s tone because the belt came down with a whoosh right across his sit spot.
“O-Ow! Sir, please.”
“What else did you do tonight that wasn’t acceptable? If you say it was an accident, I will spank you every night for a week.”
“They deserved it!”
Shane did not regret his answer, even as the belt left stinging strips along his ass from the crest of his ass to the middle of his thighs. At least they were still early into the pre-season that Ilya could be in Montreal for a week, and Shane didn’t have to worry about his teammates seeing his ass.
“Should my boyfriend sink to the level of bigots?”
“N-No!”
“People with money like them can bring trouble, Kotenok. I do not want you inviting that kind of attention. Not on my account. Are we clear?”
“Yes, yes! Crystal clear, sir, Ilya, please!”
“Just a few more, my good boy.”
Shane’s only response was to sob. Ilya had him pinned tight and was wielding the belt with such focus that it was easy to give in. He had no power in this moment, and instead of scaring him, Shane found himself relaxing, even as ass stung unbearably. His mind was clear, cleansed of his worries, focused by the burning fire taking over his skin and the man stoking the blaze.
“There we go,” Ilya whispered some time later. “Good boy. Such a good boy for me.”
Shane’s body is limp, his energy drained out with him, along with his tears. It was lucky that Ilya didn’t need his help to lift him, settling Shane so that he was upright, straddling his boyfriend’s lap. Shane slumped forward, tucking his face into the side of Ilya’s neck as he continued to cry softly. One of Ilya’s hands cradled the back of his head while the other hand rubbed up and down his back. Words of comfort, praise, and affection poured from Ilya’s mouth, not all of it was in English, at least Shane didn’t think so, but he understood them all the same. Once again, Shane lost track of time, but he was content to stay in Ilya’s arms, especially as the fire in his ass started to wane. As thorough as Ilya was when he spanked, he was equally thorough in aftercare. He never rushed Shane along; he waited until his boyfriend began to stir, his sobs having tapered off.
Ilya helped Shane to his feet while he stood himself pulling the Canadian back into his arms. Shane accepted the embrace, melting into it willingly as he held Ilya tightly.
“Come, lie down,” Ilya ordered. “I will get lotion. Tvoy bol’noy pópka.” Your sore tushy
Shane did as he was told, lying on the bed. He heard Ilya stepping away, but he returned quickly, climbing onto the bed beside him. He heard the click of a lid and turned to look. It was a bottle of lotion.
“What did you say in Russian?” Shane asked, drowsily.
“Your sore tushy.”
“Ew, Ilya, that’s gross, don’t call it that.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, Kotenok.”
“Mean,” Shane pouted.
“I know. Such a mean boyfriend I am. I bring lotion for bottom.”
“After you spanked it into oblivion.”
“Yes, yes.”
Shane couldn’t help but laugh. He yipped as cold lotion landed on molten skin. Ilya then smoothed it in with a gentle touch.
“I’m not sorry, you know, about the wine.”
“Da, I know this. Is why I said not to sink to their level. I never asked for apology.”
“Good. Now go get ready for bed, I wanna sleep. Ow!”
Ilya had merely tapped him, but after being exceptionally thorough, even the tap wasn’t pleasant. He sent a glower toward his bossy boyfriend, who rudely ignored the look. He did go and get ready for bed, so Shane counted it as a victory. He was already partially asleep when he felt the bed sink as Ilya got in. He had barely gotten under the covers before Shane closed the small distance between them to settle himself on Ilya’s chest, their legs tangled together as sleep quickly claimed them both.