Chapter 2: The Ride to His Place
The phone buzzed against the wood like an angry insect. Ilia didn’t move for a second, his body a tense line above hers. Louise could feel his heart hammering against her own.
He let out a slow, controlled breath, a sound she recognized from watching him reset before a difficult jump. Then he pushed himself up onto his elbows, breaking the spell of warmth they’d created. He reached over, his movement fluid even now, and flipped the phone over, silencing it. The screen went dark.
In the new quiet, the reality of the floor, the cold, the banners watching from the shadows, came rushing back. A shudder ran through her.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice gravelly. He looked down at her, his expression soft but serious. “You’re shivering.”
“A little.”
“We should go.” He said it quietly, as if asking a question. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “My place. It’s warm. It’s… not a locker room floor.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The moment felt fractured, the intimacy interrupted and suddenly fragile. She watched as he stood, offering her his hand. He pulled her up gently, keeping her steady when her legs felt uncoordinated and weak.
They dressed in silence, a reverse of their earlier undressing. It wasn’t awkward, but it was deliberate. He helped her into her sweater, his fingers lingering for a moment on her shoulders. When she bent to pull on her jeans, she saw his hands were trembling slightly as he tied his shoes. The sight sent a nervous thrill through her. He wasn’t perfectly calm. This mattered.
“Forgot my socks,” he said, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. He padded over to his locker in just his pants and shoes, barefoot on the cold tile.
The normality of it helped. She finished dressing, her fingers fumbling with her own laces. By the time she stood, he was ready, his training bag slung over one shoulder, his famous composure seemingly restored. But his eyes, when they met hers, were a stormy, intense gray.
He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
They walked out through the echoing, dark halls of the rink, their footsteps the only sound. The parking lot was a vast, empty sea of asphalt under the sulfur-yellow glow of the floodlights. His car, a sleek black sedan, sat alone by a security post, its dark surface mirroring the night sky.
He opened the passenger door for her. The interior light came on, warm and intimate. The smell of clean leather and something faintly citrusy enveloped her as she slid in. He closed her door, the sound a solid thump, and walked around the front. She watched him through the windshield, his lean silhouette moving with that innate, athletic grace.
He got in, started the engine. A low, smooth hum filled the space. The dashboard lit up with a soft blue glow. He didn’t pull away immediately. He just sat for a moment, both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.
Then he turned to her. In the confined darkness of the car, his presence felt magnified, overwhelming. He reached over, his hand finding her thigh. Not high, not suggestive, just a firm, warm weight through the denim. His thumb began to move in a slow, absent circle.
“All right?” he asked again, his voice lower now.
She just nodded, placing her hand over his. She could feel the latent strength in his fingers, the same hands that launched him into quads now resting possessively on her leg.
He finally put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot. The city slid past the windows, a blur of neon and streetlights. The silence wasn’t empty. It was thick, charged with everything left unfinished on the locker room floor.
His thumb never stopped its movement. The simple touch became the centre of her universe. Her nerves, a tangled mess of anticipation and fear, began to twist into something else, a low, insistent ache. She gripped the edge of the leather seat.
He must have felt the tension in her leg. He squeezed gently. “Talk to me, Louise.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That I’m glad you forgot your socks.”
A short, surprised laugh burst from him. The sound loosened something in the air. “Why?”
“It made you seem human.”
He glanced at her, a quick flash of his profile in the passing streetlights. “I am human. Very, very human.” The way he said it, the roughness back in his tone, made her breath catch.
His hand slid a little higher on her thigh, just an inch. A deliberate, questioning shift. Her muscles jumped under his palm. A small, involuntary sound escaped her—a soft gasp she hadn’t meant to make.
Ilia’s grip tightened. His knuckles went white on the steering wheel. “You have to stop making sounds like that while I’m driving,” he said, and it was half joke, half desperate plea.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He took a deep, audible breath, focusing on the road. “Just… save them. For about seven more minutes.”
The rest of the drive was a lesson in agony. Every stoplight felt like a personal vendetta. He would look over at her, his eyes dark, his jaw tight, and she would watch his chest rise and fall. The heat from his hand seemed to bleed through her jeans.
His building was a modern, discreet high-rise near the river. He drove into an underground garage, the tires squealing softly on the smooth concrete. He parked in a reserved spot, killed the engine. The sudden silence was absolute.
For a moment, they just sat in the dark. Then he turned, unbuckled his seatbelt, and leaned across the center console. He didn’t kiss her. He just pressed his forehead to her temple, his breath warm on her skin. “I need to get you upstairs. Now.”
The urgency in his voice, so different from his usual measured control, ignited something in her. She turned her head and found his mouth. The kiss was hungry, immediate, all the suppressed energy from the car flooding out. It was messy, off-center, fueled by a shared impatience.
He pulled back, breathless. “Upstairs.”
The elevator ride was a crystalline torment. He stood close, his arm around her waist, his body radiating tension. He stared at the ascending numbers as if he could will them faster. When the doors opened on his floor, he guided her out with a hand on the small of her back, his touch firm and certain.
His apartment was all clean lines and soft, indirect lighting. A wall of windows looked out over the city’s glittering grid. She barely registered it. The door clicked shut behind them, and the world sealed away.
He turned her to face him, backing her gently against the door. His hands came up to cradle her face again, but this touch was different. It was possessive, reverent.
“No interruptions this time,” he whispered.
He kissed her, deep and slow, as if they had all the time in the world, even as his body thrummed with impatience against hers. He walked her backward, through the living room, down a short hall, never breaking the kiss.
His bedroom was sparse, neat. A large bed with a dark duvet. A single framed photo on the nightstand—him as a boy, standing on a podium, grinning a gap-toothed smile. He stopped at the foot of the bed.
His hands went to the hem of her sweater again. “Still okay?”
“More than okay.”
This time, undressing was not a series of nervous steps, but a single, continuous unveiling. Clothes fell to the plush carpet without thought. The air was warm on her skin, but the heat coming from him was more intense. When they were both bare, he simply looked at her, his gaze traveling over every curve, every dip, with a raw hunger that made her feel not self-conscious, but powerful.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, the words sounding wrecked. “It actually hurts to look at you.”
He lifted her then, his hands under her thighs, and placed her in the centre of the bed. He followed her down, covering her body with his, and the feeling was entirely new. Skin on skin, without barrier, without restraint. The weight of him, the solid reality, was an anchor. She let out a trembling sigh, her arms coming up to wrap around his back, her fingers tracing the hard ridges of muscle along his spine.
He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. “Remember,” he said, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones. “You are in control. We stop anytime.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“Then we don’t stop.”
He kissed her neck, her shoulder, his mouth traveling a slow, incendiary path. His touch was everywhere—guiding, exploring, worshipping. He was patient, so patient, until she was arching against him, her earlier fears burnt away by a rising, desperate need.
“Ilia,” she breathed, her voice foreign to her own ears.
He understood. He reached over, fumbled in the nightstand drawer for a moment, his movements briefly awkward. The moment of normalcy was strangely endearing. Then he was back, his focus absolute.
He hovered over her, his eyes holding hers. “This might… I’ll go slow.”
She nodded, biting her lip. The initial pressure was strange, a sharp, foreign tightness that made her gasp. He froze instantly.
“Stop?”
“No. Don’t stop. Just… slow.”
He kissed her, swallowing her gasp, and continued with an almost painful slowness, his body trembling with the effort of his restraint. The sharpness receded, melting into a fullness that was overwhelming. He buried his face in her neck, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
“Okay?” he managed to ask, the word strained.
She moved her hips, experimentally. A shockwave of sensation coursed through her. “Okay.”
That single movement broke the last of his control. He began to move, his rhythm finding a deep, steady cadence that matched the frantic beating of their hearts. It wasn’t like the movies. It was clumsy, and real, and breathtaking. It was his whispered curses in Russian against her skin, the way her nails dug into his shoulders, the creak of the bedframe, the shared, stumbling journey toward a precipice they could both feel approaching.
The world narrowed to that rhythm, to the heat building between them, to the sound of his breath syncing with hers. A tight coil of pleasure began to unravel deep in her stomach, unfamiliar and terrifying in its intensity. She was climbing, blindly, clinging to him.
Then a sharp, searing pain cut through the building warmth.
It was sudden, and wrong, a white-hot stitch in her side that stole her breath. Her body seized, tensing underneath him in instinctive rejection. A small, wounded noise escaped her throat.
Ilia froze immediately, his entire body going still. "Louise?" His voice was thick with concern, his muscles taut with arrested motion.
"Wait," she gasped, the word tearing out of her. "Stop. Please, stop."
He pulled away from her at once, rolling to his side but keeping a hand on her arm. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and alert. "What is it? Are you hurt?"
The pain was already receding, leaving behind a dull ache and a crushing wave of shame. She turned her face into the pillow, hiding from his gaze. "I'm sorry. I just… it hurt. A lot."
"Hey, no, look at me." His fingers were gentle on her chin, turning her head back. His expression was pure worry, no trace of frustration. "Where? Show me."
She gestured vaguely to her lower abdomen, unable to meet his eyes. "It's gone now. It was just a stitch, like when you run too fast." She felt ridiculous, lying naked in his bed, ruining everything. "I'm so sorry. I ruined it."
"You didn't ruin anything." He pushed himself up to sit, running a hand through his hair. He took a deep, steadying breath, the kind she'd seen him take at the rink. "You never have to apologize for telling me to stop. Never."
But the feeling was a physical weight on her chest. This was exactly what she'd feared—being awkward, being bad at this. He was a world-class athlete used to perfection, and she couldn't even get through this without something going wrong. Tears welled up, hot and insistent.
"I feel so stupid," she whispered, pulling the duvet up to cover herself. "You were… and I just…"
"Louise." He lay back down beside her, propping his head on his hand. He didn't try to pull the cover away. "Listen to me. This isn't a performance. There's no score. My only job is to make sure you're okay." He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "The pain is real. Your 'stop' is real. That's all that matters."
"I wanted it to be perfect for you."
A soft, frustrated sigh escaped him. "It was perfect. You were perfect. Right up until it hurt. And then you told me. That's also perfect." He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering. "We stop. We regroup. That's all."
She looked at him then, really looked. His blue-gray eyes were clear and focused entirely on her, the earlier hunger replaced by something steadier, more profound. He meant it. The realization didn't fully dissolve the shame, but it carved a space for it to breathe.
"I feel bad," she admitted, her voice small. "Like I let you down."
"You couldn't." He settled back against the pillows, pulling her gently to rest against his side. Her head found the hollow of his shoulder. "We have all the time in the world. Tonight, we stop."
They lay in silence for a long moment, the only sound their slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city through the glass. His heartbeat was a steady drum under her ear, his skin warm against her cheek. She traced the line of his collarbone with a tentative finger.
Her own thoughts were a noisy, churning thing. The sharp pain was gone, but a deeper ache remained—the ache of having broken the spell, of leaving him strung tight and unsatisfied after all his patience. She remembered the tremor in his hands in the locker room, the raw need in his voice in the car. He had given her everything, control and safety, and she had given him a stich and a full stop.
“Ilia?” Her voice was small in the quiet room.
“Hmm?”
“I feel… I need to…” She swallowed, gathering courage. She pushed herself up on one elbow to look at him. His face was calm, but in the low light, she could see the lingering tension in the set of his jaw, the faint sheen on his skin. “This isn’t fair to you.”
His brow furrowed. “What isn’t?”
“You. Like this.” Her gaze flickered downward, then back to his eyes. “I stopped everything. And you’re still… you haven’t…”
Understanding dawned in his expression, followed by a soft shake of his head. “Louise, no. That’s not your job to fix. I’m fine.”
“But you’re not.” The words came out more sure than she felt. She could see the evidence in the taut line of his body beside hers. “I want to. I want to make it up to you.”
He studied her face, his gaze searching. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know.” She took a shaky breath. “This isn’t about owing. It’s about me wanting to.” She hesitated, the request forming in her mind feeling impossibly bold. “Can you… would you teach me?”
“Teach you what?” His voice was gentle, curious.
“How to….” Heat flooded her cheeks. She gestured vaguely toward him. “How to help you. With my hand. I at least want you to… feel good.”
He was very still for a second. Then a slow, soft exhale escaped him. He reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering. “You really want to?”
“Yes.” The certainty surprised her. “I just don’t know how. I don’t want to do it wrong.”
A real smile touched his lips then, tender and a little awed. “Okay.” He shifted, rolling onto his back and guiding her to sit beside him. “Come here.”
He took her left hand in his, turning it palm up. He kissed her wrist, just over her pulse point. “First rule? There’s no wrong. Only what feels good.” He placed her hand on his stomach, just below his navel. His skin was hot, the muscles there firm and quivering slightly under her touch. “You can start here. Just get used to touching me.”
Her fingers splayed, tracing the defined planes. She watched his face, saw his eyes close for a second, his breath catching. Emboldened, she let her hand drift lower, through the coarse blonde hair, until her fingers brushed against him. He was hard, hot, velvety against her tentative touch.
Ilia’s jaw tightened. “Okay.”
“Show me,” she whispered.
He wrapped his hand around hers, his palm dwarfing her own. “Grip like this. Not too tight.” He guided her into a loose circle, his fingers adjusting hers. “Now, move. Slow at first. Use your whole hand, not just your fingers.”
She followed his lead, the motion awkward at first. The intimacy of it was staggering—the texture, the weight, the absolute trust in his guidance. She focused on his face, on the subtle shifts in his expression.
“That’s it,” he breathed, his voice rough. His hand fell away, leaving her in control. “Just like that.”
Her confidence grew with each stroke, each hitch in his breathing. She experimented with pressure, speed, watching him react. A flush spread across his chest. He bit his lower lip, a low groan building in his throat.
“You’re learning fast,” he managed to say, his eyes slitted open.
She smiled, a real, unselfconscious smile. “Good teacher.”
He laughed, a choked, breathless sound. “Right now, you’re the genius.” His hips lifted slightly, pushing into her hand. “A little tighter. Yeah. Just there.”
She adjusted, focusing on the spot he’d indicated. His whole body tensed, a corded wire of pleasure. His hand fumbled for hers again, not to guide, but to intertwine their fingers as she worked. The connection was profound, more than just physical; she was reading him, learning his language.
“Louise,” he gasped, her name a prayer. “I’m close.”
“What should I do?”
“Nothing. Just… don’t stop.”
She didn’t. She watched, mesmerized, as his composure unraveled. The controlled athlete was gone, replaced by this raw, vulnerable man trembling under her touch. His free hand gripped the sheets, knuckles white. A series of sharp, helpless breaths, then a deep, shuddering release that rocked through him.
He collapsed back onto the pillows, spent, his chest heaving. She slowly stilled her hand, unsure what to do next. He reached for her, pulling her down beside him, wrapping her in his arms. He was warm and loose-limbed, his heartbeat galloping against her.
For a long time, he just held her, pressing kisses into her hair. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice sleep-soft and full of wonder.
She nestled closer, the earlier shame completely dissolved. In its place was a quiet, soaring pride. “So that was okay?”
He laughed, a rich, happy sound that vibrated through her. “Okay? Louise, that was…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You’re amazing.” He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her with an expression so openly affectionate it made her heart stutter. “How do you feel?”
“Good.” She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. “Really good. Less like I broke everything.”
“You fixed everything,” he said, and kissed her, slow and deep. It tasted different now—less of hunger, more of home. He pulled back, his eyes scanning her face. “My turn next time. No arguments.”
The promise in his words sent a fresh thrill through her. Next time. There would be a next time. He saw her shiver and pulled the duvet over them both, tucking her firmly against his side. The city lights painted soft patterns on the ceiling, and for the first time all night, her mind was quiet, full of nothing but the sound of his breathing and the solid, certain warmth of his body beside hers.