CHAPTER 6
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Three brutal, concussive impacts against solid reinforced oak shattered the dead silence of the penthouse.
Everett Kane snapped awake. He didn't transition through grogginess. He went from a state of deep, exhaustive unconsciousness directly into red-line tactical alertness, his central nervous system flooding with a massive, localized spike of adrenaline.
For a fraction of a second, the sensory data didn't align. The air in the master suite was heavy, choked with a thick, unfamiliar body heat. He felt the subtle, rhythmic depression of the mattress behind him. He heard a sharp intake of breath.
Right. The marriage. The federal audit. The goalie sleeping inches away from his spine.
The security intercom mounted on the bedroom wall erupted into a harsh, electronic blare, the LED display strobing a violent, aggressive red across the dark walls.
Everett threw back the heavy black silk sheets.
He hit the hardwood floor wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung grey training sweatpants.
The cold morning air hit his bare, heavily scarred chest, but he didn't feel it.
He crossed the massive expanse of the bedroom in three long, aggressive strides, entirely ignoring the chaotic rustle of Dorian sitting up in the dark behind him.
Everett slammed his thumb against the intercom’s video feed button.
The digital screen flickered, cutting through the static to reveal the high-definition feed from the private elevator vestibule.
It was 6:00 AM. The grey, miserable pre-dawn light of Chicago filtered through the hallway windows, illuminating the slate-grey suit of Officer Hawkins.
The federal agent was holding his gold badge directly up to the fisheye lens, his face twisted into a mask of bitter, bureaucratic arrogance.
Hawkins had completely bypassed the building's front-desk concierge. He had weaponized his federal credentials to commandeer the private lift.
"Physical residency verification, Kane," Hawkins’ voice crackled through the tinny speaker, flat and devoid of standard human courtesy. "Open the doors, or I will authorize building management to drill the deadbolt."
Everett’s jaw locked. The thick, heavy bands of muscle across his shoulders tightened into absolute steel. This wasn't a legal inquiry. This was a home invasion sanctioned by the federal government. It was a direct, calculated breach of the one perimeter Everett demanded total control over.
He didn't press the audio feed to reply. He reached down and hit the electronic override switch, unlocking the heavy double doors of the foyer.
He had exactly thirty seconds before Hawkins cleared the entryway and breached the private corridor.
Everett pivoted, sprinting back toward the center of the master suite. The low amber light of the bedside lamp clicked on.
Dorian was sitting up in the center of the sprawling king-sized mattress.
The goalie looked entirely wrecked. Sleep had stripped away the rigid, icy athletic discipline he wore like armor in the locker room.
His dark hair was flattened on one side, falling messily over his forehead.
He was wearing a dark silk robe loosely tied over his boxers, the fabric slipping off one pale, heavily bruised shoulder.
"What is it?" Dorian rasped, his voice thick with sleep, his grey eyes wide and unadjusted to the sudden light.
"Hawkins," Everett snapped, his voice a low, gravelly bark.
Dorian’s entire body froze. The sleepy vulnerability vanished instantly, replaced by a raw, suffocating panic that drained the blood straight out of his face. He scrambled backward against the headboard, his hands instinctively gripping the black silk sheets like a physical shield.
"He is inside?" Dorian choked out, the trauma of his overseas betrayal instantly seizing his vocal cords.
"I just buzzed him through the vestibule," Everett said, closing the distance to the bed.
Everett didn't ask for permission. He reached down, his massive, calloused hands closing over Dorian’s upper arms, and hauled the goalie up from the mattress. Dorian stumbled, his bare feet hitting the hardwood as he was forcefully pulled into Everett’s personal space.
"Everett—"
"We need to look the part," Everett ordered, his voice dropping to a harsh, rushed whisper.
He moved with ruthless efficiency. Everett reached for the lapels of Dorian’s silk robe and yanked them wide open, exposing the tight, pale expanse of Dorian’s chest and the sharp, bruising lines of his ribcage.
The heavy knot at Dorian’s waist loosened.
Everett’s hands shot upward, his thick fingers digging aggressively into Dorian’s dark hair, roughly dragging the strands in multiple directions, deliberately destroying the neat, structured cut.
Dorian gasped, his hands flying up to grip Everett’s bare wrists. "What are you doing?"
"Making him believe he just interrupted an intimate encounter," Everett muttered, his eyes raking over Dorian’s flushed, panicked face.
The heavy, unmistakable squeak of leather dress shoes echoed from the outer hallway. Hawkins hadn't waited in the foyer. The agent was marching straight past the living room, completely ignoring standard civilian boundaries, heading directly for the master wing.
"Kane? Pike?" Hawkins called out, his voice echoing loudly against the polished marble of the corridor. "Verification audit. Make yourselves decent."
Everett’s tactical brain registered the proximity. Ten feet away.
He looked down at Dorian. The goalie’s chest was heaving, his breath fracturing into short, jagged spikes of sheer terror. His grey eyes were massive, locked onto Everett’s face, entirely devoid of leverage or escape.
A violent, catastrophic shift occurred in Everett’s chest. The strategic, calculated requirement to fake a marriage entirely incinerated.
It was replaced by a dark, possessive hunger that slammed into his bloodstream with the force of a high-speed collision on the ice.
He didn't just need to protect the man in front of him. He needed to consume him.
Everett grabbed Dorian by the hips and shoved him backward.
Dorian hit the drywall beside the massive headboard with a dull, heavy thud.
The impact forced the remaining oxygen out of Dorian’s lungs in a sharp hiss.
Before the goalie could even process the sudden change in momentum, Everett stepped fully into his space, his towering six-foot-four frame caging Dorian entirely against the wall.
Everett drove his knee between Dorian’s thighs, forcing the goalie’s legs wider, utterly dismantling his physical stance.
"Open your mouth," Everett commanded, his voice a dark, rough vibration that scraped against the quiet air.
Dorian’s lips parted in pure shock.
Everett crashed his mouth down onto Dorian’s.
It was a rough, hyper-aggressive collision.
There was no gentle lead-in, no polite negotiation of boundaries.
Everett kissed him with the absolute, territorial violence of a man guarding his home lines.
He drove his tongue deep into Dorian's mouth, claiming the space with a heavy, wet friction that tasted of mint, dark sleep, and raw adrenaline.
Dorian let out a muffled, broken gasp against Everett’s lips.
The sudden physical assault overloaded his defensive mechanisms. His hands, previously gripping Everett’s wrists, flew upward.
Long, cool fingers dug frantically into the dense, bare muscle of Everett’s shoulders, the nails biting sharply into the skin as Dorian desperately sought an anchor in the chaos.
Everett groaned, the sound vibrating directly down his own throat and into Dorian’s mouth.
The sharp pain of Dorian’s nails acted as a massive accelerant.
The heat radiating off Dorian’s bare chest, pressed flush against Everett’s own skin, was intoxicating.
Everett’s hands slid around Dorian’s waist, his thick fingers digging deep into the soft, unprotected skin of Dorian’s hips, right above the waistband of his boxers.
He gripped the goalie hard, lifting him just a fraction of an inch, pressing his own heavy, rapidly hardening arousal firmly against Dorian’s groin.
The psychological friction was devastating. Everett felt the exact second Dorian’s icy, deeply guarded nature collapsed.
It wasn't a gradual surrender. It was an instant, catastrophic meltdown. The rigid tension in Dorian’s spine completely vanished.
His body turned incredibly hot, the trauma and the paranoia burning away under the sheer, suffocating weight of Everett’s dominance.
Dorian arched up into the captain’s massive frame, a desperate, involuntary whimper tearing from his throat.
He stopped pushing away and started pulling Everett closer, his hands sliding up to grip the thick cords of muscle at the back of Everett’s neck.
Dorian kissed him back.
He kissed back with a wild, starving desperation that completely shattered the final remnants of their professional distance.
Dorian’s tongue met Everett’s in a frantic, messy slide of heat.
The friction of Everett’s heavy stubble ground harshly against Dorian’s chin and jaw, leaving a flushed, red burn in its wake.
Everett changed the angle of his head, biting down lightly on Dorian’s lower lip, sucking a sharp, wet breath from the goalie before diving back in.
The heavy bedroom door was shoved inward. It hit the doorstop with a loud clack.
Everett heard it. He registered the intrusion, but his body refused to immediately abort the connection.
The taste of Dorian was a drug, overriding his executive control.
He dragged the kiss out for two agonizingly long seconds, his tongue swiping one final, deeply possessive line across the seam of Dorian’s mouth.
Slowly, deliberately, Everett pulled his face back.
He didn't step away. He kept Dorian securely pinned to the drywall, his massive body effectively shielding the goalie’s lower half from the doorway.
Everett kept his left hand firmly clamped on Dorian’s hip, while his right hand moved up to cup the back of Dorian’s neck, a heavy, territorial weight that demanded absolute stillness.
Dorian was completely wrecked. His head fell back against the drywall, his chest heaving violently.
His lips were swollen, dark red, and wet with saliva.
His grey eyes were blown wide, pupils fully dilated, entirely lost in a haze of sudden, violent arousal that had nothing to do with federal audits.
He couldn't hide the raw physical reaction his body had just undergone; the heavy flush of his skin extended all the way down his throat and across his exposed collarbones.
Everett turned his head slowly, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. He leveled a glare of pure, unadulterated hostility at the man standing in the doorway.
Officer Hawkins stood on the threshold.
The federal agent was holding his leather folder, his pen frozen halfway to the paper.
His pale eyes darted from the violently tangled black silk sheets of the unmade bed, to the discarded clothing, and finally to the two men pressed flush against the wall.
He took in the sight of Everett’s bare, heavily muscled back, the aggressive placement of his hands, and the utterly flushed, thoroughly used appearance of the goalie trapped beneath him.
The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the scent of aroused sweat, sleep, and the sharp, undeniable reality of a physical encounter.
Hawkins cleared his throat coldly from the door, his eyes scanning their tangled sheets and bare skin, realizing the couple is completely prepared to fight his suspicion with raw physical intensity.