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The elevator dinged.

They broke apart instantly, both breathing hard, just as the doors slid open to reveal Dmitri, who was holding a bottle of rum. His eyes widened comically at the sight of them.

"Spreadsheets! Media Witch!" he exclaimed with his usual exuberance. "I did not expect to find you out so late. You work on presentation for new owners, yes?"

Marcus straightened his shirt, painfully aware of the state he was in, grateful for the dim lighting and his long coat. Beside him, Stephanie smoothed her hair with remarkable composure, though her lips remained tellingly swollen.

"Just finishing up some strategy discussions," she said, her professional tone betrayed only by the slight huskiness in her voice.

"Strategy looks very intense," Dmitri observed with a knowing grin, holding the elevator door open for them. "Very... passionate approach to analytics integration. I’m glad I found you. I left my key in Kane’s room and forgot what number it is."

“He’s in 712.”

“Good. You come with me for a night cap.”

“I really should get an early night.”

“It is early. Besides, Kane wanted to talk to you.”

As they stepped into the elevator, Marcus caught Stephanie's eye, the heat still simmering between them despite the interruption. Whatever was happening between them hadn't been cooled by Dmitri's appearance—if anything, the forced restraint only intensified the anticipation.

Later, he promised silently, his eyes conveying what he couldn't say aloud.

Her nearly imperceptible nod told him she'd received the message loud and clear. They'd continue this evolution in private, away from teammates and security cameras and complications.

For now, though, Marcus had to endure the longest elevator ride of his life, strategizing how quickly he could credibly ditch Dmitri and find his way to Stephanie's door.

Chapter Nine

Marcus

Marcus woke thirteen minutes before his alarm. His body was already gearing up for the day—a pre-game mental routine he'd followed since peewee hockey. He rolled his shoulder, wincing at the bruise where a Toronto forward had driven him into the boards during the third period.

The Toronto hotel room remained dark as he stared at the ceiling. He hadn’t been able to get away from his team mates to join Stephanie last night and he was regretting his choice to be a gentleman and go back to his own room instead of waking her up at three in the morning for what would have been a booty call.

He'd had plenty of hookups over the years—hockey players weren't exactly monks. But nothing had prepared him for the intensity of kissing Stephanie. It was like landing a perfect hip check—instinctive, powerful, and absolutely satisfying. He had dreamed about her last night. He wondered if he had been in her thoughts as well.

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