Body Check, Bed Check book cover by Chase Power

The New Apartment

A Body Check, Bed Check Bonus Chapter by Chase Power

This bonus chapter takes place after the epilogue of Body Check, Bed Check. It contains major spoilers and explicit sexual content. Liam and Jayden have been living together for two months. The new apartment has been furnished, the off-season has settled into a rhythm, and they’ve been invited to a team charity event — their first public appearance as a couple. This scene takes place the night before.

The New Apartment

LIAM

The suit was the problem.

Not my suit — I owned three, all charcoal, all identical, purchased with the specific intention of never having to think about clothing. Jayden’s suit. The one he’d bought for tomorrow night’s charity gala. The one he was currently trying on in our bedroom, standing in front of the full-length mirror we’d hung last weekend (his idea, my drill), turning slowly, tugging at the cuffs.

Navy. Slim-cut. No tie. The collar open to the third button, the chains he always wore catching the lamplight against brown skin. The jacket tapered at the waist and the trousers did something to his thighs that should’ve required a permit.

“What do you think?” he asked, still facing the mirror, adjusting a cuff link.

I was sitting on the bed. I’d been sitting on the bed for approximately ninety seconds and I’d already lost the ability to form complete sentences.

“It works,” I said.

“Just works?” He turned. Looked at me over his shoulder. The grin. The fucking grin — fifty percent confidence, fifty percent dare, the same one he’d given me the first day he walked into the locker room, except now it was aimed at a man who knew what that mouth could do and was thinking about it in high definition.

“Take it off,” I said.

“I just put it on.”

“I know. Take it off. Slowly.”

His grin sharpened. He turned to face me fully. Undid the single jacket button — deliberately, watching my face, reading my reactions the way he read shooters. Shrugged the jacket off one shoulder. Then the other. Let it slide down his arms and caught it behind his back, holding it with both hands, his chest framed by the open white shirt.

“Like this?” Quiet. Intimate. The voice he only used in this room.

“Keep going.”

He draped the jacket over the chair. Started on the shirt buttons. One at a time. Each one revealing another inch of skin — the chains, the collarbone, the roses tattooed across his chest, the geometric lines that traced his ribs. By the third button, my hands were gripping the edge of the mattress. By the fifth, my breathing had changed and we both knew it.

The shirt came off. He stood there — shirtless, in tailored navy trousers that sat low on his hips, the V-lines at his pelvis disappearing into the waistband. The lamplight turned his skin to copper. His cock was visibly hardening behind the fabric, the outline growing more defined as he watched me watch him.

“The pants too?” he asked.

“Leave them.”

I stood up. Crossed the room. Put my hands on his waist — the bare skin above the waistband, warm and smooth, the muscles of his obliques tensing under my palms. Leaned down. My mouth on his neck, just below his ear, the spot that made his knees weaken every time.

“You’re going to wear this suit tomorrow,” I said against his skin, my lips dragging along his pulse point. “You’re going to walk into that gala next to me. In front of the team. In front of the media. In front of everyone.” My hand slid around to the small of his back, pulled him flush against me. “And the entire time, I’m going to be thinking about what I did to you in it tonight.”

His breath caught. “Liam —”

I kissed him. Deep, slow, thorough — the kind of kiss that started as a greeting and became a thesis statement. My tongue against his, my hand in his hair, his hands gripping the front of my T-shirt like he was anchoring himself against a current.

I walked him backward to the bed. He sat. I stayed standing. Looked down at him — shirtless, flushed, hard in those navy trousers, looking up at me with dark eyes that held nothing back.

I dropped to my knees.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered.

I undid his belt. Slowly. The buckle clinking, the leather sliding through the loops. Undid the button. The zipper. Peeled the trousers down just enough — not all the way, because the image of Jayden half-dressed in a designer suit with my mouth on him was a fantasy I’d been carrying since he’d walked out of the dressing room at the store and I’d had to pretend to be interested in pocket squares.

He wasn’t wearing underwear.

“You went commando to try on a suit?”

“I was hoping for exactly this outcome.”

I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock. He was fully hard now — thick, flushed dark, the head slick. I stroked him once, slowly, watching his abs contract, watching his head tip back.

Then I took him in my mouth.

Not teasing. Not gradual. I swallowed him deep on the first pass, my throat opening around him, and the sound he made — a guttural, broken groan that bounced off the bedroom walls of our new apartment — was worth every dollar of rent.

I worked him with the patience I brought to everything that mattered. Long, slow strokes of my tongue along the underside. My lips tight around the head, sucking, pulling off with a wet sound that made his thighs shake. My hand twisting at the base while my mouth worked the top half, the coordination as precise as my positioning in the crease.

“God — your mouth —” His hand found my hair. Not pulling. Holding. The tremor in his fingers that I’d first felt months ago and still craved, because it meant I was dismantling him. “Liam, I want — I need you to —”

I pulled off. Looked up at him. “Tell me.”

“I want you inside me. In this suit. Right now.”

I stood. Stripped my shirt. Pushed my sweats down. He watched from the bed, legs spread, the trousers bunched around his thighs, his cock wet from my mouth and jutting upward. The image was obscene and beautiful and mine.

I grabbed the lube from the nightstand. Slicked my fingers. Pushed his legs wider and pressed one finger inside him while I kissed the inside of his thigh, the tattoo on his hip, the warm crease where his leg met his body.

He was noisy. He was always noisy — it was one of my favorite things about him, the way he narrated his own pleasure without shame, a running commentary of gasps and curses and my name spoken in every possible tone. As I worked him open with two fingers, then three, he gripped the sheets and told me exactly how it felt — how full, how deep, how the angle was perfect and if I moved my hand a centimeter to the left he was going to —

I moved my hand a centimeter to the left. He arched off the bed and swore in Spanish and English simultaneously, his cock leaking onto his stomach, his body clenching around my fingers.

“Now,” he gasped. “Please. Right now.”

I pulled my fingers out. Positioned myself between his legs. He hooked his ankles behind my back — the trousers still bunched around his thighs, constraining his movement, adding a friction that made everything tighter, closer, more intense. I pushed inside him bare, one slow stroke, watching his face as he took me.

His eyes rolled back. His mouth opened. The sound that came out of him was quiet and enormous — a sigh that contained multitudes.

“Look at me,” I said.

He opened his eyes. Dark, wet, demolished.

I moved. Not fast — deliberate. Deep, rolling thrusts that pressed the full length of me inside him, grinding at the deepest point before pulling back. The trousers around his thighs made him tight, clenched, the fabric rough against my hips with every stroke. His hands found my shoulders, nails digging in, leaving crescents that would be visible for days.

“Tomorrow,” I said, my voice strained, my hips driving forward. “When we walk into that room. Together. Every person there is going to see us and know.”

“Let them know.” His voice was wrecked. His hips meeting mine, matching my rhythm. “I want them to know. I want every person in that building to look at you and understand that you come home to me.”

I kissed him. Hard, deep, the kiss of a man who’d spent a decade hiding and had finally, irrevocably, permanently stopped. My hand wrapped around his cock — stroked him in time with my thrusts — and the dual sensation made him cry out against my mouth.

“I love you,” he said. Between thrusts. Between breaths. The words we said every day now, the words that had cost us everything to earn and nothing to keep. “I love you, Liam.”

“I love you.” My forehead against his. My eyes on his. Every wall demolished, every fortress abandoned, every version of myself that had ever prioritized safety over this — over him, over us, over the staggering, terrifying, world-remaking fact of being known by another person and choosing it anyway.

He came first. Between our bodies, pulsing across his stomach and chest, his body seizing around me, his face contorted in something beyond pleasure. I followed three strokes later — deep, full, the orgasm rolling through me in waves that felt like demolition and construction happening at the same time.

We lay there. Breathing. His trousers still around his thighs. My body still between his legs. The bedroom lamp casting long shadows across the walls of the apartment we’d chosen together — the apartment with two toothbrushes on the counter and a closet split down the middle and a fridge that held a team photo and a photo booth strip and the accumulated, undeniable evidence of a shared life.

“The suit survived,” he said. Breathless. Grinning.

“Barely.”

“I’m wearing it tomorrow with no underwear.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“That’s the plan, Brick.” He pulled me down against his chest. Kissed my hair. “Death by gala. Witnesses everywhere. A perfect crime.”

I laughed. The real one. The one he’d spent five months teaching me how to make, the one that came from somewhere deeper than discipline or control or the careful architecture of a man who’d spent his life surviving instead of living.

Tomorrow, we’d walk into a room full of people and be seen. Together. Unafraid. The veteran goalie and his cocky backup, the sealed submarine and the man who’d pried it open, standing side by side in suits that matched and hands that held and a love that had started with a pillow wall in a hotel room and ended with a key to the same front door.

But tonight — tonight we were just two men in a bedroom that smelled like sex and sandalwood, tangled in the wreckage of a navy suit, laughing.

Some things didn’t need an audience.

Some things were just ours.

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