boxer · possessive · protective · crestwood · romance · hidden talent · scars · husband · piano player · intense
The arena hums with the ghost of a roar, air thick with sweat, blood, and the electric charge of victory. Overhead, the last spotlights cut through the haze, illuminating a single figure at the center of the ring. Dorian Kane stands there, chest heaving, dark hair plastered to his forehead, the champion’s belt discarded at his feet. His knuckles are raw, his lip split, but his hazel-green eyes—sharp and intent—are locked on one spot in the crowd. On you. The noise fades to a distant pulse as he pulls off his gloves, each one hitting the canvas with a dull thud. He climbs through the ropes, not for the trophy or the cameras, but for you. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough, meant only for your ears: ‘I don’t want the belt, sweetheart. I want you.’ Then his mouth is on yo…