Page 11 of Silver Fox Puck

He stops in front of me.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is low, deep, and laced with something dark.

"Last chance. Still sure about this?"

I hold his gaze, unflinching. Then I step into him. Closing the distance. Sealing my fate.

And I say, "No takebacks, Silver Fox."

The moment my body brushes against his, the restraint snaps. It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s a collision. A sharp inhale. A rough exhale.

And then his hands are on me.

Gripping my hips. Spinning me. Pressing me against the door. His body follows—heat and muscle, a wall of solid intent. His breath is warm against my temple.

His presences surrounds me—dark spice, warmth, him—threading through my head, drowning out everything but him.

My pulse pounds, heavy and insistent, an ache settling low in my stomach. The first brush of his mouth against mine is brief, teasing, infuriating. Like he’s savoring the last moment before he completely wrecks me.

And that should put me back in control. Should give me a second to breathe. But it doesn’t. Because the moment I lean in and press into him, demanding more…

He gives it to me. He takes. His mouth crashes onto mine, deep and consuming. A kiss that isn’t polite. Isn’t something meant to be forgotten.

It’s a claim. And I feel iteverywhere.

His fingers press into my waist, sliding down, gripping, pulling. I don’t even realize I’m moaning until his grip tightens.

Until his mouth moves to my jaw. My throat. My pulse point.

"Still sure about this?" he murmurs against my skin.

The low, gravelly sound vibrates inside me.

Oh, fuck yes.

I barely manage to nod. Because I can’t think. Can’t speak. I’m too busy feeling. Too busy burning. Too busy losing myself to the slow, deliberate way his hands explore me—

Mapping me.

Memorizing me.

Making damn sure I never forget this night.

His hands slide to the zipper of my dress.

I shiver. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. He just takes his time, dragging it down inch by agonizing inch. The fabric slips off my shoulders. Pools at my feet. Leaving me in nothing but lace and a pulse so thick I can feel it deep and raw.

And when his gaze drops—

When his breath audibly slows—

Something tightens low in my stomach.

Because he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at.

I don’t want to be in control.

I want to be wanted.

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