Page 13 of Silver Fox Puck

Breath.

The sound of our hearts pounding out of sync.

His weight stays on me, heavy and real andso damn human.

But he doesn’t ask questions.

Doesn’t speak.

And neither do I.

Because whatever this was, whatever this is—we both know it ends when the night does.

And right now?

That’s enough.

And as we finally come down—limbs tangled, bodies spent, breath still catching—my last coherent thought isn’t regret.

It’s that I never stood a chance.

Chapter 2 – Kenzie

Iwake up slowly, the weight of sleep still clinging to my limbs, my body warm and heavy. It takes me a second to remember where I am, but the ache deep in my muscles answers that question before my brain does. A slow, dull pulse between my thighs. The ghost of rough, experienced hands on my skin. The scent of expensive cologne tangled in the sheets.

Oh. Right.

I don’t open my eyes. I don’t move. I just breathe, trying to settle the strange tightness creeping up my throat. It was supposed to be simple. A one-night distraction, just like I wanted. No names. No strings. No reason to feel anything other than satisfied.

So why does this feel different?

Why does my body still hum with the memory of his hands? Why does my brain keep replaying the way he touched me—not just with heat, but with purpose?

Like he wanted to worship me. Like he wanted me to remember this. And worse—like he knew I would.

I force my body to shift, stretching slightly, and immediately regret it. Every inch of me is sore in a way that makes the heat of desire flicker between my thighs. I press my lips together, hating the way my body reacts to just the memory of last night. The way he touched me. The way he looked at me, like he was watching me fall apart just to memorize it.

Stop.

I crack one eye open, glancing toward the other side of the bed. He’s still there. Still asleep.

And damn.

I should have known he’d look just as good like this. Relaxed. Unbothered. Completely at ease in his own skin, even in sleep. It’s unfair. His dark hair is mussed against the pillow, a few streaks of silver catching the soft morning light. His strong jaw is rough with stubble, his breathing deep and even. He looks... different like this. Less in control. Less dangerous.

I stare for too long, then shake myself, reminding myself why I don’t do this. I don’t stay. I don’t linger in beds that aren’t mine, taking in details I shouldn’t care about.

I need to go.

That was always the plan. No names. No second thoughts. No reason to look back.

And yet… I sit on the edge of the bed, toes curling into the plush carpet, my pulse betraying me with every slow, steady beat. Leaving should be easy. It’s always been easy.

So why am I still sitting here?

He’s everywhere—on the sheets, on my skin, in the air thick with the remnants of last night. My dress is near the foot of the bed, my heels half-kicked over near the chair. I grab them, moving quickly, trying to ignore the steady, even rhythm of his breathing behind me.

No awkward morning-after small talk. No lingering looks. Just get out before the moment sticks.

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