Page 16 of Silver Fox Puck

He’s standing just past the elevator bank, one shoulder leaned casually against the wall, hands tucked in his pockets, looking entirely too composed for someone who was dead asleep five minutes ago.

A lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes—dark, sharp, impossible to read—give away nothing.

My jaw tightens. Flight.

A flicker of memory from last night hits me.

His voice low and amused as I’d stretched out my legs after round one of the best sex I’d ever had.

“Long night?”

“Long week. Flight delays. Grumpy passengers. The usual.”

He’d made some comment then—something about how I had too much energy for someone who spent all day in the air. I’d smirked, told him I was a professional at handling turbulence, and that had been the end of it.

I hadn’t thought much about it.

But apparently, he had. I don’t let myself react. I don’t let myself feel that stupid shiver trying to work its way down my spine at hearing him again.

Instead, I lift my chin. "Yeah. No strings, right?"

The smirk doesn’t waver, but something in his expression shifts, just the slightest fraction. His fingers flex in his pockets.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just holds my gaze, steady, unreadable. For a second, I think he’s going to say something else. Push me. Challenge me. Maybe even make this harder than it already feels.

But then he just gives me one slow, deliberate nod.

And that should be the end of it. That should make walking away easier.

So why does it feel like I just lost a game I didn’t know I was still playing? A game that was supposed to end when we closed the door behind us last night for a no-strings night of passion.

I don’t stick around to find out. I turn, stepping into the cool morning air, letting the heavy glass door close behind me.

The crisp morning air bites my skin. I don’t look back.

I force myself to move, heading straight to the curb where a line of cabs waits. Everything about my exit is efficient, clean. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just like it should be.

Just like I want it to be.

The door closes behind me with a solid thud, sealing the heat of the hotel inside while I slide into the cool, worn leather of the cab’s backseat.

I exhale slowly. I give the name of my modest hotel with its tiny in-house bar. It was the lack of ambience in my own hotel that sent me out looking for trouble in the glitzy hotel bar last night. I make the fastest trip up to my hotel room to gather my things.

Back in the cab I say, “Airport.”

The driver nods and pulls into traffic.

The ride is short, barely ten minutes, but it still feels too long. Too much time for my mind to wander, for my thoughts to replay things I don’t need to be thinking about.

The way his hands felt on my skin. The way his mouth curved when he looked at me like he already knew I’d be trouble. The way he didn’t stop me from leaving—but still made damn sure I’d remember him.

I press my lips together, shaking it off. It was just one night. Nothing I haven’t handled before.

By the time we pull up to the terminal, I have my bag in hand, my body already moving before the car even comes to a full stop.

This is what I do. I keep moving. I don’t let one night stick.

But as I step through the automatic doors, as the familiar hum of the airport swallows me whole, something feels off. Like I left something behind.

---