Page 6 of Silver Fox Puck

It doesn’t help.

My heels click against the polished floor—confident, deliberate.

But inside?

I’m lightheaded and giddy as hell.

He doesn’t flinch as I approach.

Doesn’t straighten or shift or brace himself.

He watches.

And when his eyes finally dip—slow, deliberate, tracing every inch of me—

My breath stutters.

I stop beside him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

To catch the spice of his cologne.

To test my own control.

Because this close?

He’s even more dangerous.

His forearms, dusted with dark hair, rest against the bar like he’s already claimed the space around him.

And God help me—

I like it.

And still, he hasn’t spoken.

Hasn’t moved.

He’s just waiting.

I slip onto the stool beside him.

Not too close.

Not far enough.

He glances over.

Not surprised.

Not smug.

Just… interested.

I let my fingers trace the edge of the bar.

Let the silence stretch just long enough to make it intentional.

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