Page 83 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“Like sin,” I answer.

Sal escorts Grandma Judy to VIP seating. Dante hovers near the experiential sneaker wall, hyping the self-lacing mechanism to tech bloggers. Good. Formations are set. Time to lift the curtain.

The film fades, and music thumps—a four-on-the-floor beat built from the sound of cardio machines. Fitness models explode onto the loop, lunging, pirouetting, and flipping handbags midair. Flash bulbs strobe. I feed tempos to the caller, adjust lights’ brightness when gel colors overpower shoe details. After ten minutes, the floor routine resets, and the audience floods the product pods.

That’s when the press notices Tabitha. She’s studying a rack of smart-knit jackets when a trio of fashion editors closes in. Our comms director, Desi, moves to intercept, but Tabitha lifts a palm—I’ve got this—and smiles.

Editor A: “Are you the choreographer?”

Tabitha: “Just an enthusiastic test pilot.”

Editor B: “So you’re the face of Muv? Is that what the TikTok was announcing?”

She laughs. “Faces are overrated. Tonight’s about movement.” Then she flips the jacket’s sleeve to reveal the hidden vent panel, demoing breathability like she’s done product pitches for a decade. “Check this out…”

By the time I reach her side, four more cameras have sprouted. She names fabrics, cites carbon-reduced dye processes I fed the team last week, and even plugs our free product recycling program like a pro. Desi’s jaw practically dislocates in relief.

I wait for a seam to open, then step in. “Tabitha Calloway, R&D movement consultant,” I introduce, adding a light hand to her back. Flashbulbs ping. No pushback—her poise makes the title believable.

She handles more questions—price tier, patent status—all fielded with server-shift calm. I couldn’t have coached better. When the last mic lowers, I lean close. “You redirected their agenda like water around a keel. Impressive.”

She blushes just high enough on her cheekbones. “Friday-night rush at the restaurant. All the tables want bread, half want the check even though I’m not a server. And everyone wants to feel special, to get attention, or to know the specials. Same energy.”

“And when you’re overwhelmed?” I ask, stepping us behind a silicone-mesh display.

She grins. “I disappeared to the walk-in freezer.” She eyes the exit doors. “Got a freezer equivalent around? It’s getting a little hard to breathe in here.”

I signal Dante, who’s corralling TikTok creators, that we’ll be taking a break. He nods and redirects our crowd into his.

Outside, our limo idles under low building lights. I open the rear door, and she slips in first, laughing when the plush bench nearly swallows her. I follow, shut the door—and the world’s noise drops forty decibels. The chauffeur wasn’t expecting us just yet, so we have the space all to ourselves.

Leather, faint cedar from the humidor, and her sweet, mellow perfume fills the cabin. We collide in the middle cushion, mouths finding each other with ridiculous accuracy for two people who just walked in different worlds all night.

Her hands go to my collar, tug, and I oblige, shrugging off the jacket, sliding my fingers under her jumpsuit’s sleek waistband. “Convertible garment,” I murmur, tugging a hidden side zip. The fabric peels away like it’s been waiting for this since she put it on.

She laughs against my mouth. “User-friendly.” Her palm grazes my belt, and she releases the buckle one-handed—that hostess skill set kicking in again, I think—and unfastens just enough for us to maneuver around the clothes.

She straddles my lap, knees braced on either side. Streetlights glow across the tinted windows, and the distant bass from the launch party throbs through the walls. My hand cups the back of her head as she sinks onto me, heat, silk, wet, all at once. The limo’s suspension dips. We freeze and listen. Only the engine’s low idle answers, steady as can be.

She giggles before capturing my mouth with hers. Her hips roll, mine follow. On every exhale, we stake our claim. I press a thumb to her lower lip, watch it redden. “Still overwhelmed?”

“Perfectly calibrated,” she pants. Her nails dig into my shoulders, a delicious sting.

Her body pulses on mine, and I know it won’t be long. This is, after all, deeply verboten, and there’s little I like more than that. Her back arches, and she almost whacks her head against the ceiling when she comes, but I pull her tight to me, holding her down while she’s flying free. When it slows, she shivers, forehead to mine, breath mingling. I hold her until her heartbeat decelerates, then rearrange us until she’s on her knees on the seat, and I’m planted behind her, both of us with a view out the back window.

People stroll by, unaware of us. I pound her from behind, earning her every grunt, every enthusiastic slap of the leather. She’s twitching on me again, so I reach around for her clit and hold on tight while she bucks against me as she comes again. It’s enough to bring me over too, but when I move to pull out, she backs against me, groaning, “In me!”

I lose it right then, slamming home. I’ve dreamed of this for too long, and it feels better than I’d imagined to come inside of her. My brain shuts off completely in that moment. True bliss.

Not at all how I planned it. But can you plan spontaneity?

Clumsily, we clean up, thanks to the bar napkins and bottled water in the back of the limo. When she’s composed, she cups my jaw, eyes shining. “You’re proud of me.”

“Not like I was trying to hide it.”

She laughs, kisses me sweeter this time. Outside, the limousine glass frosts with the condensation we drew. Inside, I realize the media may indeed call her the face of Muv, but I just witnessed the reason. She moves through pressure gracefully, then releases it exactly where she chooses.

Launch day couldn’t have gone better—product line live, market stunned, and the woman I love hijacking a spotlight she never asked for. She handled it, owned it, then escaped to the one place no camera can follow.

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