Page 2

I wake 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.

I stand, careful not to make a sound as I slip my dress over my head. No time to zip it up yet. Shoes in hand, I move toward the door. Every step is controlled, my breath locked in my chest, my grip tightening around the handle.

Don’t look back. Almost there.

Then—just as my hand grazes the doorknob, just as I prepare to slip out without a word—

A low, sleep-rough voice rumbles behind me.

“Leaving so soon, Flight?”

Hits me in the chest like a slow drag of whiskey.

Damn it. I freeze. Hand locked around the door handle. Barely breathing.

Wait, Flight? Does he know about… my job? Or is it just that I’m trying to flee from this moment?

I don’t overthink it. Or the way that the nickname makes my heart flutter.

His voice—slow and lazy in a way that shouldn’t make my stomach tighten but does—envelopes me, making me shiver.

I should turn around and say something snarky in reply, not just stand here like a damn deer in headlights.

Instead, I exhale, force my pulse to settle, and settle for a glance over my shoulder.

He’s still in bed, one muscled arm tucked behind his head, watching me with a look I can’t quite read. His dark eyes—heavy-lidded from sleep but sharp enough to pin me in place—drift down, taking in the fact that I’m half-dressed, shoes clutched in my hand, zipper still undone.

Busted mid-flight. I feel heat warm my cheeks.

I clear my throat, keeping my voice as casual as possible. “That was the deal, wasn’t it?”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his gaze flickers. Not surprise. Not disappointment. Just… something unreadable.

Slowly, he shifts, rolling onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. The movement is unhurried, controlled—like he already knows I’m running from more than just him.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to sneak out.”

I arch a brow, tossing my head. “I prefer to call it an efficient exit.”

His lips twitch. Barely. “Is that what this is?”

A slow heat prickles under my skin. “It’s exactly what this is.”

I turn back toward the door, but before I can twist the door handle—

“Kenzie.”

My heart slams into my ribs. What the hell?

No. No, that’s not—

I inhale sharply, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral, to ignore the way my name sounds in his mouth when he wasn’t supposed to know it.

I narrow my eyes, turning toward him slightly. “We agreed. No names.”

He doesn’t look guilty. Doesn’t look like he regrets breaking the one rule we set.

He just studies me, slow and deliberate, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do with this.

“Did we?”

A flicker of memory hits me. Somewhere between tangled sheets and breathless laughter, I’d felt his fingers trail down my spine, his voice lower than usual, quieter.

What’s your name?

I hadn’t hesitated. Not then. Maybe because his mouth had been on my throat, or maybe because it hadn’t felt like breaking the rules when he was the one asking.

I exhale through my nose, rolling my shoulders back like I can shake off the unsettling ripple under my skin. “I should go.”

For a second, I think he’s going to let me. For a second, he just watches me, like he’s considering whether I actually mean it.

Then he adds, “Why do I get the feeling you’re lying?”

It’s a challenge to see if I’ll stay. Sussing me out. I grit my teeth and say with fake sweetness in contrast to my words, “Because you’re full of yourself?”

A low hum. Not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. Just pure amusement.

I push down the strange twist in my stomach, hating that he’s making me want to jump back into bed with him. Hating that I can’t tear my eyes off his broad, muscled chest.

I nod toward the key card still sitting on the nightstand. “Don’t worry, Silver Fox. The door locks behind me.” I pause. “No strings.”

His eyes flick to the card, then back to me, something unreadable passing through them before he leans back against the pillows, his smirk slow and knowing.

He doesn’t blink. Just watches as I finally turn the handle and step into the hall.

I don’t let myself look back. I don’t let myself think about the fact that I wanted to stay.

That wasn’t the deal. This was just one night. Whatever that look in his eyes was when he said my name—it doesn’t matter.

I slip my shoes on as gracefully as I can. Then I walk. One foot in front of the other. Even when I can still feel the ghost of his gaze on me long after the door closes between us.

I keep my pace steady and chin lifted. I look calm, in control. I should feel good about that. Proud, even.

No messy goodbyes. No lingering stares. No complications.

Just like I wanted.

So why does it feel like my lungs are tight? Like the air is thinner out here? I exhale slowly, zipping my dress as best as I can while I press the call button for the elevator. This was supposed to be easy.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, pressing the button for the lobby. I don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess myself—until I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall.

My dress is slightly wrinkled, the zipper still half-undone. My hair is a tangled mess of waves, proof of just how thoroughly I let myself fall apart last night.

And my lips—swollen. Kiss-bruised. My stomach tightens, a fresh pulse of heat flickering low.

I let my head tip back against the elevator wall and squeeze my eyes shut. Stop thinking about it. Stop feeling it.

The doors open with a soft chime. I force my feet forward. Out of the elevator, out of the moment, out of his orbit.

Almost there. I step into the lobby, crossing toward the exit when—

“Did you get what you wanted, Flight?”

I stop.

Barely.

The heat in my chest turns sharp, my fingers clenching against my palm as I force myself to breathe through it.

Slowly, I turn my head.

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.