The Red Tale: A Collection of Erotic Anthologies

Cold Front: The Miles Between Us

The air on the sixty-fourth floor tasted expensive — crisp, filtered, laced with the faint metallic bite of polished steel and ambition. It pressed against Maya’s skin like a too-tight collar as she sat rigid in the conference room, refusing to glance at the man two chairs away.

Silas Vance radiated heat even from a distance, a smug, self-assured warmth that made the back of her neck prickle. She could feel it crawling over her like sunlight on bare shoulders — unwelcome, yet impossible to ignore.

“You’re sending both of us?” Maya’s voice came out clipped, professional ice. Her fingers tightened around her pen until the plastic creaked.

Her CEO barely looked up from his watch. “It’s a ten-million-euro account, Maya. L’Amour Paris doesn’t want spreadsheets — they want vision. Since you two have turned inter-departmental warfare into an Olympic sport, you’re collaborating. Play nice, or kiss the Junior Partner seat goodbye.”

The words landed like a slap. Junior Partner. The title she’d bled for — late nights that stole her weekends, relationships that crumbled under the weight of unread texts and cold dinners. Her jaw ached from clenching.

‘Don’t let him see you crack,’ the voice in her head warned. ‘He’ll enjoy it too much.’

“I’m sure Silas and I can… coexist for forty-eight hours,” she said, finally forcing her gaze toward him.

Silas Vance looked like trouble sculpted into a suit. Dark wavy hair that always seemed artfully mussed, as if he’d just stepped out of someone’s bed after closing a deal. Stormy Atlantic eyes that could freeze or burn depending on his mood. When he smiled — slow, predatory, never quite reaching those eyes — something low in Maya’s stomach tightened traitorously before she squashed it flat.

“Coexist?” Silas leaned back, the fine wool of his jacket pulling across broad shoulders. His long legs stretched under the table, one thigh brushing the divider near hers. “I was thinking more like a race. First one to get the CEO of L’Amour to sign wins the partnership.” His voice dropped, smooth as aged whiskey. “May the best man win, Maya.”

“The best person,” she corrected, heat rising in her cheeks. “And she’s sitting right here.”

Three hours later, First Class wrapped them in claustrophobic luxury on the flight to London — their layover before Paris. The cabin hummed with soft engine drone and occasional clinks of glass. Maya kept her laptop open, spreadsheets glowing coldly against the dimmed lights, but her focus kept fracturing.

Silas lounged like he owned the plane, nursing a double bourbon. The scent of it — smoky oak and caramel — drifted across the armrest divider, mixing with his cologne: dark citrus, vetiver, and something undeniably masculine that made her pulse skip. His thigh brushed hers again as turbulence jostled them. Warm. Solid. Too close.

‘Why does he have to smell like that?’ she thought, irritation prickling her skin. ‘And why do I notice?’

“You’re staring, Maya,” he murmured, eyes still closed, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “If you need a photo for target practice later, just say the word. I’ll send you a proper headshot.”

“I’m looking at your complete lack of preparation,” she lied, her voice sharper than intended. Her heart did a stupid little flip at the sound of her name on his tongue. “You haven’t touched the French market projections once.”

Silas opened one eye, then leaned in, invading the neutral zone of the armrest. His breath carried bourbon warmth against her cheek. “I don’t need projections to sell a feeling, Maya. The French want passion. Fire. Soul.” His gaze flicked to her mouth for a heartbeat too long, heavy and unreadable. “Something you wouldn’t know the first thing about. You’re all sharp edges and data. No softness.”

“I have plenty of soul,” she hissed, leaning closer despite herself. Inches apart now. The heat of his body cut through the recycled cabin air, making her silk blouse cling uncomfortably to her skin. “I just don’t waste it on men who think a smirk counts as charm.”

His eyes darkened, dropping again to her lips. The air between them thickened, charged like the storm brewing outside. For one dangerous second, Maya wondered what it would feel like if he closed that gap — if that controlled arrogance cracked and revealed whatever burned underneath.

‘He’s doing this on purpose,’ she told herself, breath hitching. ‘Distraction tactic. Don’t fall for it.’

Before she could fire back, the cabin lights flickered. The seatbelt sign chimed urgently.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice crackled, strained. “A massive polar vortex has hit the UK and Western Europe. Heathrow is closing. We’re diverting to a smaller airfield north of London. Brace for a rough descent.”

The plane dropped sharply. Maya gasped as her stomach lurched. Her hand shot out instinctively, grabbing the nearest solid thing — Silas’s hand.

His fingers closed around hers instantly. Warm. Strong. Callused just enough to feel real against her softer palm. He didn’t mock her. Didn’t let go. Instead, his thumb brushed once over her knuckles — grounding, almost protective — as the plane shuddered and snow whipped white against the windows.

“Easy,” he grunted, voice low and rough near her ear. “I’m not letting you die before I beat you in Paris.”

‘His hand is too warm,’ she thought, heart slamming for reasons that had nothing to do with the turbulence. The scent of his skin — bourbon, cologne, and clean male sweat from the stress — filled her lungs. She should pull away. She didn’t. Not yet.

By touchdown on the icy runway, the world had dissolved into howling wind and swirling white. The tiny terminal was chaos: crying children, shouting travelers, rapidly dropping temperatures as power flickered.

After frantic calls, Silas clicked off his phone, face grim. “All flights to Paris are grounded. Chunnel’s closed. Ferries docked. We’re stuck.”

Panic clawed at Maya’s chest. “The meeting—”

“Is canceled for everyone,” he cut in. He grabbed both their suitcase handles, the leather smooth and cold under his grip. “Come on. I booked the only hotel within miles that still has power.”

‘Of course he did,’ she thought, hurrying after him into the biting wind. Snow stung her cheeks like needles. Her coat felt too thin; his broad back cut a path through the crowd, annoyingly reliable. The way his shoulders moved under the suit jacket sent another unwelcome flutter through her.

At the Grand Hotel — more “adequate” than grand in the storm — the exhausted receptionist delivered the blow.

“System crash. Only one room left. Pipe burst elsewhere. Everyone’s doubling up.”

Maya’s stomach dropped. “One room? No. We’re… rivals. Colleagues. Not—”

The receptionist glanced at the shivering crowd outside. “One room or the lobby floor with a shared blanket. Your choice, love.”

Silas’s stormy eyes met Maya’s. Something flickered there — amusement, challenge, and a darker heat he quickly banked. Her pulse jumped.

“We’ll take the room,” he said, voice dropping into that velvet-danger register that made her thighs press together involuntarily.

‘Don’t do this,’ her inner voice whispered. ‘This is how bad decisions start. How you end up noticing how warm his hand felt. How good he smells up close.’

“Fine,” Maya muttered, cheeks burning as she stared at the threadbare carpet. “But I’m taking the bed.”

Silas took the key card, that slow, dark smirk returning. His gaze lingered on her face a second too long — tracing her flushed cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. “We’ll see about that, Maya.”

As they rode the creaky elevator up, the storm howled outside and the small space filled with the sound of their breathing — too loud, too close. One room. One night. One bed.

And the miles between them had never felt so dangerously short.