With a Red Right Hand

On a Gathering Storm, Comes a Tall Handsome Man

"—again, we here at Miami International want to apologize for any inconvenience the storm has caused. To pick up your complimentary hotel voucher, please proceed to gate 47—"

Stiles represses a sigh, his thumbs idly twitching at his phone.

Good God, he hates Miami.

Stiles just spent five days in a fucking marsh waiting for his target and all he wants to do is go home. But it looks like he's about to stay in this god-forsaken city for another 12 hours—either in a Motel 8 or awkwardly arranged in this stupidly uncomfortable terminal chair (seriously, can a chair have negative back support??).

Stiles cracks his neck sharply and decides to give himself another moment to wallow in his shitty luck.

After a few minutes, he stops pretending to be busy on his phone and does a subtle perimeter sweep as he stretches.

Nurse. Policeman. Barista. Stripper. Retail. Clerk. Assassin. Gro—

Wait.

Stiles mentally backpedals, bending forward to peek up under his lashes as he slowly double-knots his high-top.

Oh sweet sexy biscuits, that is 100% someone Stiles would like to have on top of him.

And behind him.

And in front of him.

Okay, just mark him down for all over, please.

He's also 83% sure he's a—ahem—fellow freelancer.

It's the eyes that give him away.

To anybody else—to anybody but Stiles—the man sitting across from him would be just another rich, smartly dressed asshole. But Stiles sees the world a bit differently.

Specifically, through metaphorical gray-colored glasses.

The man may be wearing a sharp three-piece suit, but his gaze is even sharper.

He lounges like a predator, sprawled in a way that's anything but casual. His brown hair is neatly parted and swept back, and there's a faint layer of scruff darkening the edges of his mouth and jaw.

The suit he wears is a deep charcoal color and the man's shoes shine even in the hazy fluorescent lighting of the airport terminal.

All together it paints a simple picture of money and control, but Stiles can't shake those eyes.

Stiles knows in his gut that this isn't just some CEO, because sociopathic those corporate sharks may be, none has ever set off Stiles' internal alarm the way the man across from him does.

He's never actually met another like him in the field before.

It's absolutely thrilling.

Stiles allows himself a few filthy thoughts about how good that suit would feel pressed up against his bare ass before he dismisses the fantasy quickly. He knows exactly how dating a—erhm, "coworker" ends. Just look at Scott and Allison—Stiles still can't unsee the events of last Arbor Day. He shudders at the memory.

Too messy.

Also, he's still technically on the clock. He really shouldn't mix business with pleasure—that's a whole different kind of mess.

Paperwork.

He shudders again.

So he dismisses it, that wickedly wonderful fantasy.

At least, he was about to dismiss it—but then he glances back at the man's eyes.

They're blue and clear, and behind them, Stiles sees shrewdness.

And carefully repressed violence.

That confirms his hunch. And makes him wary.

And very, very turned on.

Stiles slouches further in his seat, taking another lazy look around the emptying terminal. When he glances back at the man, he has to hold back a twitch of alarm.

He's staring at Stiles.

Those bright baby-blues are measuring him, not as quick to overlook him and his frumpy college aesthetic as most people are.

Stiles meets that stare head-on, and what he finds hidden in the depths of their exchange excites him.

The man is definitely like him.

It's all there, written in that calculation and control.

Oh, and in the Agency-issued prototype-4 smartwatch wrapped around his wrist.

Stiles feels a little smug about Danny sneaking him the prototype-6 from R&D two months ago.

Stiles smirks, and can't help but wonder what the man sees—if he can see the truth of Stiles in the same way Stiles can see it of him. It'd be harder to spot, he muses, considering Stiles isn't one for control (and he's still really bad about remembering to wear the damn watch—sorry Danny).

Sure, he's tried to change—given that his superiors always tend to point it out in their feedback—but he just can't seem to get the hang of it. Every assignment always starts with good intentions, with him wanting to play the role of the cool and collected—ahem—contractor, but it always ends the same.

Chaos.

Stiles makes plans—detailed, wonderful plans—but they all just sort of devolve.

His only saving grace is that he operates best under pressure. The Agency likes to say that there's a method to Stiles' madness, but he thinks it's apter to say that his method is madness.

It's become his calling card, so much so that it gave him his name in the business.

Loki.

And it's that very same madness that has him thinking, fuck it, and checking the gorgeous man out just one more time.

Stiles takes in the man's tight body, the way his neck and his shoulders look just a little too bulky for someone who sits in board meetings all day. He lets the man catch him biting his bottom lip appreciatively, tongue darting out to soothe the ache.

The handsome suit sits up straighter, eyes narrowing heatedly as he unbuttons his jacket and smooths down his tie.

Stiles has to repress a moan at the image of that tie—of that dark purple silk—wrapped around his own wrists because he's been so naughty. He shivers delightedly at the thought.

Stiles can't help but wonder if the man likes to play the same games that he does. If he, too, would shiver with lust at what Stiles wants him to do to his body.

He's learned that most men like the way Stiles plays, especially when they peel him out of his skinny jeans and find what's hidden underneath.

Or when they have their cocks buried in his throat.

Yeah, most guys are pretty agreeable after that.

But with this devilishly handsome, capital "M" Man, Stiles doesn't just want agreeable.

It's been five days of nothing but mosquitoes and rain, of 250-pound drug cartel henchmen that won't fucking stay down and frantically Googling the symptoms of trench-foot.

So fuck that, Stiles doesn't want agreeable.

He wants someone to put him in his place. He wants someone to tell him how pretty he looks with a cock drilling his ass and cum dribbling down his chin.

He wants a Daddy.

And by the way the not-quite-silver fox tracks Stiles as he stands and makes his way to the restroom, he's pretty sure he's found one.