Page 59 of Her Silver Fox Mountain Men

And just like that, a third orgasm catches up with me, the vibrator forcing me to come again. I release a scream of unabashed pleasure as Roman pulls out and holds me close and Oliver gives me the last of his thrusts.

James gets up, hard and ready to go again. “It’s gonna be another long night, baby.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” I manage as I welcome him back in my arms.

They shower me with wet kisses and tenderly hold and caress me as I come down from my own slice of spicy heaven. They take good care of me all through the night, delighted by the astonishing effect that the vibrator has on me.

Come morning, my muscles feel soft, my bones made of jelly. We were up most of the night, putting that toy to work, over and over again.

This is all too beautiful, too intense. It scares and exhilarates me at the same time.

Noon finds us downstairs in the kitchen, doe-eyed with each other as James pours freshly brewed coffee into each of our cups. I politely refuse, choosing to make some jasmine tea instead. It immediately captures their attention.

“Since when do you say no to coffee?” Oliver asks, looking particularly delicious in his grey sweatshirt and lounge pants, his blonde hair a tousled mess.

“I’m changing things up a bit,” I reply with a casual shrug.

Roman kisses my cheek as he puts an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to him as soon as I sit down at the breakfast table. “Hungry?”

“Famished,” I reply.

“I’ll whip something up,” James says. “It’s my turn anyway.”

“This feels nice,” I tell the guys with a warm smile. “Sitting here, without a care in the world. Well, notliterallywithout a care in the world but—”

“I get you,” Roman chuckles. “It is nice. We’d certainly like it if every day were like this. Speaking of that, Janice is keeping the girls until tomorrow. Tricia and Ainsley teamed up with her great-nieces for another movie night, so we were thinking…”

“You were thinking we could do a movie night, too?” I shoot back.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m only on shift at the diner for four hours today. I clock in at three and get out at seven,” I say.

“I’ll have the popcorn ready by the time you walk through the door,” James says, adding crispy bacon to a large egg platter before grating plenty of fresh Parmesan on top. Oliver cuts up a loaf of sourdough into generous slices for the bread basket.

It’s a pleasure watching these three in the kitchen. They’re perfectly coordinated and remarkably efficient. “I would imagine raising Tricia and Ainsley is part of the reason why you’re all so good with this meal prep and service thing,” I say, chuckling softly.

“We handled our crew’s meals when we were in the Army. We learned most of the basics there. Then, when Oliver and Roman moved in to help me with the girls, we sort of fine-tuned the process to what you see today.”

“Give us a couple of more years and we’ll be able to offer the full Michelin-starred experience,” Oliver quips as he brings the bread over.

Roman leans in, playfully nibbling on my ear. “Hot shower after this hefty brunch?”

“That sounds heavenly.” I quiver as his lips cause tiny fires to burst across my skin. Their effect on me is always so immediate, so intense.

A sudden knock on the front door followed by the doorbell reverberates through the entire house.

James frowns, exchanging glances with Oliver and Roman. “Are we expecting anything? Or anyone?” he asks, eliciting head shakes from both. He looks at me next, but my answer is also a subtle no.

He walks out of the kitchen.

The three of us listen quietly, though only murmured voices reach us before we hear the front door close with a resounding thud. A half minute later, James comes back in with a massive wicker basket filled with an assortment of late summer and autumn flowers—crimson red gladiolus, sunny yellow chrysanthemums and a generous row of white snapdragons surrounding the central composition.

“These came here for you,” James says, setting the basket on the table right in front of me, a frown etched across his face. My heart stops.

Fear and something darker, colder, moves through me as I stare at the arrangement with wide, frightened eyes. There’s no note this time around, but deep down I know who sent them.

“Who would be sending you flowers to this address?” Roman asks.

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