Page 41 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

"Sky," I whisper. "Look at me."

When she does, I see a storm of emotions in her eyes—desire, fear, longing. She's buried so deep in my soul, I know I'll never get her out. And I don't want to.

But she doesn’t want to be there. And it fuckinghurts.

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, Skylar's pulling away. She rises from the bed, grabbing a T-shirt from the floor and slipping it over her head in one fluid motion. My eyes can't help but follow the curve of her body, lingering on the wet, glistening trail down her thigh.

"I need to clean up," she says, her voice clipped and businesslike.

I nod, knowing the routine. "Of course."

As she disappears into the bathroom, I sit up, running a hand over my jaw. The sound of running water fills the silence, and I can't help but wonder if she's washing away more than just the physical evidence of our encounter.

"You don't have to go," she calls out, but we both know it's just a formality.

I start collecting my clothes, scattered around the room like breadcrumbs of our passion. "It's late," I reply, pulling on my jeans. "I should head back."

When she emerges, her face is scrubbed clean, her hair pulled back. She looks younger, more vulnerable, and it takes everything in me not to pull her back into my arms.

"Theo," she starts, her voice soft. "This isn't—"

"I know," I cut her off, not wanting to hear the rest. Not tonight. "It's okay, Sky. Really."

She nods, relief and something else—regret, maybe?—flashing across her face. I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. "Goodnight, Skylark."

"Goodnight," she whispers.

As I step out into the cool night air, I can't help but feel like I'm leaving a piece of myself behind. With a heavy sigh, I begin the short walk back to the house, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

I pause at the door, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Skylar's scent still clings to my skin, a bittersweet reminder of what I can have but never truly possess.

"She needs time," I mutter to myself, drawing in a deep breath. "We can't rush this."

As I push open the door, the rich aroma of aged whiskey greets me, mingling with the tension that immediately thickens the air. Cohen and Austin are lounging in the living room, their posturesdeceptively casual. The amber liquid in their crystal tumblers catches the low light, glinting like accusatory eyes.

"Late night?" Cohen asks, his tone light but his gaze sharp.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Lost track of time."

Austin snorts, taking a long sip of his drink. The muscle in his jaw twitches, a telltale sign of his tightly leashed emotions.

"I'm sure you did," he mutters, not quite under his breath.

I move to the bar, pouring myself a generous measure of whiskey. The burn as I swallow matches the heat of their stares on my back.

"Look," I start, turning to face them. "I know this is...complicated."

Cohen raises an eyebrow. "That's one word for it."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken accusations and shared desire. I can see it in their eyes—the same longing that consumes me. They don’t have the history, but the need is there just the same. It should make me jealous, possessive. Instead, it feels like recognition of a fundamental truth.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to say. "Look, I know we've all been dancing around this, but we need to talk about Skylar."

Cohen's eyes light up with hope, while Austin's entire body tenses, his jaw clenching visibly. The contrast between their reactions is stark, mirroring the conflicting emotions I feel churning inside me.

"What about her?" Austin's voice is low, dangerous.

I press on, despite the warning in his tone. "We can't keep pretending there isn't something going on. Something that affects all of us."

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