Page 9 of The Silver Fox Bidder

I slide my fingers into her hair, sweeping my tongue over hers, letting myself want hercompletely—body and soul—in a way I haven’t wanted anyone since my late wife.

And that thought should give me pause. But it doesn’t.

When we finally break apart, she’s breathless, her eyes dark with something I know mirrors my own.

I run my hand down her arm, feeling the way she shivers at my touch. “Come back to my place tonight.”

Lucy bites her lip, studying me. “Is that a good idea?”

I nod, my voice steady. “We’ve started something here, and I don’t do things halfway. I want to do thisright.”

She exhales slowly. “Do it right?”

I chuckle, the sound low and knowing, pulling her against me again. My mouth finds the shell of her ear, my voice rough with promise.

“That’s right, sweetheart. I’m going to make you come. Again and again and again. Would you like that?”

She whimpers, clutching at me. “Yes, please.”

Those two little words send something fierce and possessive surging through me.

Without another thought, I take her hand, leading her back to the truck, knowing this is just the beginning.

Chapter 7

Lucy

Thefirecracklesinthe stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across the log walls of Tank’s cabin. It’s exactly what I imagined—warm, lived-in, smelling of pine, earth, and something distinctly him.

His paintings hang in quiet corners, rough-hewn shelves lined with books, and a massive leather couch sits positioned near the fire, looking as worn and comfortable as the man himself. The space is a reflection of him.Rugged, strong, but undeniably inviting.

And tonight, I get to be part of it.

I stand in the center of the room, my heart pounding as Tank watches me.

He hasn’t touched me yet. Not since we stepped through the door. But the weight of his gaze is enough to make me shiver, enough to send a slow, aching pulse of heat curling low in my belly.

His blue eyes darken as he steps closer, his fingers reaching for the hem of my shirt.

"Lucy," he murmurs, voice rough, reverent. "Tell me this is real."

I swallow hard, pressing my palm to his chest. Beneath my fingertips, his heart beats strong and steady, though the tension in his body tells me he’s barely holding himself back.

Is it real?

The truth is, I don’t really know him. Not in the way that matters on paper. I don’t know his past, the details of his life before he came to Hawks Roost.

But Idoknow him.

I know theessenceof him. The way he moves through the world, steady and unshaken. The way he looks at me, like I’m something worth holding onto. I know he’s a good man, and that he’d never hurt me. Not in a million years.

My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. "It’s real, Tank."

That’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes against mine in a deep, soul-stealing kiss. His hands wrap around me, strong and sure, pulling me flush against his body. I melt into him, my fingers tracing the ridges of muscle beneath his shirt, feeling the power in his frame.

He lifts me effortlessly, as if I weigh nothing, carrying me toward his massive bed—solid wood, hand-carved, covered in soft blankets that smell of cedar and warmth.

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