Page 11 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

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She opens her mouth to speak again, but the lights flicker—and everything goes dark.

She goes still. “Was that?—?”

“Grid delay,” I murmur. “It’ll reset.”

She turns, probably to orient herself, and nearly walks straight into a raised planter. I reach out without thinking, one hand brushing the curve of her hip as I redirect her a step to the left.

She tenses.

So do I.

“I was fine,” she says, voice quieter now.

“No. You weren’t.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough that I become acutely aware of how close we are in the dark. Of the heat radiating off her skin. Of the breath she pulls in—too sharp to be steady.

She’s trembling. Only slightly, but I can feel it.

And I shouldn’t care. She’s not mine. She’s not anything. She’s just a contractor. Temporary.

Too young.

Too soft.

And too goddamn tempting.

My thumb skims her forearm before I can stop myself. Her body shudders, just slightly, and I want nothing more than to do it again.

The lights come back on.

We snap apart.

I take a step back. Then another. The distance isn’t enough, but it has to be. She blinks against the brightness and doesn’t look at me when she says, “I need to follow up with the catering crew.”

She walks off without waiting for a response, spine rigid, steps precise. And I let her go.

Because if I don’t?—

I won’t stop.

And if I don’t stop?—

I will ruin her.

Dom drifts in beside me, eyebrows lifted, holding out a drink like it might extinguish whatever just sparked.

“Still pretending this is just business?” he asks, voice low.

He offers me the drink, but I don’t take it.

“I didn’t touch her,” I say flatly.

“Didn’t say you did. But that look on your face?” He whistles under his breath. “Yeah. That’s not going away.”

I don’t answer. I just walk back toward the villa, leaving the drink—and the warning—behind.

Because he’s right.

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