Page 15 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
My pulse spikes. “Genevieve?—”
“I’m sorry,” she interrupts. “I know this isn’t appropriate. And I know I shouldn’t be here. But I—I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My throat tightens, but I say nothing.
She takes a shaky breath. “I’m tired of being told what I should want. Who I should be. How I should behave. I know this is reckless, and I know you probably think I’m naive, but I’m not. I want this. I wantyou.”
She’s shaking. Not from fear—but from nerves, from the effort it’s taking to stand here and give me a choice.
And sheisgiving me one. That’s what makes it worse.
I could say no. I should. It would be the right thing to do. The decent thing. I am not a decent man, but I know how to fake it.
Instead, I step aside.
She walks in.
I close the door.
There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then another. She doesn’t wait for permission this time—just crosses the space between us and kisses me like she’s been thinking about it since the moment I walked away yesterday.
It starts soft. A repeat of what almost happened before. But when I pull her closer and slide my tongue against hers, she makes a sound—thatsound—and the thread I’ve been holding onto finally snaps.
I back her toward the wall, one hand gripping her waist, the other tangled in her hair. She moans into my mouth, hips pressing against mine like she’s starving for contact. I don’t break the kiss. I keep tasting her, learning her.
Her skin is soft. Her breathing is shallow. Her body melts under my hands, pliant and eager. When I run my fingers down her skin and feel the arch of her back against my palm, I know I won’t stop this time. But I still give her the chance to walk away.
“Tell me to stop,” I breathe against her neck, but she just shakes her head and pulls me tighter.
That’s all I need.
I lift her effortlessly, carry her further into the suite, drop her to her feet just beside the bed.
I kiss down her throat, across her collarbone, down her stomach. She gasps when I peel her dress away. She doesn’t hide herself. Doesn’t shrink. She stands there—bare, waiting, trusting—and it almost undoes me. When I slide my fingers between her legs and find her soaked and trembling, she gasps again, and I nearly lose it.
“You want this,” I say, low, rough.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I groan as I push a finger inside, slow and steady. She’s so tight it borders on painful for her. She clenches around me like her body’s trying to hold me in.
She arches, jaw slack, eyes wide. “More.”
Jesus Christ.
I give her more.
I slide in another finger, and she takes it. Barely. The stretch has her shaking, but she doesn’t pull away. My thumb brushes her clit and she jerks, hands scrambling for something to hold on to. She moans again, deeper now, hips beginning to move in search of friction.
“Greedy little thing,” I murmur against her throat. “You like being stretched, don’t you?”
I want to take my time with her. I want to hear every sound she makes. I want to memorize every place she shudders, every place that makes her hips jerk. But, she’s an impatient little thing. She rides my fingers, her whole body straining toward release, soeagerfor it.
“I want to hear you.” I curl my fingers just right, watching her eyes flutter. “Don’t hold back. Give meeverything.”
Her breath starts coming in broken gasps, her whole body straining toward the edge. I keep her there, right there, dragging it out because Ican.Because she’s so damn responsive I can read every shift in her hips, every stutter in her breath.
“Come for me,” I order quietly. “Now.”
