Page 17 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Her eyes roll back. She arches off the bed. The sound that tears from her chest is wrecked and raw, and it shatters whatever thread of control I had left. I don’t slow down. I don’t stop. I fuck her through the second orgasm, driving into her like she’s mine to keep forever. Her body clutches me like it believes that, too.
I reach for her jaw, force her to look at me. “You’ll never forget this,” I say, voice rough. “No one will ever fuck you the way I do. You hear me?”
She nods, dazed, wrecked, completely gone beneath me—and then she comes again, harder this time. Her entire body seizes, muscles locking around me as she screams my name just like I told her to.
It undoes me.
I come with a low, guttural sound, hips locked to hers, spilling deep. It’s not clean. Not restrained. It’s full-bodied and bone-deep and far too much for someone who was supposed to keep this casual.
And when it’s over, I don’t move.
Her chest rises and falls beneath mine, damp skin flushed and trembling. I press a kiss to her shoulder, the back of her neck, her temple. I don’t know why I do it. It’s not part of the routine.
I can already feel her going soft beneath me, drifting toward sleep with her limbs tangled in mine. I should leave the bed, start cleaning up, say something to push the distance back between us. But I stay.
I stare at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around the woman I should’ve said no to, and know without a doubt that I crossed a line I can’t uncross.
It’s only later—when she’s asleep, curled against me, her breath warm on my chest—that the shift hits me.
Not lust. Not satisfaction.
Guilt.
But not enough to keep me away from her. No, now that I’ve had her? There is no going back.
Chapter5
Gen
Iwake up sore.
And not the I-slept-weird-on-my-neck kind of sore. The other kind. The good kind. Theoh wow, my thighs have definite thoughts about last nightkind.
Sunlight cuts through the curtains, warm and soft against the ridiculously high-thread-count sheets. My head is buried in a down pillow that smells faintly of sandalwood…and sex. A lot of sex.
I have never been more thankful for Evie. Which, sure, is a weird thing to think after losing your virginity. But she was the one who refused to let me hit twenty-four without at leastsomesexual exploration. She bought me my first vibrator, gave me an entire lecture on clitoral self-awareness, and thanks to her…I’m not nearly as sore as I probably should be.
So, I will be throwing Evie a party once I return from this week in paradise.
My limbs are heavy, my skin still humming, and the space behind my eyelids is flooded with snapshots I probably shouldn’t be thinking about this early in the morning.
Sebastian Wolfe, hotel magnate and human embodiment of emotional unavailability, is asleep next to me, shirtless and gorgeous and entirely too composed for someone who absolutely wrecked me last night. I peek over at him—carefully—and immediately regret it. He’s still, in that way he always is—like his body forgot how to relax a long time ago and is just faking it.
I mean, really, who is that pretty? And masculine? And just…ungh.
I should probably be spiraling. I did just lose my virginity to my much older basically-boss last night.
I had sex with my client.
Loud, wall-rattling, no-going-back sex. It was…intense. Commanding. A little terrifying.
And I liked it.
Scratch that—Ilovedit.
So, instead, I just…lie here. Bare and basking in the morning-after afterglow.
My brain won’t stop replaying the way he spoke to me. The way he looked at me when I begged. The way I felt underneath him—anchored and undone at the same time.
