Page 22 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
And I let him.
Because I’m already his.
Chapter6
Gen
This was supposed to be a professional trip. This event could make or break my business.
I keep reminding myself of that every time Sebastian’s hand grazes my lower back in passing, or his voice dips low in my earpiece and makes my knees threaten betrayal. I’m supposed to be focused on the final event rundown, not the memory of him bending me over his desk. Not the ache in my thighs and pussy. Not the very inconvenient truth that I haven’t stopped thinking about him since the moment he pulled me into his bed.
Or maybe it’s worse than that.
Maybe I haven’t wantedanyone elsesince the moment I saw him. Since he sat across from me in that conference room and looked at me like he already knew how I tasted.
Whatever it is, it’s ruining me.
We’ve barely had a full conversation since the last time he touched me, and I’m still flushed and wrecked under the surface. The man is everywhere—shaking hands with donors and industry moguls while finding ways to brush against me just enough to make my brain short-circuit.
He doesn’t even have to say anything anymore. One glance from across the lawn and my pulse kicks. One brush of his knuckles and I’m holding my breath. It’s embarrassing. Except I don’t feel embarrassed.
I feel…branded.
He keeps finding me. Pulling me into corners, catching my waist when I pass, murmuring filthy things in that impossibly sexy voice while I try to remember how to stand. His hands stay polite in public. Barely. But his mouth? That man knows exactly what he’s doing when he leans in close and whispers some quiet, completely unprofessional comment into my ear.
The worst part? I believe him. Every word. Every promise.
And I want more.
By the time the day finally winds down and the last guest is escorted back to their villa, I’m on the edge of losing it. My nerves are frayed. My thighs ache from more than just wearing my heels. I should be exhausted, but all I feel is restless.
I head to his suite just after ten for a final debrief. Clipboard in hand, professional face on, hair pulled back and twisted into a knot that saysI am extremely competent and not at all distracted by how good your hands feel on my body.
I don't even have to knock before the door is opening and I’m being ushered inside. He really is unfairly good looking. I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man before—or any reaction, really. He’s unbuttoned his shirt at the collar and rolled his sleeves, and a glass of something dark in his hand. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes sweep down my body
His suite is the same sleek, glass-and-stone design as mine—except his view is better and the lighting’s warmer. There’s a folder already waiting on the table near the wet bar, and for one brief second, I convince myself this might actually be a work meeting.
Then his hand slips beneath the hem of my dress as he passes behind me and trails along the curve of my ass.
“You’re not making this easy,” I mutter, trying not to tremble.
“Wasn’t aware I was supposed to.”
I turn to face him. “We should go over the feedback. Final numbers. Vendor recaps. My report is almost finished. I’ll just need to fill in thefinal,final numbers tomorrow after the event is truly over.”
“You came to my suite to talk about spreadsheets?”
I square my shoulders, but it’s a losing battle. He walks toward me slowly, every step deliberate, until I’m backed against the edge of the counter and his mouth is hovering just above mine.
“You said you wanted to debrief,” I say, though it sounds weaker now.
“So, debrief me,” he says, mouth brushing my cheek. “Or take off your dress.”
The worst part is how much I want both.
But I’m already moving, already letting him tug the zipper down and peel the fabric away, already aching before he says the next thing.
“Hot tub,” he murmurs against my shoulder. “Now.”
