Page 56 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I do.
He takes the keys from my hand, sets them in a bowl by the door. Then he disappears into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a steaming mug of tea.
“I wasn’t sure what kind you’d want,” he says. “So I made the fancy one with too many vowels.”
I smile and take it from him with both hands. Our fingers brush. I don’t look up.
The building is all steel beams and original brick, but somehow, his place feels warm. Lived in. There’s a bike hung above the entryway, a record player spinning something low and jazzy in the background, and a delicious smell drifting from the kitchen—clean and a little spicy. It smells like comfort.
We settle on the couch. No talking. Just quiet. I take a slow sip of the tea. It’s peppermint and something floral. I don’t know. I don’t care. It helps.
For a few minutes, I just breathe. And he waits. It's one of the things I love most about Silas. He never pushes. He's happy to just wait me out and accepts what I'm willing to give.
When I’m ready, the words come out in a rush. “I don’t know how to do this.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Then let me help. Let me take care of you.”
My throat burns. “Why?”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean, why?”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I’m working on that.”
“But you don’t—you shouldn’t—” I shake my head, panic rising. “You’re sweet. And funny. And good. And I’m a mess. I have a company that barely runs without me. A body that feels like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. And a baby that’s not yours.”
His face doesn’t change. “You think any of that scares me?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Silas.”
“No.” He moves closer, his palm cradling the side of my face with infuriating gentleness. “You don’t get to push me away just because someone else couldn’t handle how extraordinary you are.”
I look away. His thumb strokes under my jaw. My breath catches.
“You’re exhausted,” he says. “And hurting. And fighting to hold everything together, even when no one’s making it easy. So let me be the easy thing.”
My eyes sting. I don’t want to cry. Not again.
“I don’t want to put all this on you,” I whisper.
“Please do. I want to help.”
He leans in and kisses me on the forehead.
His hand is still cupping my cheek like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. I close my eyes for a moment and just let myself feel it.
Then I kiss him back on his gorgeous lips.
And everything inside me unravels.
I set the mug aside blindly, reaching for him as he deepens the kiss. His hands slide into my hair, over my back, slow but deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t push. He just touches me in a way that makes me feel wanted. Not claimed. Not overwhelmed. Just wanted.
We move to the bedroom in a blur of kisses and whispers. He lays me down with reverence, not aggression. His shirt falls to the floor, followed by mine. I start to hesitate again—my body is softer than it used to be, a little swollen, a little tender. And I've only done this once, with a man who didn’t want to keep me.
