Page 18 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

I press my fingers to my mouth and close my eyes.

God, what was I thinking?

I wasn’t. That’s the issue. For once, I didn’t overanalyze or spreadsheet my way through a decision. I didn’t worry about what anyone else would say or how it would look. I justwanted, and I let myself take it…him.

And now I’m lying in a billionaire’s bed with sore thighs and no regrets.

That’s the part my parents would choke on.

The St. Claires don’t make impulsive decisions. We don’t act on feeling. We act on legacy. Structure. Optics. My whole life has been one long lesson in how to be composed. How to be pleasing. How to be the version of myself that fits neatly into other people’s expectations.

It’s exhausting.

For years, I tried to make it work—tried to be the right kind of daughter, the right kind of student, the right kind of woman who doesn’t challenge or want anything too loudly. It wasn’t like I had much room for rebellion. My parents were controlling. Expectations were cemented early and reinforced often, wrapped in country club etiquette and the kind of subtle judgment that sounds polite but lands like a warning.

I went to the right school, joined the right sorority, dated the right boys. I played the part.

And then, somewhere between formal committee meetings and planning my third philanthropy gala, I realized I didn’t just enjoy event logistics—I craved them. The details, the drama, the way everything had to work in tandem to create a night worth remembering. It clicked. For the first time, something felt entirely mine.

I built Luxuria from scratch, fought for every client, every contract, every piece of credibility that didn’t come from a last name. And still, even with a successful company and a full calendar, I’ve spent the past three years wondering if I’m still performing. Still doing what’s expected—just in prettier clothes.

But last night wasn’t about image. It wasn’t about control.

It was about letting go.

I didn’t ask myself if it was smart or strategic. I didn’t check my calendar or run a cost-benefit analysis. I didn’t do anything except want—and take.

And I’m not sorry.

I just don’t know what happens next.

Shit. The event isn’t over; there are still days left. And I still have a full vendor meeting at eight a.m. to go over day three. If I don’t leave this bed now, I’m going to start panicking in a very real and probably audible way.

I move slowly, carefully peeling the sheet back. I’m half off the mattress before the arm behind me tightens around my waist.

“Going somewhere?” His voice is low, gravel-rough with sleep.

I freeze. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

His hand drags along my bare hip, leisurely, possessive. “You twitch, you breathe too fast, you overthink. You’re not exactly subtle, sweetheart.”

“I have things to do.” My voice is high and thin and very not in control of the situation. “People to coordinate. Vendors to wrangle.Yourparty to run.”

“Mmm. And, as your client, I’m saying that you’re not going anywhere. Not yet.”

The words land low, right in my stomach. A spark flares behind them—hot and unreasonably effective.

“I really should?—”

His grip tightens. The next thing I know, I’m on my back again, pinned beneath him, wrists caught and pressed gently but firmly above my head.

He’s definitely awake now. Fully.

“Did I say you could leave my bed?”

My heart skips. “Sebastian?—”

“You gave yourself to me last night.” His mouth grazes my jaw. “And now I’m going to take what’s mine. Again.”