Page 19 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

My breath catches. I should protest. Set boundaries. Ask questions.

Instead, I nod, feeling my pussy start to clench with anticipation.

His grip shifts slightly, one hand slipping from my wrist to the bedside drawer. He pulls out something sleek and black—soft leather cuffs

Of course. Who doesn’t just keep a set of restraints lying around in their hotel room?

“You’re going to lie there and behave,” he says, fastening one cuff around my wrist, then the other, attaching them both to the padded bar beneath the headboard. “No squirming. No begging. You’ll take what I give you.”

The restraint makes my pulse spike. I test it—barely. It’s not tight. Not painful. But the message is clear.

He’s not going to let me go.

And that, somehow, makes me feel safe.

He moves down my body, mouth grazing every sensitive inch he finds. He takes his time, coaxing, tasting, letting me melt beneath him until I’m already shaking, and he hasn’t even touched me where I need him most.

When his mouth finally closes over my breast and one palm slides between my legs, I cry out. Arch. Strain against the cuffs.

He chuckles darkly against my skin. “I said no squirming.”

I whimper. “Then don’t tease.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, sliding a finger through the slickness between my thighs. “That’s the fun part.”

I gasp when he strokes over my clit with maddening slowness. His touch is featherlight, almost nothing, and somehow, it’s worse than too much. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t press harder. He just watches me squirm, his mouth dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses along my ribs as I fight against the restraints and lose.

My legs tremble. My hips roll. I’m chasing friction and that’s exactly what he wants.

“Sebastian,” I breathe. “Please?—”

His finger slips inside me with a deliberate thrust that cuts off the rest of my plea.

“You don’t get to rush this,” he says, voice steady. “You begged for this mouth. This cock. This control. Now you’re going totakeit.”

The second finger stretches me more, the rhythm just right—firm and deep, with the pad of his thumb circling, slow and tight. I want to scream. Or cry. Or explode. Possibly all three.

Every nerve in my body is strung too tight. The cuffs bite into my wrists just enough to remind me who’s in charge. And God help me, I don’t want that to change.

He kisses down my stomach, lips dragging with purpose, until his mouth replaces his hand. The first pass of his tongue makes my back arch off the bed. The second has me sobbing his name.

He holds my thighs open, broad palms anchoring me, licking me like he has all morning to unravel me—long, thorough strokes that build and build until I’m nothing but sensation. I strain against the cuffs again, crying out, but he just groans against me and keeps on going.

“I can’t,” I gasp. “I need—Sebastian, please?—”

His tongue flicks hard and fast over my clit, and the pressure detonates.

I come so hard I can’t breathe.

It rips through me without warning, so vicious it has my muscles locking and trembling, my head thrown back, my vision white-hot. I feel it everywhere—my core, my fingers, all the way down to my toes. It’s sharp and deep and all-consuming.

He doesn’t let me go.

He stays between my thighs as I shake, tongue still lapping, dragging out every pulse of pleasure until I’m wrung out and gasping.

When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is slick and his expression is feral.

“Still want to get back to work?” he asks with a cocky grin, already settling between my thighs again.