Page 20 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

I don’t have the energy to form words. I shake my head. It’s all I can manage.

“Good girl.”

He releases the cuffs with quick, practiced ease and catches me before I can even think about moving. My limbs are jelly. My thighs ache. My brain’s barely back in my body, but when he rolls me onto my stomach and pulls my hips up, I don’t protest. I wantmore.My body is already bending to his will and loving every second of it.

The sharp crack of his palm on my ass makes me yelp—and moan. He does it again, hand smoothing over the sting.

“Oh, Ms. St. Claire, I have such plans for you.”

Another spank. Another moan.

My head falls forward, cheek pressed to the mattress. I’ve lost control of my voice, my body, everything except this desperate, aching need for him. He reaches for something else. When I hear the tearing of foil, I know what’s coming next.

“Yes?” he asks, dragging the head of his cock over my entrance.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He thrusts into me without hesitation, one smooth, hard stroke that fills me all over again.

And then he ruins me—exactly the way I asked him to.

* * *

I’m trying to be professional. Really. I’ve gone full Type-A mode. Lists, timelines, final confirmations, a thirty-second stare down with the bakery delivery guy who dared to show up without the edible gold topper. Every task is another brick in the mental wall I’m building between my body and what it clearly wants.

But it’s a losing battle.

Because every time I see him—across the lawn, near the sound booth, half-shadowed in conversation with a billionaire investor—my thighs clench. My skin feels feverish. I remember exactly how he looked this morning, sprawled between my legs, eyes dark, voice rough. I can still feel the palm landing on my ass, the brutal way he took me—twice—before he finally allowed me to go to work.

He’s keeping his distance. Sebastian Wolfe doesn’t hover. He doesn’t follow. But I feel his eyes. They track me. Measure me. I’ll be mid-conversation with a vendor, and I’ll feel the heat of his stare like a hand sliding under my skirt.

The worst part? I like it. No, that’s a lie. Iloveit.

I like knowing he’s watching. I like knowing what he’s probably remembering. I like that my body responds before my brain knows what’s happening.

Late afternoon sunlight spills through the grand foyer as I pass the west wing hallway. He’s there—impossibly put-together in a dark shirt and open collar, phone in one hand, expression unreadable. Our eyes meet. My breath stutters.

He ends the call.

Walks toward me.

Doesn’t stop.

As he passes, his mouth dips to my ear. “My office. Five minutes.”

Then he’s gone.

No explanation. No smile. Just a command.

My stomach flips so violently I nearly drop my clipboard.

Five minutes later, I knock on the heavy door to his private office and barely step inside before it slams shut behind me. I don’t even register the lock before his mouth is on mine.

There’s no build-up. No soft kiss hello. His lips crash into mine with bruising intensity, tongue demanding, hands already dragging up my skirt. I gasp and stumble back into the door, caught between cold wood and his body pressing into mine.

“Thought about this all day,” he growls against my mouth. “Every time I saw you. Every time you acted like nothing happened. Like I didn’t fuck you so hard you couldn’t see straight.”

His hips thrust against mine and I feel him—hard, thick, straining against his slacks. My legs nearly give out.