Page 25 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

“Good girl.”

I thrust again, a little harder now, dragging her leg higher over mine and opening her up to take every inch. Her body clenches around me, so perfect, so responsive I can feel every shiver from the inside out. Her breath stutters. She tries to move her arm, just barely, but I catch her wrist and pin it back down.

“What did I say?” I growl.

Her voice is barely audible. “Don’t move.”

“That’s right. You come when I let you. Not before.”

My free hand slides between her thighs and circles her clit.

She jolts in my arms, gasping, body caught in that place between surrender and overload. I hold her there. Make her take every stroke. Every word.

“You feel how deep I am?” I whisper, mouth against the back of her neck. “You think anyone else is ever going to fuck you like this?”

“No—” she gasps. “No one else?—”

“Say it.”

“You. Only you.”

I keep her right at the edge, her body so tight around mine it’s a miracle I don’t come from that alone. Her moans are quiet and breathless, her thighs trembling against mine. She’s unraveling into pieces and trying to hold them all in place.

I won’t let her.

It’s not rough. Not rushed. This is different. This is me telling myself I’ll remember it exactly as it is. Her gasping beneath me. Her fingers searching for mine. Her body trembling from the kind of pleasure you don’t fake.

“You’re going to fall apart for me,” I tell her. “Now.”

She does.

It rolls through her like a wave. Her back arches, lips parted on a cry she doesn’t bother to silence. Her pussy clenches around me, pulsing with each contraction, and I fuck her through every second of it, never letting her come down.

When I feel her go soft, too sensitive to take another stroke, I bury myself one final time and come deep inside her, jaw clenched, forehead pressed to the back of her shoulder. It’s not violent. It’s not loud. It’s something else—something reverent and private and so much worse.

Because I feeleverything.

I don’t move. I stay there, breathing hard, one hand still wrapped around her wrist, the other gripping her hip too tightly. My release drips out of her, slick heat sliding down her thigh, and all I can think ismine.

I press my mouth to her shoulder and close my eyes.

And then I let go.

I don’t see her again until the reception winds down and the last of the guests disappear into their golf carts and private shuttles.

I’ve kept my distance. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to.

I told myself it would be easier this way. Cleaner. That the line between indulgence and attachment could still be salvaged if I just stepped back. I didn’t look at her during the final walkthrough, didn’t speak to her during the closing toast. But she looked at me. Once. Across the catering table, while going over final vendor sign-offs. One look. That’s all it took to unravel the thread I’d been holding onto all day.

The heat in her gaze, the question beneath it.

I didn’t answer it. I didn’t let myself get close. I couldn’t. Because if I touch her again, I won’t walk away.

So instead, I do the one thing I’ve never done in my life: I take the coward’s way out.

I’m leaving earlier than expected. The excuse is flimsy—calls to return, properties to review, back-to-back meetings that could wait if I wanted them to. But I leave anyway.

I leave a note with Dom and tell myself it’s enough.