Page 64 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Behind him, Max is silent.

But I feel him. Every cell in my body knows he’s there. Watching.

Silas must feel it too, because when he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull away. He just trails his mouth along my jaw and murmurs, “He’s still here.”

I nod, too breathless to speak.

Silas’s hand skims under the hem of the sweatshirt I’m wearing—his sweatshirt. His fingers drag across my stomach, the lightest touch, but it sets my nerves alight.

“Do you want him to stay?” he asks against my skin, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Because I meant it, G. I don’t mind sharing.”

The words send a sharp pulse of heat through me. My thighs press together.

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He can feel it in the way I arch toward him, the way my breath hitches when his hand slides higher.

His eyes find Max over my shoulder, and there’s a dare in them. An invitation. He shifts, angling his body just enough that Max can see the way my legs part. The way my nipples strain against the thinning cotton of the sweatshirt.

Silas’s mouth drags down my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make me shiver.

“She’s so responsive,” he says softly, for Max’s benefit as much as mine. “I barely touch her and she melts.”

I expect embarrassment, but it never comes. I let it wash over me—the heat, the attention, the feeling of being wanted by two men who could have anyone.

“You’ve had her before?” Max’s voice is tight.

Silas’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Once.”

Heat blooms in my chest. It shouldn’t turn me on, hearing them talk about me like this. There are a lot of things that shouldn’t be happening right now, but I don’t want to stop any of them.

Silas leans in, brushing his mouth over my cheek before whispering, “But it wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.”

He slips his fingers beneath the hem of the sweatshirt and begins to peel it up. His eyes stay locked on mine, searching for any sign I want him to stop. I don’t.

He lifts the sweatshirt over my head and lets it fall behind me. I’m left in just a pale camisole—thin, ribbed, stretched tight across breasts that are already more sensitive than usual. He runs his knuckles along the edge of the fabric, then slowly pulls it down.

My nipples tighten instantly, a sharp pulse of sensation that makes me gasp. Silas’s hands are warm where they settle on my waist, steadying me. He doesn’t rush. He just looks.

“You’re stunning,” he says, but it’s not just a compliment. There’s pure adoration in his voice.

Max hasn’t moved. His jaw is still tight, but his eyes have darkened, focused completely on me. I like it.

Silas bends, mouth brushing the swell of my breast, tongue flicking over my nipple. I arch into him with a soft sound I don’t even try to hold back.

Behind him, Max shifts. His breathing is heavy. The tension radiating off of him is palpable, but he doesn’t leave.

He watches.

And I let him.

Silas drags his tongue over my nipple again, then sucks it into his mouth with a low hum of approval. His palm splays over my ribs, holding me steady as my hips shift beneath him. I’m wet. Aching. Aware of every inch of bare skin, every inch still untouched.

I moan and tilt my head enough to catch Max’s stare. His eyes lock on mine and something passes between us. Something unspoken and loaded.

Silas lifts his head. His voice is low, coaxing, threaded with heat.

“She wants you to watch.”

Max doesn’t answer, but his hands curl into fists at his sides.