Page 68 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

She’s not broken. She’s not fragile.

She’s strong. Gorgeous. And she belongs to us.

She’s beautiful like this—flushed and open, lips parted, one hand reaching for me without thinking. I take it, threading our fingers, grounding her while Silas sets a rhythm that makes her hips rock, her throat spilling sounds I want to hear again and again.

Her free hand cups my cheek, and I lean into the touch. I don’t kiss her yet. I wait. Let her feel the weight of it—of both of us.

Silas moves faster now, breath hitching every time she tightens around him. He murmurs something into her skin—praise, maybe, or a plea—and her body arches beneath him.

I reach out, palm grazing the slope of her breast, my thumb circling the peak. She moans, eyes fluttering shut. But only for a second.

“Eyes on me,” I command.

She obeys. And I feel it—the pull. The gravity of whatever this is. Whatever it’s becoming.

Beside me, Silas is watching, too. Not just her—me. There’s no competition in his stare. Just the same thing I’m feeling, mirrored back at me.

Want. And more than that—willingness.

He slows, shifts his angle, dragging another gasp from her lips. I bend to kiss her again, one hand braced against the couch, the other stroking her cheek as she starts to come undone.

And when she does—when her body trembles, her mouth parts on a broken moan, her fingers dig into my arm—I hold her through it.

We both do.

Silas’s voice cuts through the haze again. “Switch.”

He eases back, and I move forward without hesitation. Genevieve shifts beneath me, her chest rising and falling in sharp little gasps as I settle between her thighs. Her skin is flushed, damp with sweat, her lips parted. She’s watching me like she’s not sure what I’ll do next—but she trusts me to do it anyway.

I curl a hand around the back of her neck and kiss her. She melts into it, legs wrapping around my waist with a soft whimper that shoots straight through me. My cock is hard, aching, and when I drag the tip through the slick mess between her thighs, she shivers beneath me.

“Max,” she breathes.

I press my forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”

The first push in steals the air from my lungs. She’s warm. Tight. Still trembling. Her fingers grip my back as I sink deeper, as her head tips back against the arm of the couch and her mouth opens on a gasp. I hold still for a beat, teeth clenched, trying to keep control. Trying to remember that this is about her.

Her eyes flutter open, finding mine again. And whatever she sees there must settle something inside her, because she lifts her hips and urges me on.

I move.

Each thrust pulls another sound from her—soft, breathy, desperate—and I feel her fall apart under me in pieces. Silas is behind her now, one hand tangled in her hair, the other stroking her cheek. He’s watching me, but it’s not a challenge. It’s permission. Encouragement.

It’s the strangest thing—this unspoken rhythm between the three of us. Somehow it works. Somehow it fits.

Silas was right.

Genevieve’s nails bite into my shoulder as she arches, thighs trembling around my hips. Silas reaches between us and strokes her until she’s crying out again, body clenched around me so tight I almost lose it.

I don’t hold out much longer.

My hips stutter, and I bury my face in her neck as I come, bracing myself on one arm and whispering her name against her skin.

When it’s over, I stay there for a moment—wrapped in heat and sweat and her soft, uneven breaths—before pulling back just enough to meet her eyes.

She looks wrecked. Beautiful. Mine.

Ours.