Page 18 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Savannah

I woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows, momentarily disoriented until memories of the night before crashed over me.

Lucas's penthouse.

His office desk.

His bedroom.

His body moving over mine, inside me, claiming me in ways I'd never been claimed before.

The sheets beside me were empty, but still warm.

I stretched, cataloging the pleasant aches in muscles rarely used, the slight tenderness between my thighs, the lingering sensation of stubble burn on my neck, my breasts, and my inner thighs.

Marked.

Thoroughly.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand—not the delicate antique I would have expected, but a minimalist slab of walnut that matched the bookshelves in his office. I reached for it reluctantly, dreading whatever reality waited beyond this cocoon of sensation.

Three texts from Zoe:

Where are you? We had breakfast plans. Are you okay?

Two missed calls from Maria at the office.

One email notification from Miles with the subject line: Westlake follow-up. Lunch today?

Reality, crashing in with brutal efficiency.

I set the phone down, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes. What had I done?

The question wasn't rhetorical—I knew exactly what I'd done, who I'd done. How thoroughly I'd shattered every professional and ethical boundary I'd established for myself.

And how desperately I wanted to do it again.

The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam.

Lucas Turner emerged, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets clinging to the silver hair on his chest.

My body responded instantly, a pulse of desire so sharp it bordered on pain.

"Good morning," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in days," I admitted, pulling the sheet higher as if modesty mattered after everything we'd done.

He noticed, one eyebrow arching slightly.

"Shy in the daylight, little fox?"

The nickname made something flutter in my chest—a dangerous sensation that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with the connection forming between us.

A connection I couldn't afford, couldn't indulge, couldn't acknowledge.

"Not shy," I said, looking away from the temptation of his body. "Just... processing."

He moved to the closet—a walk-in the size of my entire bathroom—retrieving clothes with practiced efficiency. "Processing what, exactly?"

"This. Us." I gestured vaguely between us. "What happens next."

"What happens next," he echoed, dropping the towel without warning to pull on boxer briefs, "is coffee. Then breakfast. Then a conversation about how we proceed."

The casual confidence in his tone grated against my growing anxiety.

"That simple, is it?"

"No," he conceded, buttoning a crisp white shirt.

"But there's no point in catastrophizing before caffeine."

I watched him dress—a ritual of armor being assembled piece by piece.

The Lucas Turner who emerged was the one the world knew: powerful, controlled, intimidating.

Only I knew the man beneath those layers now.

Only I had seen him vulnerable, had felt his hands tremble with desire, had heard him groan my name as he lost himself inside me.

The realization was both heady and terrifying.

"Shower's yours if you want it," he said, adjusting his cufflinks. "I've laid out a robe. Unfortunately, I don't have anything else that would fit you."

"I should go home," I said, though I made no move to leave the bed.

"I have meetings. Obligations."

"Of course." His tone was neutral, but something flashed in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps. Or relief. I couldn't tell which possibility disturbed me more.

"I'll call for a car while you shower."

"Thank you." The formality between us felt absurd after the intimacy we'd shared, yet I clung to it like a lifeline.

A pretense of control when I felt anything but controlled.

He nodded once, then left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. I exhaled, a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Without his presence, I could think more clearly. Could begin to untangle the knot of emotions threatening to choke me.

Physical satisfaction warred with emotional turmoil. My body hummed with contentment, with remembered pleasure, with the lingering effects of multiple orgasms. But my mind… my mind was chaos.

Guilt, shame, fear, excitement, confusion—all swirling together in a toxic cocktail.

I'd slept with Lucas Turner.

Miles's father.

My potential client.

A man twenty years my senior with the power to destroy my career, my reputation, my carefully rebuilt life with a single indiscretion.

And I'd agreed to more than one night.

The shower helped clear my head, the hot water washing away the physical evidence of our encounter if not the emotional aftermath.

I wrapped myself in the robe he'd provided—black silk, obviously expensive, smelling faintly of cedar and bergamot. His scent. I brought the collar to my nose, inhaling deeply, hating myself for the comfort it provided.

My phone buzzed again as I emerged from the bathroom. Zoe, this time calling rather than texting.

I couldn't ignore her forever.

"Hey," I answered, trying to sound normal. "Sorry about breakfast. Something came up."

"Something or someone?" Her tone was light, but with an undercurrent of concern. "You never miss our weekday early breakfast. It's our thing."

"I know. I'm sorry." I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the robe tighter. "I'll make it up to you."

"Are you okay? You sound weird."

"I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter. "Just tired. Long night working on the Westlake proposal."

"Uh-huh." Skepticism radiated through the phone. "And does this 'proposal' have silver hair and a corner office?"

My silence was damning.

"Oh, Sav." She sighed, the sound crackling through the connection. "Tell me you didn't."

"I can't." My voice dropped to a whisper, suddenly afraid Lucas might overhear. "I can't tell you that."

"Where are you now? Do you need me to come get you?"

The concern in her voice made my eyes sting. "No. I'm... I'm okay. He's called a car."

"Jesus." She was silent for a moment.

"This is bad, Savannah. Really bad."

"You think I don't know that?" The words came out sharper than intended. "You think I don't understand exactly what I've done? What lines I've crossed?"

"I think," she said carefully, "that you're in over your head. That this isn't just about sex anymore, if it ever was."

Her perception struck too close to the truth. "It doesn't matter what it is or isn't. It was a mistake. One I won't repeat."

Another lie.

We both knew it.

"What about the Westlake account? Are you still taking it on?"

I hadn't even considered the professional ramifications beyond the obvious ethical breaches. The Westlake development was potentially one of my biggest client to date, a contract that could elevate Alder West to the next level.

But it would mean regular interaction with both Turner men. Regular opportunities for disaster.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I should withdraw."

"But you won't."

It wasn't a question.

Zoe knew me too well—knew my ambition, my drive, my need to prove myself. I knew I wouldn’t walk away from a great career opportunity, even if it meant navigating an emotional minefield.

"I can handle it," I said, trying to convince us both. "Maintain professional boundaries moving forward."

Her laugh was short, humorless. "Right. Because that worked so well yesterday."

Before I could respond, a soft knock came at the bedroom door. "Your car will be here in fifteen minutes," Lucas called through the wood.

"Coffee's ready when you are."

"I have to go," I told Zoe. "I'll call you later."

"Be careful, Sav." Her voice softened. "This isn't just about your career or reputation. This is about your heart. And I don't think Lucas Turner has a great track record of handling those with care."

I ended the call, her warning echoing in my head as I dressed quickly in last night's clothes—a walk of shame outfit if ever there was one.

The black dress felt like evidence of my indiscretion, a physical reminder of choices I couldn't take back.

When I emerged from the bedroom, Lucas was in the kitchen, two mugs of coffee waiting on the granite island. He'd added a tie since I'd last seen him, dark blue silk that matched his eyes.

The complete CEO image.

It should have created distance between us. Instead, it only reminded me of how I'd loosened that perfect control, had made him groan and swear and surrender to sensation.

"Black, two sugars," he said, sliding one mug toward me. "If I remember correctly."

The fact that he'd noticed, had remembered such a small detail, made something twist in my chest. "Thank you."

We sipped in silence for a moment, the tension between us neither entirely comfortable nor uncomfortable.

Something in between—familiar despite its newness, intimate despite its complexity.

"About last night," I began, needing to establish some control over the situation.

"No regrets," he reminded me. "Rule three."

"Rules don't change reality, Lucas." I set down my mug, meeting his gaze directly. "What we did was... complicated. The implications?—"

"Are significant," he finished. "For both of us. But not insurmountable."

"Aren't they?" I laughed, the sound edged with hysteria. "You're Miles's father. My client, potentially. Twenty years my senior. The professional and ethical complications alone?—"

"Can be managed." His voice remained calm, reasonable. "I've built my career on navigating complex situations, Savannah. Finding solutions where others see only problems."

"This isn't a business deal," I said, frustration mounting at his composure when I felt like I was coming apart at the seams. "You can't just negotiate favorable terms and sign a contract."

"No," he agreed. "But we can establish parameters. Boundaries. A framework that protects both our interests while allowing us to explore... whatever this is between us."

"And Miles? How does he factor into your framework?"