Page 5 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

"What is it?" he asked, slowing his movements.

"Don't stop," I repeated, urging him on with my body.

"It's just—no one's ever looked at me like you do."

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with the power of his body moving within mine. "How do I look at you?"

"Like I'm real," I whispered.

"Like I matter."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or something darker.

Hunger.

Possession.

And then he kissed me—deep, consuming—his tongue stroking into my mouth with a slow, deliberate heat that matched the rhythm of his hips as he began to move faster, harder.

One hand slid between us, his fingers finding the slick, aching center of me while teasing my clit, stroking with unerring accuracy. He circled my clit in slow, devastating strokes, never missing a beat inside me.

“You do matter,” he said against my lips.

“Right now, you’re all that matters. Let me show you.”

He slid out from between my thighs and flipped me onto my stomach, pulling me to my knees.

Seconds later, I felt his erection teasing my swollen folds with the head of his cock, slipping in just an inch before pulling back out.

With one hand, he played with my nipple, pinching and rolling it between his finger and thumb.

He continued to tease me, sliding his erection into my pussy only to pull back out, over and over.

He whispered dirty things in my ear, telling me how hard I made his dick, what a good girl I was, and how he’d wanted this since he saw me at the bar.

I was damn near ready to beg for him to fuck me hard before finally, he pushed inside to the hilt.

The thrust of his body, the skilled demand of his fingers, the low, raw certainty in his voice—it was too much.

I shattered around him, crying out as I came again, tighter and more intense than the first time.

No shame.

No restraint.

Just him and me, skin to skin, heart to heart, unraveling.

His control broke seconds later.

His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as his release ripped through him.

He buried his face in my neck, groaning deep, guttural, desperate—as he spilled inside me.

The sound alone made my toes curl.

For a moment, neither of us moved. We stayed joined, tangled, our sweat-slicked skin clinging as we rode out the aftershocks together. His weight over me wasn’t too much—it was grounding, real.

The press of his chest to my back, the warmth of his breath against my hair, the way his body curved instinctively around mine… it felt like more than release.

When he finally shifted, rolling onto his side, the loss of contact made me ache in places I didn’t expect.

I turned to face him, memorizing the strong line of his jaw, the glisten of sweat at his temple, the rise and fall of his chest still recovering from what we’d just done.

"That was..." I began, voice hoarse, brain slow.

"Yes," he said simply, turning his head toward me. His gaze was soft now. Open. Ravaged.

"It was."

We lay in silence for a while, our heated bodies gradually cooling.

I should have felt awkward, I knew—naked beside a stranger in the aftermath of unexpectedly intense sex.

Instead, I felt oddly peaceful.

Present in my body in a way I rarely allowed myself to be.

His hand found mine on the sheet between us, fingers interlacing.

Another surprisingly tender gesture from a man who radiated power and control.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.

I considered lying, offering something light or flirtatious. But the strange intimacy between us demanded honesty.

"I'm thinking that I should regret this," I said. "But I don't."

He turned to face me, those blue eyes searching mine. "And why should you regret it?"

"Because this isn't me. I don't do one-night stands. I don't invite strangers to my bed." I laughed softly. "I don't even know your name."

Something flickered across his face—an emotion I couldn't identify.

For a moment, I thought he might offer his name, might crack open the door to a reality beyond this night.

I almost asked.

The question hovered on my tongue, dangerous and tempting.

But I swallowed it back.

Names meant attachment.

Names meant a future.

Names meant the possibility of disappointment when this perfect stranger turned out to be just another man who would find me wanting in the end.

"Does it matter?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head.

"No. I prefer it this way."

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "As do I."

He rose from the bed with that same unconscious grace, moving to the bathroom.

I heard water running, and then he returned with a warm washcloth.

Another unexpected kindness from this man of contradictions.

After we'd cleaned up, he surprised me by pulling me against him, my back to his chest, one arm draped over my waist. The position was achingly intimate—more tender than I'd expected from our encounter.

"Stay," I murmured, the word escaping before I could stop it.

His lips pressed against my shoulder. "Until morning."

I should have left it there.

Should have accepted the temporary comfort of his body wrapped around mine without asking for more.

But the strange safety of anonymity loosened my tongue.

"I've never felt like that before," I admitted, voice barely audible. "Like I was really there. Present. Not just performing what I thought someone wanted."

His arm tightened around me. "I know."

Of course he did. Somehow, this stranger had seen through me from the first moment—had recognized something in me that I barely acknowledged to myself.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" I asked, immediately regretting the question.

It violated our unspoken agreement, reached for a future we'd deliberately left undefined.

He was quiet for so long that I thought he might not answer. Then, "Would you want to?"

The honest answer was yes.

Yes, I wanted to see him again.

Wanted to explore this strange connection that had sparked between us. Wanted to feel again the peculiar freedom of being truly seen.

But I'd learned enough about myself in therapy to recognize a pattern forming.

The beginning of another attachment to another unavailable man. Another cycle of seeking validation from someone who couldn't or wouldn't give me what I needed.

"No," I lied, the word bitter on my tongue. "This was just for tonight."

He pressed another kiss to my shoulder, this one lingering. "Then let's make tonight count."

His hand began to move, tracing patterns on my skin that grew increasingly purposeful. Despite what we'd just shared, I felt desire rekindle, my body responding to his touch with embarrassing eagerness.

This time was slower, more deliberate. He turned me to face him, taking his time exploring my body with his hands and mouth until I was writhing beneath him, begging in broken whispers.

When he finally entered me again, it was with aching tenderness, his eyes never leaving mine as he moved within me.

Afterward, exhaustion pulled at me, the emotional and physical intensity of the night catching up with me at last. As sleep began to claim me, I turned in his arms, pressing my face against his chest.

He smelled of cedar and bergamot, with an underlying note that was purely him—warm, masculine, oddly comforting. I breathed deeply, committing the scent to memory, knowing instinctively that it would haunt me long after tonight was over.

"Thank you," I murmured against his skin.

His hand stroked my hair. "For what?"

"For truly seeing me."

I felt him press a kiss to the top of my head, but he didn't respond. Perhaps he understood that no response was needed.

As I drifted into sleep, wrapped in the warmth of a stranger's arms, I had one final coherent thought: This night had ruined me. Not because it had been a mistake, but because it had been real. Because for the first time, I'd experienced what it meant to be truly desired, truly seen.

Nothing—and no one—would ever measure up again.