Page 10 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Cassie

The cold apartment door had pressed hard against my spine, the only thing keeping my shaky legs from giving out completely. I had slid down, boneless, collapsing onto the icy floor. My heart had pounded like a caged animal, slamming against my ribs, desperate to break free.

Stop, Cassie Monroe. Get a grip. My brain screamed, alarms blaring. He's dangerous. He's Gennady Sokolov—Anya's dad, a fucking titan who could ruin your life with a snap of his fingers. A man like that doesn't just play games; he owns the board, the pieces, the whole damn table.

But my body? It was a traitor. Just thinking about him pinning me against that school hallway wall—his hot hands branding my waist, those calloused fingers grazing my trembling skin, sparking electric shocks that lit me up like a live wire—had sent a flood of heat rushing through me.

It was like a dam had broken, drowning every shred of self-control I had left.

My hands had shaken as I fumbled for my phone. The screen's harsh glow had stung my eyes, and those texts—God, those texts that used to make my heart race and my cheeks burn—had felt like red-hot pokers. I could barely hold the damn thing.

Mr. G. Gennady Sokolov.

The mysterious guy who had been spinning a web of dirty words in the dead of night, pulling me deeper into his game, was the same man whose emerald-green eyes and bone-chilling presence could stop a room cold.

The virtual seducer and the real-world predator were one and the same.

It was too perfect. Too fucking terrifying.

"The Regis Grand, eight o'clock." My voice had come out hoarse, echoing in the empty apartment like a stranger's. It hadn't been an invitation—it was a goddamn order, carrying the same weight as that kiss in the hallway, heavy with his unyielding authority.

I should've said no. I should've fired off a text right then, told him it was a mistake, a colossal fuck-up. Packed my bags, quit my job, and gotten the hell out of that city like a scared little rabbit.

But my fingers—those traitorous bastards—wouldn't listen. They had slid over the cold screen, scrolling through our old messages, greedy for every filthy word that had had me blushing and squirming for weeks. What the hell am I doing? Am I losing it?

My phone had blared, and I yelped, nearly chucking it across the room.

"Jennifer?" I answered, voice shaky.

"Cassie!" Her bubbly voice had flooded the line, all energy and gossip. "Spill! Did Gennady Sokolov give you any special looks today? And oh my God, Tom got canned! Total karma. That man's a creep, and Sokolov swooped in like your knight in shining armor. So freaking romantic!"

My throat had tightened. Tell her? Tell her how her so-called "knight" had had me pinned against a wall, stealing my breath with his lips? How I was sitting there, shaking like a junkie, addicted to his texts? Yeah, right.

"Cassie? You there? Bad signal or what?" Jennifer's voice had cut through, a little worried now.

"I'm here," I managed, sucking in a breath that stung my lungs. "Jen, if a guy asked you out tonight, but going could… I don't know, turn your whole world upside down, maybe even fuck you up completely—would you go?"

Silence. Then her voice had dropped, practically vibrating with excitement. "Cassie Monroe, are you telling me your mystery man invited you out? Mr. G?"

"I—" My words had caught, my nails digging into my palm.

"It's him, isn't it?" She was practically shrieking now. "Holy shit, Cassie! What are you waiting for? All those nights you were glued to your phone, blushing, giggling, sighing like a lovesick teenager? You have to go!"

"It's not that simple, Jen," I started, my voice cracking. "It's… complicated. Way more than you think."

"Complicated?" She snorted, all big-sister energy.

"Love's never simple, babe. You're twenty-four, not some naive kid.

You get to chase what makes your heart race, take risks, feel that burn-everything-to-the-ground kind of passion.

Life's not a safe deposit box—lock yourself in, and yeah, you're safe, but you're also bored to death. "

"What if he's… dangerous?" I whispered.

"Dangerous?" She paused, her tone shifting to cautious. "Like, physically dangerous? Cassie, he's not gonna hurt you, right?"

I closed my eyes, and there they were—Gennady's emerald eyes, stormy and blazing, promising both chaos and ecstasy.

His presence was like a chokehold, that raw, possessive hunger in his touch.

"Not like that," I said softly. "It's… he's too much.

Like a hurricane. I'm scared if I get too close, there'll be nothing left of the Cassie Monroe I've spent years building. He'll tear me apart."

The fear was real, chilling my fingertips.

"Cassie," Jennifer said, her voice softening, like a warm hand on my shoulder.

"You know your problem? You're too careful.

Always guarding yourself, never letting go.

But babe," she said, her words sharp and clear, "the best views are at the edge of the cliff.

You really wanna stay Miss Safe-and-Boring forever? "

Her words hit like a key turning in a rusty lock.

She was right. After Dad had died, I had built walls—thick, suffocating ones.

No love, no risks, no trust. I had buried the real me under layers of caution, living like a ghost, safe but half-dead.

Day after day, year after year, choking on my own fear.

But Gennady Sokolov? He was the storm that had smashed through my defenses, crashing into my stagnant little world like a meteor. He was chaos, and I was already caught in his orbit.

A reckless, almost suicidal urge surged through me, hot and unstoppable. "You're right," I said, my voice steadier now, burning with resolve. "I'm going."

"Hell yeah!" Jennifer's cheer nearly blew out my eardrum. "Get your ass ready, Cassie! Knock his socks off. Show him you're not some pushover. Own it."

The call ended, and I dragged myself up, my blood pumping with a wild, rebellious energy. My heart was still racing, but it wasn't just fear anymore—it was defiance, excitement, a fuck-it-all kind of courage.

I stormed to my closet, yanking out clothes like I was gearing up for battle. Black dress? Too stuffy, like I was signing a contract. Red number? Too try-hard, screaming "seduce me." White blouse and pencil skirt? Jesus, I'd look like I was teaching kindergarten.

Then it hit me. Why the hell should I play his game? Why should I doll up like some gift-wrapped prize, ready to be unwrapped? Fuck that. I wasn't his prey, and I wasn't walking into his trap dressed like he expected.

Gennady Sokolov, you think you've got me figured out? Think again.

I shoved past the dresses, grabbing a loose, dark gray hoodie and a pair of faded, skin-tight blue jeans that hugged my legs just right.

Casual, a little rough around the edges, with a street-smart vibe.

In the mirror, I tied my hair into a high, messy ponytail, letting my neck and forehead breathe.

No makeup, just a swipe of clear lip balm.

The girl staring back at me looked fierce, stubborn, ready to face a storm head-on.

Perfect. I wasn't your delicate little розочка, Gennady. I was Cassie Monroe, and I was coming for you.

The Regis Grand's top-floor restaurant was like something out of a damn movie.

Massive crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, casting soft, expensive light over everything.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off the city's glittering skyline, sprawling beneath us like a sea of stars.

White tablecloths, polished silver, fresh flowers—everything screamed money and power.

My heart was hammering, my palms sweaty. My hoodie and jeans stuck out like a sore thumb among the designer gowns and tuxes. Shit, Cassie, what are you doing here? I felt like an impostor, ready to bolt.

"Reservation?" the waiter asked, his tone polite but his eyes flicking over my outfit with a hint of judgment.

"I'm here for Gennady Sokolov," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady.

"Of course. Right this way."

I followed him through the restaurant, feeling every stare—curious, judgmental, outright confused.

Who was this chick in a hoodie crashing their fancy party?

My cheeks burned, but I lifted my chin, straightened my spine, and kept walking.

Fuck 'em. I wasn't here for them. And I was sure as hell not here to impress him.

Then I saw him.

Gennady Sokolov.

He was at a corner table with the best view, like he owned the whole damn place.

He had swapped the suit for a black silk shirt, top buttons undone, showing off a slice of tanned, muscled chest that was pure sin.

His silver-gray hair caught the light, and those emerald eyes—God, those eyes—were locked on me, intense and unblinking.

He was a predator, lounging like he was waiting for his prey to stumble right into his jaws.

I held my breath, waiting for his reaction to my outfit. Disappointment? Annoyance? But his lips curved into a slow, approving smirk, like I had just passed some kind of test. What the hell? Was he into this?

He stood, moving with a dancer's grace, and pulled out my chair.

It was a gentlemanly move, but when he leaned in close, his cedar-and-leather cologne hit me like a drug, and his body heat wrapped around me like a net.

My pulse spiked. I could see the hint of chest hair at his collar, hear his steady breathing, and feel the raw power rolling off him.

"Your choice," he said, his lips brushing my ear, voice low and rumbling, "is… striking." His breath grazed my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. "I thought you'd wear a dress."

My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to sound cool. "I don't do what people expect." My voice wobbled at the end, betraying me.