Page 11 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

He chuckled, a deep, sexy sound that tickled my nerves.

His hand "accidentally" brushed the back of my neck, his fingers hot against my skin, sparking a jolt that shot straight to my core.

Fuck. One touch, and I was already unraveling.

My legs went weak, heat pooling low in my belly, my body screaming for more.

"I know," he said, his voice dripping with intimacy, "and that's why I can't look away."

He sat across from me, picking up his wine glass with lazy confidence, but his eyes never left mine. They were dissecting me, reading every twitch, every flush. "Something to drink?" he asked, his tone casual but laced with something darker.

"Whatever," I said, trying not to stare at his open collar. That glimpse of skin was doing things to me I didn't want to admit.

He signaled the waiter. "Dom Pérignon for the lady."

Silence settled, heavy and charged. I racked my brain for something to say, but all I could think about was him—his presence, his stare, the way he filled the room. Why was he looking at me like that?

"You nervous?" he asked, a knowing smile in his voice.

"Why would I be?" I shot back, but my voice cracked, giving me away.

He set his glass down, leaning forward, his gaze sharpening. "Because," he said, glancing at my hands on the table, "your fingers are shaking."

I started to pull my hand back, but his voice pinned me in place. "And," he added, locking eyes with me, "you keep dodging my gaze."

Shit. He had me pegged, and the mix of embarrassment and thrill made my heart race faster. He was reading me like an open book, and part of me loved it.

I forced myself to meet his eyes, defiance kicking in. The air crackled as our gazes collided, electric and heavy. My cheeks burned, my breath quickened, and I could see his pupils dilate, his breathing not as steady as before.

"I'm not nervous," I said, steadier now. "I'm thinking."

"About what?" He leaned closer, his presence overwhelming, like a storm closing in.

I gestured vaguely at the opulent room, then at him, then myself. "This. You. Me. Those late-night texts. What happened in the hallway. What the hell does it all mean?"

My voice shook on the last words, memories of his lips, his hands, flooding back. He didn't answer right away, just watched me, his gaze sliding over my face like he was memorizing it.

Then he leaned forward, voice low and magnetic. "Tell me, Cassie," he said, "what do you want? A safe little life? Or…" His eyes dropped to my lips, then back up. "An adventure?"

My pulse spiked. His words, his stare—they were stripping me bare, digging into the part of me that had been screaming for more. His hand crossed the table, not gently, but firm, grabbing my wrist. His grip was strong but careful, his thumb brushing my pulse point, sending shivers through me.

"You want to be taken, don't you?" he said, his thumb circling my wrist. "To let someone else call the shots, to break free from that boring, safe little world you've built."

I wanted to pull away, but I didn't. Worse, I didn't want to. "You're full of shit," I said, but my voice was weak, unconvincing.

"I don't bullshit," he said, his tone dark and certain. "I see you, Cassie. You crave danger, excitement, someone to shatter your perfect little life. And I," he added, his eyes like a storm, "can give you that."

His thumb kept circling, marking me, claiming me.

My body was on fire, and he was right—damn him, he was right.

Those nights I had spent glued to my phone, heart racing, body aching from his words.

The way he had flipped my world upside down in that hallway with just a kiss.

He was already giving me what I had been craving.

But I wouldn't let him win that easily.

"Pretty sure of yourself, huh, Gennady?" I said, letting my wrist relax under his grip, his touch sending sparks through me. "You think you've got me all figured out?"

He paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He hadn't expected me to push back. "Okay," I said, leaning forward, my voice low and daring. "If you're so sure you know what I want, what's your next move? You gonna sit here and talk me to death?"

His breathing hitched, his eyes darkening. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, voice rough.

Gotcha. I smiled, slow and teasing. "You know, Gennady," I said, my voice soft but edged with challenge, "you're so busy trying to read me, control me. But maybe you're the one losing it."

Under the table, I slipped off one shoe and dragged my toes up his calf, slow and deliberate. His body went rigid, his breath catching. Oh, this was fun.

"Cassie," he warned, voice hoarse, "what are you doing?"

"Proving a point," I said, circling my toes higher, watching him fight to stay composed. "You're not as in control as you think."

The restaurant hummed around us, oblivious to the war we were waging. "Stop," he said, but his eyes screamed "Don't. "This is a public place."

"I know," I said, batting my eyes innocently. "Doesn't that make it hotter?"

His jaw tightened, his hand twitching on his glass. I could see the strain in his face, the way he was fighting to keep it together. Good. He wasn't the only one who could play dirty.

Then I "accidentally" dropped my fork. It clattered on the floor, breaking the rhythm he was trying to hold onto.

"Oops," I said, fake-embarrassed, and bent down to pick it up.

My loose hoodie slipped, the neckline falling open to reveal the lacy bra underneath.

I knew he was looking—I could feel his eyes burning into me, hear his sharp intake of breath.

When I sat up, his composure was cracking. His pupils were blown, his breathing uneven, those green eyes like a stormy sea. "Now," I said, my voice sweet but triumphant, "who's really running this show, Gennady Sokolov?"

He stared, his gaze pure fire, his body tense like a coiled spring. "What do you want?" he asked, voice low and raw.

I paused, letting the question hang, savoring his anticipation. "I want out of here," I said, my tone firm and inviting. "Take me somewhere we can really play this game."

His eyes flashed, hungry and predatory. "You sure?" he asked, voice rough with restraint. "Once we leave, there's no going back."

I stood, his gaze raking over me. "I've never been more sure," I said, holding out my hand. "Take me."

The elevator doors closed, and all bets were off.

He slammed me against the wall, his lips crashing into mine with a hunger that was almost brutal. It was all teeth and heat, like he was trying to consume me. I tasted wine on his tongue, felt the raw power in his grip, and I was lost, kissing him back just as fiercely.

"Fuck," he growled against my lips, "you know what you're doing to me?"

"I know," I said, diving back into the kiss, my hands clawing at his shoulders.

The elevator dinged at the twenty-eighth floor, and we stumbled into his presidential suite. It was insane—plush carpets, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering below—but I didn't care. All I wanted was him.

He carried me to the bedroom, setting me down on a bed so soft it felt like a cloud.

Moonlight spilled through the windows, painting his body in silver as he loomed over me.

"You sure?" he asked, his voice strained, like he was barely holding back.

"Cassie, if you want out, I'll take you home. Right now."

I answered by reaching for his shirt, popping the buttons one by one until it fell away. His chest was a masterpiece—taut muscle, a dusting of dark hair, abs carved like stone. Pure, raw masculinity. "I'm not going anywhere," I said, my voice steady. "I want you, Gennady."

His kiss was punishing, claiming, his tongue invading my mouth, leaving no corner untouched. His hands roamed, calloused fingers grazing my cheeks, my neck, sending shivers through me. My body was on fire, every nerve screaming for more.

"Goddamn, Cassie," he rasped between kisses, his breath hot against my ear. "You're too fucking perfect."

His voice was rough, like gravel, thick with need. I wrapped my legs around his waist, grinding against the hard heat of him, feeling how much he wanted me. "Don't disappoint me, Gennady," I teased, my voice dripping with challenge.

He froze for a split second, then moved.

His hands grabbed the hem of my hoodie, yanking it off in one swift motion.

The cool air hit my skin, making me shiver, but his gaze—fuck, his gaze—pinned me in place.

His eyes were dark, stormy, raking over my bare shoulders, my lacy bra, like he was starving.

"Jesus," he breathed, his voice raw with awe and hunger. "You're unreal."

His hands were on me now, hot and possessive, tracing my shoulders, my collarbone, sliding lower. Every touch ignited me, sparking flames that burned hotter with every second. I was trembling, not from cold, but from the overwhelming need coursing through me.

His hands slid down my body, fingers brushing the edge of my jeans before tugging them off with a slow, deliberate pull. My panties followed, leaving me exposed under his intense gaze. He paused, his eyes searching mine, voice rough with restraint. "Cassie, you sure about this? Really sure?"

I nodded, my pulse racing, heat pooling in my core. "I’m sure, Gennady. I want you."

He let out a low groan, like my words had undone him. His hands settled on my thighs, parting them gently as he positioned himself. But then he stopped, his breath hitching. "Cassie..." His voice was a ragged whisper, eyes wide with realization. "Is this your first time?"

I flushed, biting my lip, but didn’t look away. "Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Problem?" His laugh was shaky, a mix of awe and something fiercely possessive flashing across his face. "Not at all. But I’m gonna have to do it in another way." His hands tightened on my hips, a tender edge to his grip, like he was holding something fragile and priceless.

Instead of moving forward, he shifted lower, his lips brushing my inner thigh, sending a jolt through me.

"Gonna make this good for you," he murmured, his breath warm against my skin.

His mouth moved higher, teasing, tasting, his tongue finding my most sensitive spot with slow, deliberate strokes.

I gasped, my hands fisting the sheets as he worked me, each flick and swirl igniting sparks that built into a fire.

My hips bucked, and he held me steady, his low growl vibrating against me as I unraveled, crying out his name as pleasure crashed through me.

He lifted his head, eyes dark and hungry, watching me catch my breath. "Goddamn, Cassie," he rasped, crawling up to kiss me, letting me taste myself on his lips. "You’re sweet."

Then he moved, positioning himself between my thighs, his hardness pressing insistently against my entrance, hot and throbbing.

He searched my face one last time, his breath ragged, and I nodded, gripping his shoulders tightly, my nails already leaving faint marks on his skin.

With a slow, careful thrust, he entered me, inch by inch, stretching me in a way that burned at first—a sharp sting that made me tense and gasp.

He paused immediately, his body going still above me, his forehead pressing against mine as he whispered, "Easy, sweetheart.

Breathe for me." His voice was rough but soothing, laced with that possessive edge that made my heart flip.

The pain faded quickly into something warmer, fuller, as he held there, letting me adjust. His hands roamed gently at first—one sliding up to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it hardened under his touch, sending little shocks straight to my core; the other gripping my hip, holding me steady.

He kissed me deeply, his tongue tangling with mine, distracting me from any lingering discomfort until all I felt was the overwhelming fullness of him inside me.

Slowly, he began to move, pulling back just a fraction before sliding in again, deeper this time.

Each thrust was measured, building a rhythm that had me arching into him, my body craving more.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he growled against my neck, his teeth grazing my skin lightly before he sucked a mark there, claiming.

His hips rocked harder now, the pace quickening as he lost himself a little more with each stroke.

I could feel every ridge, every pulse of him as he drove in, the friction igniting sparks that spread through my veins like wildfire.

My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine.

Waves of pleasure built inside me again, different this time—deeper, more intense, coiling tight in my belly.

His thrusts grew relentless, powerful, his muscles flexing under my hands as I traced the lines of his back, feeling the sweat-slicked skin.

He angled his hips just right, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind my eyes, and I cried out, my fingers digging harder into him.

"You're so tight, so perfect," he muttered, his voice breaking with need, his eyes locked on mine—dark, stormy, full of that raw possession.

He captured my lips again in a bruising kiss, swallowing my moans as he pounded into me, faster, harder, like he couldn't get enough.

The bed creaked under us, the room filled with the sounds of our bodies coming together, my gasps mixing with his grunts.

Every thrust sent me higher, the pleasure bordering on too much, but I didn't want it to stop.

I felt claimed, cherished, utterly his, and as the tension snapped, I shattered around him, clenching tight, waves of ecstasy crashing over me.

He followed soon after, burying himself deep with a final, shuddering thrust, his body tensing as he groaned my name like a prayer. We stayed like that, tangled and breathless, the world narrowing to just us—his weight a comforting anchor, his arms wrapping around me like he'd never let go.

Right then, I knew I was gone. Lost in his tenderness, his fire, this dangerous, intoxicating night.

And honestly? I didn't want to be found.