Page 14 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Gennady

Chicago's night wrapped the city like black velvet, heavy, swallowing its noise and sins. I was in my study at the estate, the sharp bite of whiskey still lingering in the air. But it was Ginnie's cloying perfume, stuck in my nose, that had my stomach churning.

My temples throbbed, exhaustion hitting like a tidal wave. The last few hours had been worse than any blood-soaked gang cleanup.

Fucking Ginnie.

That woman had had the balls to throw my name around, strutting through Chicago's ritziest clubs, blowing cash like she owned the place.

Worse, she had had the nerve to call herself "Mrs. Sokolov.

" When her pissed-off creditors came knocking, she had pointed at my picture, cool as ice, saying, "Go to Gennady Sokolov for the money. I'm his woman."

It had taken me three goddamn hours to clean up her mess—threatening her creditors into silence, smoothing things over with insulted partners, and dealing with the chaos she had left behind. In the end, I had had to drag her ass out of that sleazy club myself.

"Who do you think you are?!" she had screeched as I shoved her into the car, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. "I'm Isabella's sister! I deserve this! You owe her, so you owe me double!"

I had nearly wrapped my hands around her throat right then.

If it hadn't been for Isabella's dying words—weak but firm, "Take care of Ginnie"—and the guilt that still clawed at my chest, I would've made her disappear long ago. That night, even with my patience stretched to breaking, I had held back.

"Listen, Ginnie," I had said, my voice cold enough to freeze hell.

"This is your last warning. I've set up an account for you in Switzerland—enough cash to keep you living large for life.

You've got one month to clean up your shit, take the money, and get the fuck out.

If you ever pull this Sokolov Family stunt again, I'll forget you're Isabella's sister. "

Her face had gone pale. She had known what that meant. In my world, that was the final line.

She had given me one last look as she left—resentment, defiance, and something else I couldn't read. I hadn't cared. I had given her too many chances, and she had burned them all.

Finally, some quiet.

I slumped back in my chair, rubbing my pounding temples. My mind drifted to her—my rose, Cassie. What had she been doing? Sleeping soundly, dreaming of that hot, desperate kiss in school earlier? Had she felt the same electric shiver I did, thinking of her trembling under my touch?

The thought sent a warm current through me, melting the rage from dealing with Ginnie. I grabbed my phone, wanting to send her something soft, something to let her know she was on my mind.

But when I opened our chat, my blood ran cold.

Cassie: Liar!

Sent at 11:43 p.m. Right when I had been neck-deep in Ginnie's bullshit, too busy to check my phone.

Liar? What the hell had happened?

I tried to reply, but the next second, my gut twisted. Message failed to send. She had blocked me.

My rose had blocked me.

Panic hit, sharp and unfamiliar, mixing with a dangerous surge of anger. My fingers flew across the screen, scrolling through our old messages for any clue. Nothing. Just her silence and that sudden betrayal, like a slap to my face.

I was on my feet, the chair skidding back, slamming into the bookcase with a dull thud. Logic screamed to stay calm, figure out what was going on, but the fury and unease in my chest drowned it out. She was mine. How dare she cut me off? How dare she slap a label like liar on me?

I snatched my car keys and stormed out.

The Bentley tore through Chicago's streets, streetlights blurring into streaks.

I floored the gas, my mind replaying her—her red hair burning like fire under moonlight, her body trembling under my hands, her soft moans in my ear.

Those memories were like vodka, setting my nerves ablaze.

I needed her—needed her close, needed her eyes on me, only me.

The car screeched to a stop outside her rundown apartment building. The dim streetlight cast jagged shadows, the air thick with the damp stink of the city's sewers. I glanced up at her floor. A faint light glowed through her window. She was awake. Maybe crying. Maybe cursing me out.

Didn't matter. She was thinking of me, even if it was in anger.

Her place was on the third floor, and the narrow stairwell was dark, the old wooden steps creaking under my weight. I reached her door, my heart pounding like a war drum, anger and desire twisting together. My knocks were sharp, impatient.

"Cassie, open the door," I said, my voice low, commanding.

Silence. Just a sliver of light under the door. My patience frayed, and I pounded harder, the frame rattling. "Cassie Monroe, I know you're in there. Open it, or I'll break this fucking door down!"

Finally, soft footsteps, hesitant. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open, revealing her pale face.

Her eyes were red, swollen, and tear tracks stained her cheeks.

The sight of her like that snuffed out my anger, replaced by a sharp, unfamiliar ache.

But it was quickly swallowed by a fiercer need to claim her.

"Gennady," she said, her voice hoarse, laced with panic and defiance. She tried to shut the door. "What are you doing here?"

I pushed it open, hard, making her stumble back. The door slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot. I grabbed her wrist, yanking her into me. Her body crashed against my chest, her soft curves meeting my taut muscles, igniting the fire I had been holding back.

"You blocked me?" My voice was low, dark, dripping with barely controlled rage. "You think you can just push me away?"

Her eyes widened, fear and stubbornness flashing in them. She tried to pull free, but my grip was like steel, locking her in place.

"Let me go!" she snapped, her voice shaking but angry. "You don't get to barge into my place! You don't get to do this to me!"

"Do this?" I sneered, my other hand grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at me. "You forgot how you begged for me last night? How you said you wanted me?"

Her face flushed, tears brimming, but she clenched her jaw, glaring. "That was a mistake! You're a liar!" She broke free, snatching her phone from the table, her hands shaking as she shoved a photo in my face. "Look at this! Don't tell me that's not you!"

I glanced at the screen, and my blood boiled.

It was Ginnie, her overdone face pressed close to mine, red nails digging into my chest, the club's dim lights in the background.

I could still smell her suffocating perfume, feel her clingy hands before I had shoved her off.

Someone had snapped that moment and sent it to Cassie. On purpose.

"All this over a photo?" My voice was ice, fury burning hotter. "You didn't even ask me?"

"I saw it!" she choked out, tears falling, her voice raw. "That woman was all over you! You said it was 'urgent business.' You think I'm an idiot?"

"You don't trust me." I narrowed my eyes, my voice low, dangerous. "You'd rather trust some photo than give me a chance to explain?"

"Why should I trust you?" she yelled, tears blurring her eyes. "You made me feel like a fucking joke! The flowers, the words—were they all lies?"

Her words cut, but her lack of faith fueled my anger more. I didn't explain myself—never had, never would. But her tears, the pain in her eyes, twisted something in me, mixing rage with a pang I didn't want to name.

"I don't explain," I said coldly, tightening my grip on her chin. "You don't deserve it."

Hurt flashed across her face, but I didn't give her a chance to respond. I slammed her against the wall, my lips crashing onto hers. No gentleness, just raw, possessive need, fueled by anger and hunger. I forced her mouth open, my tongue claiming every inch, like I was trying to devour her.

She fought back, fists pounding my chest, but it only drove me harder. My hand slid to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, holding her still as I deepened the kiss. Her resistance faltered, her body softening, her hands clutching my shirt, her response turning fierce, desperate.

"Fuck, Cassie," I growled against her lips, my voice rough as sandpaper. "You think you can run from me? You're mine, got it?"

Her breaths were ragged, her chest heaving against mine, each press driving me wild. Her eyes, half-open, shimmered with tears and desire, her lips swollen from my kiss.

"I don't want," she gasped, her voice breaking, "to be hurt again."

"Hurt?" I gripped her waist, pulling her tighter, my voice low and dangerous. "I never meant to hurt you. I want you, Cassie—every fucking part of you. You think I'd let you walk away? No chance."

Her body trembled under my hands, not from fear but from the fire I had sparked. Her eyes were hazy, caught between reason and need, but her body was honest—she wanted me as bad as I wanted her.

No more waiting. I grabbed her sweater, ripping it open, buttons popping like gunfire in the quiet room.

Her gasp was swallowed by my next kiss as I lifted her, carrying her to the bedroom and tossing her onto the messy bed.

Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting her curves in silver, her red hair splayed like fire on the pillow.

"You're mine, розочка," I said, my voice hard, commanding. "Don't even think about leaving."

Her eyes widened, tears falling, but there was a flicker of surrender in them, mixed with something that made my blood race. She bit her lip, her body arching slightly, a silent invitation.

Tonight, I wasn't playing soft like the night before. I needed her to know she was mine, always. I yanked off my belt, the metal buckle clinking sharply. Her breath hitched, her pupils dilating with a mix of fear and anticipation.

"Gennady," she whispered, her voice trembling, pleading. "Don't."