Page 9 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Great. Every eye in the room turned to me. My face heated up, but I swallowed hard and stepped forward. "Mr. Sokolov, this is the main activity space for the kids. We do all sorts of stuff—art, music, storytime, free play. It's about keeping things fun while they learn to socialize."

Talking about work calmed my nerves a bit.

My eyes drifted to Anya's drawing on the wall—a blue bunny with crescent-moon ears.

I smiled, warmth creeping into my voice.

"Anya loves that corner over there," I said, pointing to a cozy spot by the window.

"She'll sit there with her beat-up old bunny plush, just drawing her heart out.

She's got a real spark, you know? Super focused when she's got a pencil in her hand. "

I walked over to the wall, stopping at her painting.

"This is hers. She told me it's a bunny that lives on the moon, and those ears are for 'hooking' it.

Bold colors, but it's so creative. She was so proud when she finished it—insisted we hang it front and center.

" I smoothed out a curled corner of the paper, smiling to myself.

For a second, I forgot the intimidating billionaire standing a few feet away, lost in the memory of Anya's shy little grin.

Then I felt it. His eyes on me.

I looked up, and Gennady was staring. Not at the painting—at me. Silent. Intense. The kind of stare that made your skin prickle and your breath catch. The principal was sweating again, and the other teachers were holding their breath.

Did I say too much? Sound too casual? Oh God, do I look like an idiot?

Finally, he spoke. "Good work." Flat, no emotion, but those two words felt like a lifeline.

I mumbled a "Thank you, Mr. Sokolov" and retreated to the back of the group, legs wobbly. Get it together, Cassie.

Then my phone buzzed.

I glanced down, and my heart stopped. A new message. From G.

Oh my God, finally. But this was not the time. I tried to focus as Mr. Willson moved the group to the next area, but my phone buzzed again. And again. He's spamming me.

Curiosity won. While everyone was distracted, I snuck a peek, hiding the screen behind my hip.

G: You wearing panties today, rose?

My face went nuclear. In the middle of this buttoned-up school tour, this was what he sent? My heart was racing, a mix of embarrassment and… something else. I checked around—nobody was looking—and scrolled to the next message.

G: Bet you're all flustered now. Face red yet?

How the hell did he know? I swallowed hard, my hands shaky as I read on.

G: Picture me behind you, hands on your waist. Feel that?

My breath hitched. The room felt too small, the air too thick. His words were like a match to gasoline, and I was burning up.

G: Spread your legs a little. Feel how wet you're getting for me.

A rush of heat pooled low in my belly. I clamped my thighs together, trying to stay composed, but my body was betraying me. The phone was practically shaking in my hands.

G: I want to touch you right now, in front of everyone. Make you shake while they're clueless.

G: You want my fingers, rose? Right there in front of that single dad, slipping under your skirt, feeling how soaked you are?

I couldn't breathe. My panties were definitely wet now, and my pulse was hammering so loud I was sure someone would hear it. This was insane—standing there, surrounded by colleagues, while these texts were setting my whole body on fire.

Then I felt it. Eyes on me.

I looked up, and Gennady Sokolov was staring. His green eyes were locked on me, sharp and unreadable, like he was peeling back every layer of my soul. For a split second, I felt naked—every dirty thought, every flush of heat, laid bare under that gaze.

And then it hit me.

A cold, electric jolt of realization.

I had never told Mr. G about the school visit. Never mentioned Sokolov. Never said a word about being in a crowd or a "single dad" standing in front of me.

How did he know?

My phone buzzed again, but I couldn't look. My eyes were glued to Gennady as he slipped his phone into his pocket, smooth as silk. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely—a smug, knowing smirk.

No. No way.

Mr. G was Gennady Sokolov.

The man who had been driving me wild with texts, making me blush and ache and lose my damn mind every night, was Anya's father. The untouchable, terrifying, drop-dead gorgeous billionaire standing right in front of me.

OH. MY. GOD.

The room spun. My face went cold, my legs weak. The world was tilting, and I couldn't hear anything over the buzzing in my ears.

"I—I need the bathroom," I choked out, barely audible, and bolted before anyone could stop me. I stumbled into the hallway, desperate for air, for space, for anything to stop this spiral.

"Cassie."

His voice stopped me cold. Low, commanding, and way too familiar. My heart was in my throat as I froze, unable to turn around.

"Turn around," he ordered, sharp and final.

I turned slowly, dread and something darker twisting in my gut. There he was, standing in the empty hallway, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the polished floor. The rest of the group was still in the activity room, their chatter muffled. It was just us.

"What did you figure out?" he asked, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered, my voice shaking.

"Don't lie." He kept coming, closing the distance until my back hit the wall. "You know, don't you?"

I was trapped, staring up at him. His cologne—crisp, expensive—filled my lungs, and I could feel the heat radiating off him. "You're—" I couldn't say it.

"Say it," he commanded, one hand bracing against the wall beside my head, caging me in. "Say it, розочка."

Pозочка. Rose. The pet name he had used in every filthy text, dripping with possession. It was the final nail in the coffin.

"Mr. G," I whispered, trembling. "You're Mr. G."

His lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. "Good girl. Now you know."

"But you're Anya's dad. You're a billionaire. I'm just a teacher, and we're… we're twenty years apart!" I was babbling now, panic taking over. "This is wrong. This is so wrong."

"Why?" His other hand brushed my cheek, sending a shiver through me. "You're a woman. I'm a man. We've been enjoying ourselves, haven't we?"

"But I—" I started, but his thumb pressed against my lips, silencing me.

"Shh," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky growl. His green eyes burned with something dark and hungry. "Don't overthink it, Cassie."

Then he kissed me.

No warning, no hesitation—just his lips crashing into mine, claiming me with a fierce, possessive hunger.

It was like his texts had come to life, all that raw, commanding energy pouring into me.

My brain screamed to push him away—this was a mistake, a disaster—but my body wasn't listening.

A week of pent-up desire exploded, and I was kissing him back, my hands gripping his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his suit.

He groaned against my lips, low and rough. "Fuck, you're sweeter than I imagined."

His hands moved, one sliding down my spine, the other grazing my thigh, tugging my skirt higher. I was shaking, not from fear, but from the overwhelming need coursing through me.

"Not here," I gasped, even as I pressed closer, my body betraying every word.

"Why not?" His lips trailed to my neck, leaving a burning path of kisses. "I've waited too long for this."

His fingers found the edge of my panties, teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Then they brushed against me—there—and I was done for. My body arched, a soft moan escaping before I could stop it.

"You're soaked," he whispered in my ear, voice thick with desire. "For me."

I couldn't speak, couldn't think. I was clinging to him, letting his touch set me on fire. This was insane—in the school hallway—but I couldn't stop.

"I want you," he growled. "Right now."

Those words shattered what was left of my self-control. My blood was roaring, my heart was about to burst. I had never wanted anyone this badly, never felt this out of control.

"Yes," I breathed, but then, because I was still me, I added, "But not because you're telling me to—"

Footsteps echoed down the hall. "Mr. Sokolov? Where are you?" Mr. Willson's voice.

Gennady pulled back, but not before pressing one last, lingering kiss to my lips. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. The Regis Grand, top-floor restaurant. We need to talk."

His tone left no room for argument, and I was too dazed to try.

"Don't make me wait, Моя розочка," he said, brushing my cheek one last time before stepping back, smoothing his suit like nothing had happened. "I don't like waiting."

"Here, Mr. Willson," he called out, calm as ever, as the principal rounded the corner.

I was still against the wall, trying to catch my breath, my legs barely holding me up. Mr. Willson didn't seem to notice anything off. "We're moving to the next area," he said, relieved.

"Of course," Gennady replied, then glanced at me. "Miss Monroe, join us. I'd like to hear more about Anya."

It wasn't a request. It was an order. I nodded, falling into step behind the group, but I could feel his eyes on me, feel the electric tension still crackling in the air.

This wasn't over.

The game had just gotten started.

And I was already in too deep.