Page 12 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

Every stroke of the brush makes me twitch. Every swipe of his tongue feels like he’s rewiring my nerves.

And right when I think I can’t take another second without him inside me, he changes the game.

He straightens, eyes molten and mouth slick, then reaches behind him to grab something from the table. One of the silk ribbons we use to tie off napkins for events, deep crimson, soft, and satiny.

My breath catches as he circles behind me.

“Hands,” he murmurs.

I offer them without hesitation. He loops the ribbon around my wrists, binding them gently but firmly behind my back. There’s tension, enough to make me arch, to lift my breasts and leave me exposed and breathless.

“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice thick with anticipation.

“I think so,” I pant.

He laughs, that low, wicked rumble that vibrates right down to where I’m aching. It’s not fair, the way that sound alone can make my body clench, pulse, need .

Then he’s in front of me again, pushing one of my legs up and over his shoulder like I weigh nothing, opening me further, taking his time. His fingers graze the inside of my thigh, making me tremble.

But what replaces the brush isn’t his fingers. It’s colder. Harder.

A chilled metal measuring spoon, taken from the drawer only moments before.

I hiss through my teeth as he drags it along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Goosebumps rise instantly.

“You and your tools,” I manage to whisper, voice barely holding together.

He looks up, eyes gleaming. “You’re the one who built the playground,” he growls. “I’m just getting creative.”

The spoon slides higher. Higher. Then, finally, he runs the cool steel right over my soaked center. I jolt, gasping, hips jerking against the pressure.

He does it again, slower this time, watching me unravel. Then he dips it lower, using the curved edge to part me gently, exposing me fully before he leans in and replaces the cold metal with the hot, slick glide of his tongue.

I nearly scream.

The contrast is unbearable, in the best way. The chill lingering in my skin, the heat of his mouth, the firm press of his tongue as he laps at me with slow, devastating precision.

It’s not just sex. It’s worship.

Then come the ice cubes.

He takes one from a bowl, meant for chilling wine, and drags it from my navel to the crease of my thigh. Melting drops trace down over my pelvis and drip onto my clit, making me jerk, cry out.

“Knox,” I beg. I don’t even know what I’m asking for anymore. Just more .

“Shh,” he murmurs, placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss right below my belly button. “I’m not finished.”

His hands know when to coax and when to claim. His fingers slide inside me while his mouth returns to my clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking in rhythm with his strokes.

It builds fast. Again.

“Please.”

He doesn’t stop. He keeps pushing. Drawing sounds from me that I’ve never made before. Pleasure coils, tighter and tighter, until I’m breaking open all over again, trembling and moaning his name like a prayer, like a curse, like I belong to him.

And maybe I do.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

Before the aftershocks have even faded, he pulls me off the counter, spins me around, and bends me over the prep table. My hands are still bound, and the helplessness only fuels the fire.

He props one of my legs up on a stool, spreading me open again, lining himself up.

“Ready?” he rasps.

I nod. “Please.”

He thrusts into me in one smooth, devastating motion, filling me so deeply I cry out. The stretch, the heat, the sound of skin on skin, it’s overwhelming.

He moves with purpose. Power. Each thrust deep, slamming into me with precision that borders on ruthless.

But it’s not just rough. It’s right. Like he knows the shape of my body, the tempo of my breath, the way I need to be taken apart and put back together.

“Shit, you feel… fuck, so good,” he grits out, voice ragged as he drives into me harder, faster.

I brace against the table, moaning, arching, pushing back to meet him. The angle is perfect, hitting every nerve, making me burn from the inside out.

When I come again, it’s fierce. Loud. Wrecked with pleasure so mind blowing I see stars behind my eyes.

And he follows with a broken groan, spilling into me, his grip bruising on my hips, his whole body shuddering behind me.

It’s loud. Messy. Ferocious.

After, he pulls me against him, both of us still trembling. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling beneath my cheek, sticky with sweat and honey.

But I feel it anyway.

Connection.

Like my insides have shifted. Or cracked open and invited him in.

“You okay?” he murmurs into my hair, his voice low and spent, like it costs him everything to speak.

“Yeah,” I whisper, eyes fluttering shut as I rest against him. “But we’re definitely gonna have to buy new equipment.”

He laughs, deep and golden and utterly wrecked.

“Deal.”

And then, before I can catch a full breath, his lips are on mine again. All heat and hunger and the kind of rough tenderness that steals thought. My hands are still bound behind me, wrists snug in the silk ribbon, but I don’t care. I lean into the kiss, breathless, straining for more.

The power shift is electric.

He broke me open, and somehow, I’m the one holding him now. I’ve never felt more alive than I do under his hands, pinned and kissed like I’m oxygen.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growls against my mouth, teeth scraping just enough to make my pulse spike.

“Then show me,” I whisper, arching my back, pressing my hips into his.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at me. His pupils are blown wide, jaw tense, chest still heaving. The want in his expression is wild. Unfiltered.

Then his eyes flick to the side, and he spots it.

A rubber spatula on the counter.

His lips curve into a grin that should come with a warning label.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” he mutters, grabbing it.

I blink, laughing breathlessly. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

He circles behind me, his presence wrapping around me like a stormfront. He places one large palm between my shoulder blades and gently presses, bending me back over the prep table. My cheek meets the cool metal, the contrast sparking across overheated skin.

“Knox.” I murmur, half warning, half invitation.

Smack .

The spatula lands across my ass in a shocking, stinging slap that makes me jolt and gasp.

Not painful. Not cruel.

But enough to send a shock of heat straight between my thighs.

“You did not just?—”

Smack .

Again. The sound echoes, wicked and delicious.

“Consider it feedback,” he says, voice smug and teasing. “Five stars. Would devour again.”

I laugh, breathless and completely undone, my whole body buzzing. I’m high on him. High on the way he takes control and gives it back in the same breath. On how he’s wrecked me, and yet I’ve never felt stronger.

“I hate you,” I lie.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs behind me. Then softer. Rawer: “You like this just as much as I do.”

The words hit harder than the spatula. They steal the air from my lungs.

I twist my head to look at him, eyes wide. His face is close. Flushed. His mouth parted like he didn’t mean to say it, but now that it’s out there, he’s not taking it back.

“Knox.”

His hands move, sliding over the curve of my ass, gentle now. Kneading. Apologetic. Worshipful.

“I can’t focus when you’re around,” he says roughly. “I can’t do business as usual when all I can think about is you.”

My chest clenches. My heart thuds, hard and unsteady.

I twist farther, trying to reach him, and he leans in. One hand unknots the ribbon, letting my wrists fall free. The next moment, I’m in his arms, pulled upright, dragged against his chest like he needs the contact like air.

His mouth crashes into mine. Raw and desperate, just as I feel.

Our bodies are slick and trembling. We cling like we’ll break apart otherwise. This isn’t just lust anymore. It’s deeper. Hungrier.

And when he takes me again, it’s different.

Slower. Fiercer. Deeper.

He sinks into me with a groan that sounds like surrender. His forehead presses to mine. Our fingers twine together, his grip tight, grounding. My breath catches at the way he moves, dragging moans from my throat with every slow, consuming thrust.

“I feel you everywhere,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

“I want you everywhere,” I gasp, meeting him with everything I have left.

He lifts me without faltering, like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He carries me across the kitchen, never breaking rhythm, until my back hits the walk-in fridge door. It’s cold. We’re not.

He presses into me, thrusting deep and hard, mouth on my neck, one hand cradling the back of my head like I’m breakable, like I matter.

Every movement is laced with meaning.

It’s not just sex anymore.

When we come, it’s loud. Messy. Guttural.

A beautiful, shared undoing that shakes the air around us.

His name tumbles from my lips over and over, like it belongs there.

And in the aftermath, in the quiet, sticky warmth of our entangled limbs and tangled hearts, one thought echoes through me:

Holy shit.

I’m in trouble, aren’t I?