Page 24 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
And I’m not sure he’s ready to hear it. I’m not sure I am either.
So, I rest against him instead, letting the water swirl around us, letting the weight of what just happened settle over me. Letting myself feel all the things I’m not supposed to feel for a man who doesn’t belong to anyone.
Even when he keeps calling me his.
Chapter7
Sebastian
She’s still asleep when I wake.
The room is quiet. Dim morning light filters through the gauzy curtains, casting soft, golden stripes across her bare back. She’s on her stomach, legs tangled in the sheet, hair loose and damp from last night. Her face is turned toward me, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen when she’s awake.
This is dangerous. She is dangerous. Genevieve St. Claire has unraveled me in a way no woman ever has—in a way nopersonever has.
Waking next to her another day feels like stepping into uncharted territory. It will set a precedent I have no intention of backing. I should get up. Start the day. Check in with Dom, finalize departure logistics, go over wrap reports from each team. There’s a to-do list waiting. A life waiting. And she isn’t part of it.
But I don’t move.
Instead, I let my hand drift along the curve of her back, fingertips tracing a slow, careful line down to the dip of her waist. She stirs, just barely, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again.
I keep touching her anyway.
It’s selfish. I know that. But I want this moment. I want the weight of her beside me and the way she instinctively reaches toward the heat of my body in her sleep. I want the memory of this to be clean, before I ruin it.
Because I will.
That’s the truth no one talks about when it comes to men like me. We don’t break because we’re weak—we break because we’ve trained ourselves not to need. And the second we do, we destroy it. Not because we want to. Because we don’t know how to hold something without eventually letting it go.
Genevieve is young. Smart. Too hopeful for a man who builds walls instead of memories. She deserves someone who doesn’t calculate his every breath. Someone who doesn’t analyze the risk of getting attached in percentage points and exit strategies.
Not this. Notme.
I told myself this was a mistake from the beginning. A brief indulgence. A release. But nothing about this feels temporary anymore.
Still, it has to end. We both knew that going in, even if we didn’t say it out loud.
I slip a hand beneath her thigh and guide her onto her side, pulling her back against me. She stirs again, eyes fluttering open just as I slide inside her.
Her breath catches. But she doesn't say anything to stop me.
I thrust slow and deep, savoring the way she stretches around me. She’s already soaking, still dripping with my release from last night. My hand slides up her stomach, over her breast, anchoring her to me while I move.
She sighs my name, and I lose the last thread of control I’ve been holding.
My fingers close around her wrist and guide it up above her head. She lets me. That’s the part that undoes me—her body yielding even before her mind is fully awake. She doesn’t question it. Doesn’t fight it. She trusts me enough to give me control without hesitation.
“Keep it there,” I murmur against her skin. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.”
She nods, cheek brushing the pillow. Her breath hitches as I roll my hips, deeper this time, grinding into her until her thighs tremble against mine. I don’t speed up. I don’t need to. This isn’t about chasing the high. This is about marking the moment. Burning it in.
“You remember what I told you?” I ask, voice low, steady.
“Yes,” she breathes.
“What happens when you come for me?”
Her fingers tighten in the pillowcase. “I belong to you.”
