Page 63 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I shift slightly, trying not to draw attention, but then I hear my name. Or rather, a version of it. Silas’s voice, low and coaxing. Then Max.
“You want to share her.”
“I want to share her.”
The words hit my bloodstream like heat.
I stay still. Still enough to keep breathing shallow and steady, hoping they think I’m asleep. But inside, my pulse starts to hammer. Because I know who “her” is. And I know what they’re talking about.
Max says something I can’t catch. Then Silas speaks again, quieter this time.
It doesn’t sound casual. It doesn’t sound like a joke. It sounds like he’s serious. Like they’ve been circling this for a while.Sharing. The word lands hot and sharp in my stomach. My thighs press together involuntarily.
I should be shocked. Embarrassed. Horrified.
Instead, I’m warm. And flushed. And something that feels an awful lot like want coils deep and low inside me.
I blame the pregnancy. That’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s the hormones. It has to be that.
Because it’s not the way Silas has always looked at me—sweet and steady and a little bit wild. And it’s definitely not the way Max’s gaze makes my skin feel too tight, his silence somehow louder than anyone else’s attention.
It’s not that.
It can’t be.
I shift again, stretching subtly, like I’m just waking up. My breath hitches when I catch Silas’s gaze. He’s watching me now, his expression unreadable. But then it shifts—slowly, deeply. Recognition flickers across his face, and the easy smirk he wore earlier fades into something different.
“You’re awake.”
His voice is calm, but there’s tension in it now. but there’s a new weight behind it. Not shock. Not shame. It’s definitely not guilt.
I push up slightly, the blanket falling from my lap. My hair’s a mess, and I’m still wearing his sweatshirt, and I should probably feel awkward. But I don’t.
Silas moves in closer, one hand pressed to the couch cushion beside my hip. “Is that what you want?” His voice dips low. “To be shared? To be taken care of?”
The silence stretches, charged. My chest tightens. He knows I was awake and heard them.
“Yes.”
It slips out before I can frame it into something safer. Before I can dress it up in rationale or load it with disclaimers. I want this. I want them.Bothof them.
I want the impossible weight of their attention, their hands on me, their need focused in tandem.
I want to be wanted without apology.
Silas watches me. His mouth curves, but it isn’t playful. It’s reverent. “Say it again.”
“Yes.” This time, I hold his gaze. There’s no shame in mine. I’m owning this, leaning into what I want. “I want you both.”
He lifts his hand and touches my jaw with careful pressure. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, then trails down to rest just beneath my chin. My pulse jumps.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
The words don’t need to be spoken. I already know. My lips are already parted. But I nod.
The kiss isn’t tentative. He doesn’t test the waters. He sinks into it, his mouth claiming mine in a way that strips me bare without touching a single piece of clothing. My fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. I lean into him, caught in the swell of it.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, hand sliding behind my neck to hold me there. His tongue grazes mine, and I gasp, my hips shifting under the blanket.
