Page 76 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
And right now, she needs to feel that. So, I’m going to show her the only way I know how.
I skim my fingers across the soft skin beneath her dress. I don’t rush it. I’m not here to light her up. Not tonight. I just want her to feel something that isn’t fear. I want her to feel me. Us.
I shift closer, moving slow enough not to spook her, my palm skimming higher up her thigh. She’s warm and tense and trembling beneath my touch, and every instinct I have is screaming to wrap her up, hold her close, shield her from whatever the hell scared her so bad in the first place.
She flinches when I reach mid-thigh. Her breath hitches, a soft, wrecked little sound, and her eyes dart to the front seat. I feel the panic spike through her before I see it. It’s not me, it’s where we are—the awareness of the driver still up front, pretending not to listen, probably failing.
Max moves before she can say anything, hits the button on the console, and the divider glides up with that quiet, expensive hum that only exists in cars made for secrets. It seals us in without a word.
Good. No one else gets to see her like this. No one else gets a piece of her tonight but us. Then Max does what Max does best—moves with purpose. He slides off the seat and settles on his knees between her legs. It's not even remotely subtle, but nothing about it feels crude.
I brush my knuckles up her arm, smoothing down the goosebumps rising along her skin. She’s holding herself so tight it’s a wonder she hasn’t shattered yet.
"Relax, baby," I murmur, ducking my head to press a kiss to her shoulder. "Let us take care of you."
Max’s fingers trail up from her ankles. He slides his hands higher, fingertips gliding up the insides of her calves, past the delicate line of her knees, until he’s gathering the hem of her dress in his hands.
He keeps going until his hands bracket her hips, his thumbs stroking small, coaxing circles along the edge of her panties. The lace barely covers her, and despite the lack of light back here, I can see the wet spot forming there. She wants this. Us. Max leans in and presses a slow, deliberate kiss just above her knee.
Genevieve lets out a breath she’s probably been holding since the ballroom. It’s soft and shaky, a signal of her surrender. Not to us. Just to the moment.
I lean in, brushing my mouth along her jaw, then lower, tracing the curve of her neck with the edge of my teeth. Nothing too sharp. Just enough to remind her that she’s here. That we are, too. That she doesn’t have to fold in on herself when she could be folding into us instead.
Her hands hover for a beat before one of them lands on my thigh. I’m not sure if she meant to touch me or just needed to hold onto something solid. Doesn’t matter. I’ll take either.
Max’s hands are still on her hips, thumbs moving in small circles, coaxing her to breathe. Her legs tense, then loosen, just slightly, like her body’s trying to decide whether it’s allowed to let go.
His mouth trails slow, teasing kisses up the inside of her thigh. I watch the way she trembles, the way her head tips back against the seat, and something deep in my chest cracks wide open.
I catch her mouth with mine, soft at first, just a slow, easy press of lips. But I’m desperate for this girl. So, I press deeper. She kisses me back, a little clumsy, a lot desperate. God, she’s beautiful like this. Raw. Real.
My fingers slide higher, brushing the lace at the edge of her panties, and she shudders. Not in a scared way. It’s instinct. Her body remembers us, even if her brain’s still caught somewhere back in that goddamn ballroom.
Max mouths up her thigh again, just above the place where her legs meet. His breath fans over her, and she lets out a quiet little sound that she probably didn’t mean to make. I feel her flinch again and ease back just enough to whisper against her ear.
“You don’t have to be quiet, sweetheart. No one can hear you now.”
Her breath catches again—sharp, then shaky. Her grip on my thigh tightens.
“You’re safe,” I add, kissing the edge of her jaw. “You’re with us. You can fall apart if you need to.”
She whimpers, a soft, broken sound that tears through every ounce of control I have. She’s so wound up, so fragile, and all I want is to pull her into my lap and hold her until the shaking stops.
Instead, I slow it down even more.
I kiss her jaw, the corner of her mouth, the tender hollow just beneath her ear. I murmur nonsense against her skin, teasing things, sweet things, anything to keep her tethered to now.
"You’re safe," I tell her. "You’re ours. No one’s gonna touch you, sweetheart. Not unless you want them to."
Max glances up at me, a quick flicker of heat and something darker in his eyes, and I know he’s feeling it too. That tight, protective rage barely leashed under the surface. We couldn’t protect her earlier. We couldn't stop whatever wrecked her tonight.
But we can do this.
We can remind her what it feels like to be wanted for all the right reasons. Worshiped, not used.
Genevieve shifts, a tiny movement, part instinct, part need. Max catches it, smoothing his hands up the outside of her thighs, pressing her legs a little farther apart. He tugs her panties gently to the side and presses a soft kiss to her clit. I feel her jolt against me, her back arching a fraction, breath stuttering out of her chest.
Her body’s caught somewhere between want and worry, need and shame. I can feel it all humming under her skin. But she isn’t pulling away. And we aren’t rushing her.
