Page 28 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“Moment of truth,” he says, pushing open aPrivate Fittings Onlydoor.Inside is a chaise lounge, wall-to-wall mirrors, racks of garments still in garment bags, and a warm spotlight that flatters every angle.

I step onto the plush rug, fingers brushing a red velvet gown. “I’ve never worn anything this fancy.”

“Then today you conquer Everest,” Dante declares, unzipping the first bag. It’s a champagne silk slip dress, bias-cut, delicate as moonlight. He passes it over the screen divider. “Try this.”

I shimmy into the dress, and the fabric slides like water over my skin, pooling at my feet. I stare at myself, not quite sure how I ended up here in a dress that costs half a year’s rent.

“How’s the view?” Dante calls.

“Insane. In a good way.”

“Lemme see.”

He ducks around the divider before I can protest. His gaze skims from my collarbone to my toes, pupils darkening. “Damn, Tabi.”

My pulse skitters. The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer. “Too much?”

“Not enough.” He steps closer, fingertips grazing the low back of the gown where the silk barely kisses my spine. Goose bumps bloom instantly.

I tilt my head, meeting his playful grin. “You’re supposed to critique the dress, not the wearer.”

“I can multitask.” He tugs a loose string near my shoulder. “My only complaint is the seams need adjusting.”

His knuckles brush my skin. I shiver—and that’s when the air shifts from playful to electric. He notices, smile fading into a smolder that tightens low in my belly.

“Tabi,” he says softly, one hand sliding to my waist. “Know what else multitasks?”

“Hmm?”

“Dressing rooms. They can house all sorts of perversion.”

My breath hitches. “Isn’t that…against store policy?”

He chuckles. “Iamstore policy.” Then he kisses me, sudden and thorough. The silk gapes open at the sides, and I feel every inch of hard muscle beneath his tailored sweater.

I melt—no other word for it. His tongue teases, coaxing a moan from my throat. One hand slides up, cupping my breast through the fabric, while the other finds the thin strap, easing it off my shoulder. The gown slips lower, baring skin still tingling from last night.

“Dante,” I whisper, half plea, half warning. Anyone could walk in. Even if he had locked the door—which he hasn’t—they have keys.

He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, forehead resting on mine. “Tell me to stop, I’ll stop.”

But I don’t want to. Instead, I gently shake my head and smile up at him.

His grin is pure trouble. He lifts me onto the chaise in one fluid motion, silk pooling at my waist. Lips trail down my throat, teeth grazing the soft skin. My head falls back, and the mirrored walls give me a panoramic view of myself—flushed, hair wild, gown sliding, Dante kneeling between my knees like bad decisions incarnate.

He nudges the fabric aside, pressing hot kisses down my sternum, across my belly. When his mouth dips lower, I gasp—and the world dissolves into heat and silk and the rhythmic thud of my heart. I have to bite my fist to stop from getting loud. His tongue is relentless on my clit, and I swear I’m gonna black out, but this feels too good to stop. I grip his hair, salt-and-pepper curls streaming between my knuckles as the ache thumps deep inside. My orgasm hits hard and fast, and it’s like the room is spinning.

Sometime later—minutes, hours, I can’t tell—he eases back up, nipping my lower lip before settling beside me. He tastes like me, and I kinda like that. We’re both breathing hard, grinning like conspirators.

I swipe damp hair from my forehead. “If that’s the fitting process, I’m gonna need electrolytes.”

He laughs, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “And I’m going to need another taste of dessert before the main course. But at the moment, cocktail dresses.” Then he taps his watch. “Think you can stand?”

“Won’t know till I try.”

When we exit the dressing suite, the lead stylist arches an elegant brow but says nothing—either accustomed to Morettiantics or well-paid enough to ignore them. I’m just glad we’re not getting arrested.

By late afternoon, we’ve bought six gowns, four cocktail dresses, four coats, enough stilettos to stock a runway, a variety of ski and casual wear, and a box of jewelry, all of which will be delivered to their house. I don’t want to know the price tag. My head spins at the thought, but Dante navigates it all with breezy confidence, swiping black cards I’ve never seen in real life.

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