Page 45 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“I don’t care. Please don’t leave me.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and I’m not sure if that’s the leftover emotions from earlier or from sucking Sal’s cock.

Doesn’t matter. “I won’t.” I kiss my way up her inner thigh, her flat stomach, and eventually, I line myself up with her. I’ll be careful. I need this connection too.

When I press my cock against her softness, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. There’s a sense of reassurance that makes no sense and yet, all the sense in the world. She feels like the place my cock is supposed to go.

Maybe I should stop trying to make it make sense.

As I deepen my strokes, she writhes against me and them, her senses overwhelmed. Every flick of her nipples, every gag in her throat, the way I angle myself to hit her G-spot, it all lights her up. When I play with her clit, she rockets through her first orgasm on me, nearly bringing me over the edge with her.

Thoughts blur after that—moans, names, soft curses. We move like a tide. One brother’s mouth, another’s hands, switching, giving, receiving, until she arches again, shattered and beautiful in the half light. Her second release triggers mine, so I pull out and shoot on her thigh, and then wipe it away. Dante takes my place, mounting her as gently as he ever does anything in his life. I take his place at her tits, starting the cycle over again.

Sal’s fingers lance through her hair, cupping around the back of her head to guide her. I’m not sure which of them needed this more. The way he watches her eyes the whole time, and the way she stares up at him with such devotion…it’s a beautiful thing.

She comes on Dante, and he’s smart enough to pull out before he comes, but Sal can’t hold back. He hisses through tight teeth, “Soon.”

She redoubles her efforts like a fiend for his cum, and suddenly, he shoots down her throat. I’m shocked. I’ve never seen him do that with any submissive at the club, no matter how much they begged.

After, bodies tangle in silence. The fireplace logs shift, and the embers flare. Tabitha lies across our chests awkwardly, but none of us mind. The chaise is large, but not quite large enough for four. My palm rests low on her back, feeling each slow inhale. Dante’s fingertips trace idle patterns on her thigh. Sal’s breaths might slip into snores at any moment.

Whatever tomorrow’s parties bring—judgmental relatives, mob loopholes—we will meet it together. That unspoken pact feels stronger than any clause Pietro drafted.

20

SALVATORE

I’m pacingthe south terrace in a charcoal robe and flannel pajamas, predawn frost smoking off the flagstones, when old ghosts show up for roll call.

They arrive every morning, like auditors. First comes Alana’s perfume-memory—citrus and sandalwood—sliding in on the back of a stray December breeze. Then the follow-ups. The banker’s call that confirmed the millions siphoned while I was stuck in the Cardiac ICU. The blood-bright ECG, which looked more chaotic than any chart. The taste of hospital oxygen, metallic. Humiliating.

Heartbreak, literally. My cardiologist labeled it a perfect storm of stress and myocarditis, but I know better. It was betrayal that cinched the coronary artery—a rope yanked from the inside.

The villa’s lake glitters steel-blue in the distance. What I wouldn’t give for a cigar right now, but no. Doctor’s orders. Inside, staff will bustle soon—polishing glassware for tonight’s party—but right now, the world is quiet enough to hear my own pulse. It’s steady…which almost surprises me.

But I know why. Tabitha.

I didn’t sleep next to her last night, hence the ghosts of the past. But even as much as reliving those moments hurts, the ache is dulled by her presence. I’ve run half-marathons, argued billion-dollar acquisitions, and launched couture lines under ticking clocks. None of it rattled me like walking in on her crying yesterday. Or watching her take me in her mouth like my cock was the thing she needed to live.

Like she neededme.

A chill wakens my bones. I turn from the balustrade, intending to shower the anxiety off, and I collide with her in the library hall.

She’s barefoot, wrapped in a cable-knit robe, hair unbraided, eyes soft with sleep. She freezes, clearly having expected an empty hallway. “Sorry,” she whispers, hand to chest. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.” Lie. She startles me merely by existing. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Jet lag from the roller coaster,” she jokes, stepping closer. There’s nothing between us now but cool air and the echo of my heartbeat.

She studies my face—too perceptive by half. “You look… Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Automatic, brusque. I regret the edge as soon as it leaves my tongue. She flinches, but not away—rather, closer, like she’s determined to break through.

“Can I ask something personal?”

I inhale carefully.No,the old defensive reflex wants to bark. But we crossed personal lines last night when we helped to save her sister’s life and held her through tears. The least I owe is honesty—within limits.

“Ask away.”

She rolls the sleeve of her robe, revealing pale freckles. “Your heart. Is it okay?”

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