Page 79 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

I feel it when she comes, squeezing on me. Her mouth slackens, her breaths go rapid, then stuck, then rapid again as she groans on my tongue. She’s shaking beneath me, and I want every jolt. I want her undone. I want her. All of her.

Her orgasm doesn’t stop me. I don’t even slow when my own hits, pouring myself into her. This isn’t physical anymore. It’s deeper than our bodies. It’s a connection of souls.

Until finally, my body goes weak with satisfaction. I’m still not finished, though. I reach for her pussy, swollen, slick, and massage her clit as her eyes go wide, startled at first. But she grinds against my fingers, seeking another release. This time, she screams my name, and that awakens my cock.

And we’re at it again.

She hides her face in my neck, giggling at the absurdity of us. She pants, “I thought…I thought you were done.”

“With you?” I kiss her hair. “Never.”

Minutes, hours, even days could pass by right now, and I wouldn’t care. Me on top, her on top, spooning that becomes forking, it all blurs into something more. Something vital.

Eventually, we lie still, catching our breath, until her heavy breaths are the only thing I hear. I wrap her up in me to keep her warm. To keep her close. I will never let go.

I will not squander this second chance.

33

TABITHA

Hospital dawn filtersthrough tinted windows the color of watered peach juice.

I’m bent over Erin’s tray table, spoon-feeding her oatmeal the nurse garnished with sugared cranberries shaped like a smiley face. The pediatric oncology ward generally sees kids a lot younger than Erin, so the nurses tend toward making things more juvenile than needed for her, hence the cranberry smiley face. But I don’t mind it, and I don’t think she does either. Erin hasn’t had much of a childhood since Mom and Dad died.

She rolls her eyes—fifteen-year-old code forchildish—but eats every bite. “I can feed myself, you know. Been doing it for a while.”

“Your hand shook so hard that you wore the first two bites, you goober. Take the help when you can get it.” I playfully shove the spoon under her nose, and she dutifully eats.

They say the hand tremors are normal, but it gutted me to see them make even a small return post-surgery. They swear up anddown that she’s doing better than expected, though. That’s the part I try to focus on.

Grandma Judy dozes in the corner cot Sal had installed last night, cocooned in a goose-down duvet. Another gift from Sal. Dr. Shah glided through early this morning, tapped Erin’s toes, flexed her ankles, and pronounced her “a model of neurological stubbornness,” which we take for a compliment.

I smooth a wrinkle in the purple blanket and let relief soak deep enough to flush out three years of terror. I have to remind myself that my shoulders can drop now, my lungs are allowed the full draw.

The tumor is gone. Her future is back. I chant this every time the old fear kicks in.

Erin finishes the last spoonful, then pushes the bowl away. “Tabi,” she croaks, voice still raspy. “Cards?”

I grin. She means Brave Bunnies, our weird hybrid of Go Fish and improv storytelling. Perfect low-impact PT for finger dexterity, and doctor-approved.

“Wild rabbits at dawn,” I answer, code forgame on.

Grandma rouses just long enough to bless us with a sleepy eye-roll, then plops back onto the pillow.

I shuffle the deck slowly so Erin can observe each riffle, then split it into two piles. She’s still gauging proprioception. Her right hand reaches confidently, the left one trembles, but she manages. This is less challenging than spoon-to-mouth coordination. She wins the first hand by building a ridiculous story about marshmallow minions storming a carrot castle. Imock-groan in defeat, and she giggles until her breakfast tray rattles.

Happy sounds. Hospital corridors rarely hear them.

We’re three hands deep when the realization lands like a pebble in a still lake.I was never scheduled to be here.

Technically, the auction contract requires me to be “at the bidders’ disposal” all month. Twelve hours’ notice for events, overnight availability, and sexual exclusivity. Yet the moment Erin’s surgery window opened, the brothers never invoked any clause, never asked, “Can you get away from the hospital for a few hours?” or “We need you for this event…”

They simply pivoted their calendars around mine, stuffed gift bags with boredom busters, and camped in vinyl chairs for ten hours without complaint. Supporting me, sure, but more importantly, supporting my family.

Even on Christmas Eve, when Dante brought Grandma and Erin to the villa, no one reminded me I had obligations or said this was tit for tat. They treated the contract like confetti—colorful, momentarily startling, then swept aside.

I glance at my phone. A text thread of three brothers.

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