Page 33 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
I stared at him, speechless. "That's it?"
"For now." His smile was both tender and knowing. "We'll talk later." He raised a hand and wiped the moisture from his face, and I could see his dick straining against his slacks, but even when I reached for him to initiate more, to help him, he held my hand away.
"Go," he whispered, kissing my temple, "finish your day while you feel relaxed."
I smiled and stepped back, letting my fingers linger in his hand for a second as I let it sink in what he'd just done, and with a giddy grin I turned toward his door.
I returned to my desk on unsteady legs, my body still humming from his touch. The remaining afternoon passed in a blur of phone calls and paperwork, but my mind kept returning to those moments in his office, the way he'd looked at me, the way he'd made me feel.
At five-thirty, I gathered my things and headed to the hospital. The oncology floor was quiet, the hallways filled with the antiseptic smell I'd grown to associate with Mom's treatments. I found her room and knocked softly before entering.
She was asleep, connected to an IV drip, her face pale against the white pillows. Dad sat in the chair beside her bed, his head in his hands.
"How did it go?" I asked.
He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "Rough. She had a bad reaction to the T-cell treatment. They had to sedate her."
My stomach clenched. "Is she okay?"
"The doctor says she'll be fine, but she needs to stay overnight this time. They want to monitor her for the next twelve hours."
I moved to the other side of the bed and took Mom's hand. Her fingers were cold, her breathing shallow but steady.
"I'm going to get coffee," Dad said, standing. "Do you want anything?"
"I'm fine. Take your time."
When he left, I settled into his chair and held Mom's hand between both of mine. The room was quiet except for the steady beep of the monitors and the distant sounds of hospital activity.
"I don't know what to do," I whispered to her sleeping form. "Everything is so complicated, and I'm scared I'm making the wrong choices."
Her hand remained still in mine.
"I think I'm falling for him again," I continued, my voice barely audible. "Duncan. I know it's crazy, and I know it could cost me everything, but I can't seem to stop myself. He makes me feel… cared for. Protected. And I haven't felt that way in so long."
Tears pricked my eyes. "I wish you could tell me what to do. I wish you could watch your grandchildren grow up and help me figure out how to be the mother they deserve while still being the daughter you need."
The words came easier now, spilling out in a rush of confessions I couldn't share with anyone else. I told her about the kids' latest milestones, about Sammy's obsession with trucks and Chrissy's artistic tendencies and Elena's stubborn streak. Itold her about the job, about working for Duncan, about the impossible situation I'd created by keeping secrets for so long.
"He said he'd move the whole world for me," I whispered, remembering Duncan's words from weeks ago. "I believe him. But I wish he could move cancer too."
Mom's hand twitched in her sleep. The movement was so slight I almost missed it, but when I squeezed her fingers, she squeezed back.
Tears filled my eyes. "I love you, Mom. Fight this. Please."
Her hand remained in mine, warm and still, but that tiny response felt like a promise. I sat there holding her hand as the evening light faded outside the hospital windows, thinking about Duncan's touch, about the choice I was making, about the future that seemed both terrifying and full of possibility.
14
IVY
Ihadn't planned to come to the hospital. After Ivy left the office, restlessness settled over me in waves I couldn't shake. I tried to focus on correspondence, reviewed quarterly projections, even attempted to return calls that had been piling up for days. Nothing worked.
The image of her face when she'd confessed how overwhelming everything had become stayed with me. The exhaustion in her eyes, the way her voice had cracked when she talked about her mother's treatments. I'd offered what comfort I could in my office, but it hadn't felt like enough. The memory of her responses to my touch, the way she'd looked at me afterward—vulnerable and grateful and still guarded—made my chest tight.
I paced my office for another hour, watching the sun set over the harbor through my windows. The building had emptied, leaving me alone with thoughts I couldn't organize. Every rational argument I made for staying away from her personal crisis crumbled against the pull I felt to be wherever she was.
By seven-thirty, I found myself in the hospital parking garage, wondering what the hell I was doing. The rationalpart of my mind knew this was a mistake. Showing up here crossed boundaries we hadn't discussed, inserted me into family territory where I didn't belong. But rational thought had abandoned me weeks ago where Ivy was concerned.
