Page 3 of The Silver Fox Brother

The intimacy of this new position overwhelms me. Our bodies press against each other, and I feel every inch of him as he moves slowly and deliberately. My hands roam his back, tracing the flexing muscles beneath his skin. His lips find mine again, and we share breaths, moaning into each other.

Every thrust sends shockwaves through my body, each moment building on the last. The rhythm between us quickens, and I cling to him as the pleasure becomes almost unbearable. My orgasm climbs, reaching its peak, and I can feel his cock so deep inside of me that it drives me nuts.

“Yes,” he growls, his voice a rumble in my ear.

“Come for me.”

His words are my undoing. My body tenses, and I cry out his name as the climax crashes over me like a tidal wave. My body shudders uncontrollably, my wallsclenching around him as I lose myself in ecstasy. His pace falters, and I feel him pulsing inside me, as he grips my flesh, holding me in place. With a loud, guttural groan, he thrusts into me one final time, spilling his cum deep within my walls.

He grunts, his voice raw with satisfaction. His body goes still, and I feel his warmth flood me completely.

Knox pulls out slowly, but not without another satisfied groan, as he continues panting wildly. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, a satisfied grin playing on his lips. I smile back at him, feeling completely sated as I wrap my arms around his neck, and connect our lips for another kiss.

Chapter One

Winter

The guest suite at the Sterling estate smells like money—old money, the kind that doesn't announce itself but permeates everything.

Gardenias from the arrangement on the vanity. The faint mustiness of antique furniture that costs more than most people's cars. Diane Sterling's preferred candle, something French with bergamot that probably runs two hundred dollars and burns in every room of this sprawling Hamptons monstrosity.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror, the one with the gilded frame that definitely belonged to someone's great-grandmother, and smooth my hands down the blush pink Valentino. Knee-length, because Diane mentioned once—just once, two years ago—that she finds mini dresses "trying too hard" at formal events. The fabric cost more than my first month's rent in Chicago, back when I was sleeping on an air mattress and building my portfolio on a laptop held together with duct tape.

That feels like a lifetime ago.

Now I'm here, in a guest suite bigger than that entire first apartment, preparing to play the role I've perfected over two years: Rowan Sterling's girlfriend. The woman who smiles at the right moments, laughs at his colleagues' mediocre jokes, and stands beside him looking appropriately beautiful but not threatening.

I'm so fucking good at it.

The realization sits heavy in my chest as I reach for my earrings—simple diamond studs, because Diane also mentioned she finds statement jewelry "a bit much." I fasten them, tilt my head, assess. Blonde hair swept into a low chignon that took me forty minutes and three YouTube tutorials to perfect. Makeup natural but flawless—the kind that looks effortless but requires fourteen products and the steady hand I developed drafting floor plans.

My phone buzzes on the marble vanity.

Rowan: Meet me downstairs in 10. Try not to be late.

Not "when you're ready." Not "no rush." Try not to be late, like I'm habitually tardy, like I'm the one who kept him waiting at that gallery opening last month while he took calls from "the office" that ran forty minutes past our reservation.

I stare at the text. Consider typing:

Winter: I’ve been ready for twenty minutes.

Delete it.

Winter: Almost done.

Delete that too.

Finally:

Winter: See you soon.

Professional. Neutral. The kind of response that can't be weaponized later.

Another buzz. Group text this time.

Kate: Survive tonight and brunch is on me tomorrow. Mimosas and shit-talking.

Amy: Seconded. Also you're gonna look hot. Send pics.