Mile High Ex’s Dad (Forbidden Silver Foxes #19)

Chapter 1

SIENNA

His hand spreads over the inside of my thigh and shoves me wider, pinning me open for him as his cock drags deep enough to make my whole body jerk.

“Fuck,” I gasp, my fingers clutching helplessly at his shoulders.

He’s so much bigger than me. Broader. Harder. Older. Everything about him feels heavy and controlled and devastating, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and enjoys every second of it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my ear, voice low and rough. “Take it.”

The next thrust punches a cry out of me.

I’m already trembling, already slick, already too far gone to be embarrassed by the wet sounds between us or the way my thighs shake every time he drives into me.

One of his hands stays locked on my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me, while the other slides up over my body, cupping my throat just enough to make me shiver…

The windshield wiper drags across the glass with a wet, rhythmic scrape.

I blink.

Rain smears the windshield. The road curves ahead of me, gray and slick beneath the afternoon sky.

My hands are locked around the steering wheel hard enough to ache, and my breath catches in my throat as the memory dissolves all at once, leaving nothing behind but heat and humiliation and the dull thud of my pulse.

My breath comes fast and broken. “Please.”

He lets out a dark little laugh, all heat and male satisfaction. “Please what?”

I can’t even think. He’s fucking me too deep, too steadily, the thick drag of him making my eyes sting. His mouth brushes my jaw, then my ear, and his hips snap hard enough to make me cry out again.

“Use your words,” he says.

I whimper when he thrusts again, slower this time, crueler somehow. “Don’t stop.”

“No,” he says, and I can hear the smile in it. “I’m not stopping.”

I inhale sharply and force my eyes back onto the road. The horny dreams are getting worse and worse through the last few months.

The GPS says I’m twelve minutes away.

I adjust my grip on the steering wheel and glance at the garment bag hanging from the hook in the back seat, my planner open on the passenger side, my phone face up over a stack of printed timelines I only skimmed at two red lights and one gas station parking lot.

Everything about this feels last-minute.

Everything about it is last-minute.

Which is how I ended up driving alone toward a sprawling estate in upstate New York to coordinate a wedding weekend for people I’ve never met, because my best friend called me in tears this morning and said she needs a miracle.

I take the next bend a little too fast, then ease off the gas when the road narrows between rows of dripping trees and old stone walls.

The kind of road that leads somewhere private.

Exclusive.

The kind of place that has a name instead of an address.

My phone buzzes once against the folder beside it, but when I glance down, it’s just another automated payment reminder I don’t need haunting me while I’m driving. I mute it without reading the rest and keep going.

Talia’s voice comes back to me so clearly it may as well be filling the car.

“Sienna, please.”

No hello. No warm-up. Just my name, tight and strained and already fraying around the edges.

I’d been standing in my kitchen in bare feet, trying to decide whether the strawberries in the fridge were still technically usable, when her call came through. I almost let it ring out because I was in no mood for anyone else’s crisis.

Then I heard her voice, and mine changed instantly. “What happened?”

“My mom.” She sucked in a breath that sounded shaky and wet. “She’s at the hospital. I have to go to Boston. I’m leaving now.”

Everything in me had gone still.

“Oh my God. Talia.”

“I can’t do the wedding.” Her words started tripping over each other. “I’ve called everyone I can think of. I don’t have anyone else.”

That got me moving. I tucked the phone to my ear, reached for a pen, started clearing a patch of counter with my elbow. “Okay. Slow down. What do you need from me?”

“I need you to save my life.”

I remember staring at the grocery list I’d written that morning, three things on it, one of them crossed out before I’d even left the apartment. Then I reached for the notepad anyway.

“That depends,” I said. “How expensive is your life?”

She made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

And I was, though partly joking too. Talia knows me well enough to hear both things in my voice.

“I’ll give you almost everything I’m making,” she said immediately, like she’d been holding the offer in her mouth, waiting for the first opening.

I leaned against the counter. That made me pause. Not enough to answer right away, but enough to stop pretending it didn’t matter.

“You know I mostly do smaller events,” I said carefully. “Not these giant society-wedding production nightmares.”

“I know. I know, but you can handle it. Better than anyone I know, actually.” She was talking too fast, the way people do when they’re afraid you’re going to say no.

“Everything is already set. The timelines are done, vendors are locked, the layouts are approved. You’re really just stepping in and keeping the machine moving. ”

Just.

I almost laughed at that too.

There is no such thing as just when it comes to weddings. A wedding is a machine built entirely out of nerves, money, alcohol, and family politics. It’s always one overpriced floral arch away from collapse.

“Talia…”

“Please.” Softer this time. More desperate. “I’ll give you almost all of my fee.”

That got my attention. Not because I’m mercenary, but because my landlord had stuck a polite but increasingly pointed notice on my door, and because I had exactly six eggs in my fridge, one bruised apple, and a bottle of mustard.

I pulled the sweatshirt tighter around myself and stared out the window at the brick wall six feet away. “How much is almost all?”

She told me, and I went very still.

It was more money than I’d made in the last six months.

Enough to catch up on rent. Enough to pay the electric bill. Enough to stop doing that ugly math I’d been doing in my head every time I walked through a grocery store, where I added up the total before I touched anything and still somehow put half of it back.

I lowered myself slowly onto the arm of the couch. “Why almost all?”

“Because if I give you literally all of it, I can’t cover what I already put out,” she said, with the kind of honesty only a woman in active crisis can manage.

“But, Sienna, I swear to God, it’s worth it.

I’ll send you everything. Every binder, every note, every vendor contact.

You just have to get through the weekend. ”

Through the weekend.

Like she was asking me to survive a storm.

I should have listened harder to that. Instead, I asked, “Who are these people?”

There had been the slightest pause. Not long. Just enough to register.

Then, “Old money. Big money. Very particular money.”

I snorted despite myself. “That is not helpful.”

“It’s what I’ve got.”

“No, what you’ve got are names.”

Another pause. This one longer.

Now, I signal left out of habit, though there isn’t another car in sight, and turn onto a narrower road lined with wrought-iron lanterns glowing to life in the dimming rain. The estate can’t be far now. The road itself feels expensive.

I remember pressing the phone tighter to my ear. “Talia.”

“Please don’t freak out.”

An excellent thing to say if your goal is to make someone immediately freak out.

“What does that mean?”

“It means they’re… connected.”

I frowned. “Connected to what?”

A brittle exhale on the other end. “Everything, maybe? I don’t know. Rich people stuff. Powerful people stuff.”

I actually laughed then, sharp and unbelieving. “Are you sending me to a wedding or into a hostage negotiation?”

“Sienna, I’m serious.” Her voice dropped. “They’re powerful people who can’t be pissed off.”

I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see it. “That narrows it down beautifully.”

She exhaled hard. I could hear movement on her end, a zipper, a drawer slamming, the clipped panic of someone throwing a life into a suitcase.

“They’re intense, okay? Particular. Very particular.”

I tap the brakes as another curve opens up in front of me. Mist hangs low over the road, silver in the weak afternoon light. The estate has to be close now. Even the road feels manicured.

I laughed then, because what else was I supposed to do with that? “What does that even mean?”

“It means don’t improvise unless you have to. Don’t get smart with anyone. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. And for the love of God, don’t offend anybody.”

“Are you sending me to a wedding or a summit for minor royalty?”

“Sienna.”

Her voice stopped me cold. No panic in it that time. Something stranger.

“Just trust me,” she added.

I chewed the inside of my cheeks. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry for springing this on you,” Talia said, voice tight with guilt. “I know it’s last-minute. I know it’s a lot.”

I sighed then, resigned. “You said your mom is in the hospital. I’m not going to make this worse for you.”

“Still,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

The car is quiet. I keep my eyes on the road, one hand firm on the wheel, the other hand settling low on my belly.

At seven months, I should probably look more pregnant than I do, but being fat has made it easier to hide than it has any right to be.

Loose dresses, oversized coats, strategic layers.

Most people see what they expect to see.

The baby shifts, slow and insistent, and with it comes a memory so filthy it nearly makes me miss the curve in the road.

A broad hand shoving my thighs wider. Silver at his temples. His mouth at my ear, his voice rough and wrecked as he drives into me and growls, Take it. That’s it. Let me fuck this sweet cunt properly.

My breath catches hard.