Page 69 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

I break the kiss only long enough to lift her—effortless—off the stool and set her on the steel prep table. Cold beneath her, but she doesn’t flinch. Just grips my shoulders as I step between her legs.

Her hands tug at my shirt. I let her pull it off, toss it aside. Her fingers trail over my chest, down the hard lines of my stomach, stop at the tattoo that peeks beneath the waistband of my jeans—bouillon de légumes, the handwritten script, the recipe for the broth I learned from my grandmother.

“You’re marked,” she murmurs, tracing the faded ink.

“So are you,” I say. “Just not on the skin.”

She doesn’t answer. Just leans in and bites my shoulder. Sharp. Real.

I growl, low in my throat, and yank her hips forward. Her ass drags across the steel. She gasps.

Clothes come off in pieces. Her sweater over her head. Her bra undone with one hand. Her skirt pushed down her thighs, panties following. My jeans open, zipper screaming, shoved down just enough.

No foreplay. Not tonight. We’re past that. This is claiming. This is I see you, I know you, I want you.

I press against her, thick and ready. She arches, grips my arms—tattoos, muscle, bone.

“Now,” she says. “Ash, now.”

I push inside.

She’s tight. Wet. Hot. A velvet fist around my cock. She cries out, head thrown back, throat exposed. I don’t give her time to adjust. I thrust deep, once, twice—her nails bite into my skin.

“Yes—yes⁠—”

The kitchen is silent except for us. The clink of stainless steel. The soft slap of skin. Her breath breaking on every stroke. I brace one hand on the table beside her, the other in her hair, holding her steady as I drive into her, deeper, harder.

She’s coming fast. I feel it—her breath hitching, her thighs trembling.

“Not yet,” I growl. “Look at me.”

She does. Eyes wide. Glassy.

I slow. Pull out just enough, then sheath myself again, slow, deep, deep. Her mouth falls open.

“You’re mine,” I say. “And theirs. But right now—here—you’re mine.”

She moans, shudders, and her inner walls spasm around me.

That’s all I need.

I fuck her through it—ruthless, relentless. My hips snap forward, each thrust a punctuation mark: you’re wanted. you’re known. you’re ours.

Her second orgasm hits like a storm. She screams, low and guttural, back bowing off the table. Her fingers claw at my shoulders, my chest, my neck.

I follow her over the edge—growl her name like a prayer, a promise—Harper, Harper, Harper—and pour everything into her.

We collapse together.

I catch her before she slips, wrap her against my chest. Her breath comes hot against my collarbone. My cock still buried inside her. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

She doesn’t speak.

Neither do I.

The kitchen is warm. Quiet. Ours.

Eventually, I lift her gently, carry her to the back staff lounge. There’s a cot there, rarely used. I lay her down, pull the thin blanket over her.