Hot Silver Nights: Silver Fox Romance Collection

by Ainsley Booth

  He leans in even closer. “I didn’t catch that.”

  I hesitate, then push up on my toes and press my hand against his chest. “Never mind,” I say, lifting my voice over the music.

  Chapter 3

  STEW

  God, she’s radiant.

  How long has it been since we’ve gone to a concert together? Since she’s had a beer and listened to live music with my arms wrapped around her?

  Not that we’ve gotten to that step yet. I’m still seducing her.

  She likes this stranger, and my heart throbs a little at the reminder that we haven’t shared anything like this in far too long.

  It shouldn’t have just occurred to me yesterday to do this. I should have more planned, but this was it. This was my entire plan. Fly down after work and find her at the concert.

  Watching her get hit on was an unexpected bonus. I love the way she blushes. How she has no idea how fucking beautiful she is.

  I brush her thick, dark hair off her shoulder, letting my fingertips graze along the bare skin of her neck. “Do you like this band?” I ask, knowing the answer already. I want to see her squirm.

  “I do!” She hesitates. “Saw them a bunch of times when I was younger.”

  Every single time with me. “Yeah?”

  She nods. “They’re one of my favourites.”

  “Mine, too.” I nod toward the stage. “I love this song.”

  She twists around, and I ease in beside her, my arm loosely around her waist, my hand on her hip. She doesn’t move away from me.

  What’s going through her mind? How far will she let me play like this? I take a long slug of beer.

  Against my hand, her hip shifts. Up, down. I glance at her as she starts to move to the music. She takes a drink, then shifts closer to me, her thigh rubbing against mine now. I hook my finger through her belt loop and step my far foot a bit wider, bracing myself in case anyone bumps into me—protecting her from the crowd.

  That’s how we watch the next two songs, her dancing on the spot beside me, wrapped in my arm at first, then she moves more in front of me. We finish our drinks, and the empty bottles get picked up by a passing employee. I put both hands on her waist now, rubbing the tight nip of her body, and lower onto the curve of her hips.

  I throb for her. I’m ready to drag her back to the hotel right now.

  But I’m a stranger tonight. She wouldn’t invite this man back to her room, would she?

  I move my hands to her arms, then her shoulders. I duck my head and brush my lips against her ear. “Want another drink?”

  She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Do you have to call your husband to say goodnight?”

  She shudders in my arms. It takes her a beat to jerkily shake her head. No. “Not tonight.” She twists her head to the side, showing me her profile. “He’s working late.”

  “Does he do that a lot?”

  She nods.

  “Dangerous, to ignore a beautiful wife.”

  She bites her lip. Oh, she wants to defend him. I rub my thumb along her jaw. “It’s okay,” I murmur in her ear as the song quiets. “I’ll keep your secrets.”

  Her chest rises and falls, and like the other men here, I can’t keep myself from sliding my gaze over her curves. But unlike those sad bastards, I know how soft and sweet the shadow between her breasts is. How her breath hitches when I circle her nipple with my fingertips, drawing her flesh into a tight, hard peak before tugging and twisting on it.

  She gets so wet when I play with her nipples. Whiny and panting. She’ll beg me for my cock if I get her worked up enough.

  She finally twists toward me, her lips parted, her eyes wide. “I miss him,” she whispers, and I almost miss it as the band amps up into the next song. “That’s my secret.”

  I stroke my thumb back and forth as I nod. “Okay.” I sway with her, almost dancing. “Well, you’re not alone right now.”

  “No,” she sighs.

  I want to toss her over my shoulder and march her right out of here, but instead, I turn her back to the stage, and we watch the rest of the set, need humming hard in my bloodstream.

  By the time The Replacements play their last song, we’re both thirsty again. I guide her to the bar, my hand in the small of her back. I let it drift over the curve of her ass as we make our way through the press of the crowd, but I don’t leave it there.

  I don’t want a stranger groping my wife’s ass.

  Not unless she wants him to.

  We order two bottles of beer, then I turn toward her “Great shirt, by the way.”

  She tips her head back and laughs. “Thank you.”

  “Is that funny?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got all night.” I ease her against my body, showing her how hard I am. How much I want her. How much I want to be what she needs tonight. “Are you staying nearby?”

  She smiles knowingly, a brilliant transformation of her beautiful face. “Very tempting,” she says, running her hand up and down my chest. “But I couldn’t cheat on my husband.”

  I grin at her. “He’d never know.”

  “Oh, he’d know.” She licked her lips. “Even when he’s busy, he’s observant. And I’d never be able to keep a secret like this from him. I tell him everything.”

  “No way.”

  She nods. “Yes way. I’ll tell him about this.”

  “And what will he say?”

  She takes a sip of beer and shrugs. “That you have good taste in women.”

  “He trusts you.” It’s a statement, not a question. I do, with my entire heart.

  Another nod. “Of course he does.”

  “And you trust him, even with all those late nights at work?”

  Her eyes crinkle. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t try to trick me into doubting him. You don’t know my husband as well as I do.”

  Ha. That’s probably true. Sometimes she sees me way better than I can see myself. “You figure?”

  She takes a deep breath. “He’s got a chance to do something huge right now. With the government. It’s maybe a once-in-a-lifetime chance to literally change the world. It’s all he can think about, and…I can’t begrudge him that. I love him for that. Don’t you get it? I love him because—”

  I set my beer down and take her face in my hands. My amazing wife. I fucking don’t deserve her. I lower my mouth to hers and pour everything into our first kiss of the night.

  First, but definitely not the last. “Do you want to stay for the next band?” I ask her as she wiggles closer.

  “Nope.”

  “Good.”

  As we tumble out the front doors, I almost run into two young girls. They’re probably adults, just barely, because it’s a nineteen-plus concert, but really…children. And I almost run into them because they’re standing in the middle of the path joking about the “retro” band that opened for their favourite act.

  I skid to a halt.

  Adrienne gets between me and the children and whispers something at me, probably about not making a scene.

  “The Replacements aren’t retro,” I protest.

  “Does it matter?”

  “They’re wrong.”

  “This isn’t like political ideology, baby. They’re allowed to think what they want without getting a lecture.”

  “I don’t lecture people about politics.”

  “Honey, I follow you on Twitter. Don’t lie to me.”

  I haul her close and kiss her. “I want to go back to being the stranger seducing you into a one-night stand. He’s not grumpy about politics or music.”

  “Ah,” she whispers. “But I didn’t want to have dirty sex with him in my hotel room. Only you.”

  “Dirty?”

  “Filthy.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Chapter 4

  ADRIENNE

  Stew has my jeans unbuttoned before we get into the hotel room. The short hallway is empty, but I’m still burning up wit
h mortification as he strokes the bare skin of my belly above my panties. “Baby, I can’t get the room key to work if you’re undressing me.”

  He nuzzles the back of my neck. “Let me try it.”

  I spin around and press the card into his hand, then I return the grope, finding and cupping his erection through his jeans.

  He can’t get it to work, either.

  “Fuck,” he growls, and he cups the back of my neck, holding me still for a kiss before trying again. “Okay. Hands off for a second.”

  “That’s what I said to you,” I point out.

  “You’re irresistible. Not my fault.”

  My cheeks are going to hurt tomorrow from smiling so much. He finally gets the door open and we stumble inside. He presses me back against the door—the private side, now—and runs his hands over the as-requested tight t-shirt. “This looks so good on you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now take it off.” He helps, sort of, and pretty soon the t-shirt, my jeans, my heeled boots, and most of his clothes, too, are scattered around us.

  “This is what that young kid wanted to do with you,” he murmurs as he trails his fingers across my swollen, aching breasts. “He wanted to strip you down and touch you all over.”

  My husband is officially crazy. And adorable. I kiss the side of his jaw. “He was not seriously trying to pick me up. He was just being nice.”

  “I watched him. In his metrosexual shoes and his pretty-boy haircut. I watched him leer at my wife.”

  I laugh gently and pull him closer, happy for an excuse to run my hands over Stew’s solid abs. “He was a hipster, not a metrosexual.”

  “How am I supposed to know the difference? Suddenly the music I listen to is retro. What the fuck?”

  I laugh harder. “You're like the opposite of a metrosexual. You’re a retrosexual.”

  He gives me a stern look that makes me shiver. “You’re mocking me for being old.”

  “Noooo,” I say in a bad attempt at solemn, inviting more stern looks. I duck under his arm and start to move across the room, tripping over his jeans.

  “You’re the same age as me.”

  “Not really.” I giggle and that pulls him up short.

  His expression shifts from stern to confused. “How old are you?”

  That sends me into peels of laughter and he growls as he chases me across the bed. “That was a serious question. I can't remember.”

  “I know, baby. I know. I'm two years younger than you.”

  He pins me to the bed, looming above me. “You look ten years younger.”

  I wiggle my wrist free so I can slide my palm over his very firm ass. “Not at all.”

  “Don't distract me with compliments about my butt. You called me old.”

  “Technically the teenagers at the concert called your music retro, which you interpreted as meaning old, and I just turned it into a thing. Hashtag retrosexual. Hashtag DILFs of Ottawa. Hashtag…”

  “What’s a dilf?”

  “I’m really not telling you.”

  He wraps his hand around my upper arm. “I’ll spank you.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  He rolls over and pulls me into his lap. He lazily swats st my bottom.

  “Oh come on, put more into it than—ah!”

  The sting of a proper spank always gets me wet. It also effectively ends all teasing, because he alternates each strike with a lazy, commanding stroke between my legs. After three swats, he pulls off my panties with rough efficiency, and continues to spank my bare flesh until I’m swollen and shamelessly grinding my mound against his thigh.

  “What does dilf mean?”

  “Dad I’d Like to Fuck. DILF.”

  His palm slows to a stop. “Do you have a list of them?”

  “Just one name on it.” I twist around and climb up so I’m kneeling, straddling his lap. “Stewart.”

  He groans as I trace a finger down his happy trail.

  When I reach his boxer briefs, I slip my fingers into the waistband. He falls backward, bracing himself on his elbows, and I whisper for him to lift his hips before I slide the boxers part-way down his thighs.

  Crawling back up his body, I pin his wrists to the bed, then lean down and kiss him. I rock my hips as I hover over him, my clit gliding over the tip of his erection, barely touching it.

  He arches up, but not fast enough. I swallow his moans as I rise with him, never losing contact, but also never giving him the pressure he craves.

  It’s a heady feeling having the nation’s most powerful DILF at my mercy.

  But I want him inside me. Torturing him is torturing myself, and that wasn’t on the menu for this weekend. I press down a little and slide up and down his cock for a few strokes, to sate my appetite, then I’m back to skimming it with my clit.

  He grunts in protest, and as he pushes up again, I move with him, breaking the kiss as I do.

  “You’re only making this harder on yourself,” I tease.

  “I’m sure I’d have a witty comeback for you if my dick had left me any blood for brain-function.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say sweetly. “It’s not your brain I need functional right now.”

  I nip his earlobe…his neck…his shoulder.

  The tendons in his wrists flex as his hands clench into fists, and he moans as he makes a half-hearted attempt to break free.

  I know he’s bumping up against the limit of his self-control because I am, too. Yet he doesn’t try to take charge.

  This is my Stewart—putting my wants and needs ahead of his own when he can. Because more often than he’d like, he has to put the needs of the prime minster, and by extension, the country ahead of all else.

  Taking pity on both of us, I ease all the way down on him, increasing the pressure as I glide back and forth from root to tip.

  I have the urge to work my way down his body and take him into my mouth, taste myself on him, and swallow him whole.

  But I’m not that benevolent.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight, I want feel him deep inside my body.

  I slide back up his cock, and this time I cant my hips until the tip of him is at my entrance.

  I grin at him as I sink all the way down and grind my hips a little.

  On the upstroke, I lean forward and kiss him, then pump my hips in short, fast thrusts over the head of his cock. When his fists clench and his wrists strain against my grasp, I plunge down, taking him as deep as I can.

  I’m close and I want him to be inside me when I come.

  As I bottom out, I grind my clit back and forth against him. Up, down, grind, grind. Stewart pushes up against me, adding more delicious pressure exactly where I need it most. My control of the sex slips as he moves even more, driving into me now. We’re both so close.

  Then his hips jerk up and he pushes hard against me, the first pulses of his orgasm triggering my own.

  And I’m lost.

  Releasing Stew’s wrists, I collapse on his chest.

  His heart beats fast and strong beneath my ear as he wraps me in his arms and kisses the top of my head.

  I couldn’t ask for a more perfect night. Or a more perfect husband.

  Chapter 5

  STEW

  I wake before dawn. Adrienne is curled up against me, her flesh warm and gloriously naked next to mine.

  Not having any kids about to barge in is a good thing.

  Being up at the ass-crack of the day is not.

  I throw my forearm over my eyes, wishing it wasn't in my nature now to wake up so early. Then I hear my phone. Fucking hell. I hadn't just woken up as a matter of routine.

  Cursing under my breath, I slide out of bed, tucking the blankets back around my wife to keep her warm as I dig for the offending device under a trail of discarded clothes.

  When I find it, my stomach sinks. It's the prime minister. It's six in the morning here, but he's flown to his home riding in Vancouver for the weekend. It's only three there.

&
nbsp; “You should be asleep,” I say when I answer.

  “Yeah. Can't. So I was thinking.” Famous last words. “How do you feel about…”

  I grind the heel of my hand into my eye socket and reach for the notepad and pen on the bedside table.

  Slim, lovely fingers slide them into my grasp. I twist around and see Adrienne’s up. She gives me a little shrug and a rueful smile. What can you do, her expression says. I'll make coffee, she mouths, pointing to the machine in the corner.

  I turn my attention to the PM and the initiative he wants to task to two of his cabinet ministers.

  By the time I've made the three follow-up calls necessitated by Gavin’s idea, Adrienne is on her second cup. But she's still naked, so I'm calling this a win. “Have you had too much coffee to go back to sleep?” I ask as I rejoin her on the bed.

  “Probably yes.” She smiles at me. “How long do I have you for?”

  “All weekend. I’m taking the train back with you tomorrow.”

  She doesn’t look like she believes me.

  I wince as I point to the phone. “No promises that won’t ring repeatedly, but I don’t need to be back in Ottawa.”

  Still not convinced.

  Fair enough. I hook my hand around the back of her calf, right below her knee, and tug. “How about we just see how the day goes? I’m not busy right this second, for example.” I press her leg out to the side and slide my palm up her thigh. “And I’m starving.”

  After I go down on Adrienne, we stumble into the shower, and she returns the treat.

  Then we put on clothes and go outside. Adrienne insists on it, foolish girl. I’m pretty sure romance can be completely recaptured in bed, but this is her weekend in the big city.

  She has an entire day planned, and despite my base desires to take advantage of our kid and work-free time, I also want her to do exactly what she wanted to do before I showed up.

  We start with breakfast at a cafe a few blocks away. It looks like exactly the type of place where Adrienne’s admirer from the night before would hang out, and I tell her that as we peruse the menu.