My pregnant wife does not lean against that hard wood. She sits where she belongs: on me.

“You sound crazy,” Kara says when I tell her that, but she settles on my thighs anyway, then reaches for a triple chocolate muffin. “One day your ego will land you in trouble, Galen Onasis.”

I chuckle into her hair.

I deserve that—and I love her teasing. I love her prim little movements and her sexy as hell clothes. I love the vanilla scented candles she’s scattered around our home, and the way she says oh, gosh when I thrust inside her.

“Take the morning off.” My palm spreads over the firm curve of her belly, holding tight. “Stay with me a while.”

Kara’s head tips back against my shoulder. “You’re not too busy?”

Never for her. I’m never anything less than thrilled to see Kara.

“I think you know the answer to that.” And she does, because she’s already squirming in my lap, her breaths getting choppy as I abandon my muffin to explore.

I’ll finish it later.

First, I want something sweeter.

* * *

Thanks for reading Silver Fox! I hope you liked it. :)

For another older hero, check out Pit Stop. This grumpy billionaire has mistaken my house for a hotel. But hey, who am I to correct him?

And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy of Beauty & The Kingpin. I’m a florist. He’s the king of the underworld.

Happy reading!

xxx

Teaser: Pit Stop

“That is unacceptable.”

I think I’ve found Mr Rockwell’s favorite phrase. He’s said it about a dozen times in the last two minutes, and every time he does, I snort a little louder. He glares at me from his spot by the phone, the wire coiled around his tense hand.

I grin back from my seat on the kitchen counter, my heels kicking at the cupboard below. The full glass of water I poured myself sits beside me, sweating in the heat, and every time he stares longingly at it, I get a mean little thrill.

I’ll fetch him his own glass in a second. But waiting a few minutes for once in his life won’t kill him, will it? It’s character-building. Good for his soul.

“Marcel. Listen to me: that is unacceptable.”

Whoever this Marcel is, he’s having a rough day. I stare openly at Mr Rockwell as he lectures the poor man at the other end of the phone, and I can’t help noticing how wildly different we look.

He’s tailored and clean cut. Impeccably dressed and stern, his broad shoulders filling up his corner of the kitchen.

Meanwhile, my lilac shorts are frayed at the hem, and my white t-shirt has a bee embroidered on it. I must seem like an alien to him.

“No. No, I need it fixed today. I am in the desert, Marcel. The desert. The place with venomous snakes and cattle skulls. Did you watch cartoons as a child? Are you familiar with the concept?”