Page 38 of Under His Control

He’s quiet for a moment. I force myself to meet his eyes, unsure of what I’ll see there. Judgment? Frustration?

Instead, all I see is his typical unnerving steadiness. Calm and controlled.

“I appreciate honesty,” he says, his voice low. “Even when it’s uncertain.”

My brow lifts. “That doesn’t scare you?”

A slow, confident smile spreads across his face. “Nothing about you scares me, Taylor.”

That does something to me and my breath stutters. He moves closer—not touching—just close enough so that I can feel the heat of him.

“You’re not expected to feel anything specific yet,” he says. “Not comfort. Not trust. Not affection. But what you’re feeling right now?” His eyes flick to my lips. “It’s real. And that’s enough.”

I swallow hard, cheeks flushing. “What exactly do you think I’m feeling right now?”

His grin deepens, predatory and intimate. “Tempted. Curious. A little unsteady.” He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb across my lower lip. “Just like me.”

He stands and offers his hand. “Ready to escape?”

I slip my fingers into his, electricity running up my arm. “Take me somewhere quiet.”

He leads me out of the dining room, through a private corridor, and into a waiting elevator. We step in and the doors slide shut. Mirrors line the walls, reflecting endless versions of us—me flushed and breathless, him dark and hungry.

I glance at his reflection—broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist, and, good Lord, thatass. Perfectly sculpted in tailored slacks, like he was poured into them. My breath catches, my body getting hot.

“You’re staring,” he says without turning.

“Am not,” I reply.

Without warning, he cages me against the mirrored wall, hands braced on either side of my head. I breathe in the heat of his body, a seductive and steadfast tendril of smoke.

“No more audiences,” he says, gaze dropping to my mouth.

“Thank God.” My palms rise instinctively, flattening against his chest—solid, warm, alive.

I can feel his calm and steady heartbeat, quite the contrast to my own.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“A little,” I admit.

His smile turns wicked. “Don’t worry,malyshka. I know exactly how to fix that.”

He lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss is soft at first, testing, then his tongue slides against mine and the world tilts. I rise on tiptoes, fingers curling into his hair. He groans—a low, feral sound—and deepens the kiss. One hand slides down to cup myass, pressing me against the unmistakable hardness beneath his suit.

The elevator dings and the doors open to the private penthouse floor. He scoops me into his arms and strides down the hall. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in. My heart still hammers but the fear is gone.

Only anticipation remains.

When he opens the door and sets me down, I’m surrounded by a palace of glass and marble. City lights blaze beyond the windows, but all I see is his reflection.

He loosens the knot of his tie and tosses it aside. “One year,” he says, voice low. “Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred sixty-five nights.” He steps closer, hands sliding up my back. “I intend to use every one of them wisely.”

I shiver beneath his touch, entirely from pleasure.

“Show me,” I whisper.

He grins.