Page 41 of Under His Control

I glance back at her. “While he sets up, why don’t you head upstairs and change into a robe? Trust me—you won’t regret it.”

She hesitates, glancing toward the floating staircase. “You’re not coming up?”

“If I follow you now, dinner will get cold.” I step closer, my knuckle grazing her jaw. “And I want you fed before I devour you.”

She blushes, then turns and ascends the stairs, hips swaying in a way that makes me stare like a hungry animal. I watch until she disappears beyond the mezzanine rail, then slowly release the breath I was holding.

Patience, Anatoly.

Behind me, the butler begins preparing the table. It sits beneath a butterfly chandelier, right near the windows. The linens are laid smooth, adorned with gold-rimmed China, candles already flickering. He arranges the place settings with crisp efficiency, lining up plates, silver, and crystal perfectly.

He pops the champagne and fills two flutes, before placing the bottle back into the ice bucket.

When he finishes, he straightens and turns to me. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Yes,” I say, slipping several folded bills into his palm. “Privacy.”

His fingers close around the money, and he dips his head in practiced professionalism. “Of course. Enjoy your evening.”

He vanishes silently down the corridor, and the door clicks shut behind him.

I turn back just in time to see her.

Taylor stands at the top of the stairs, hair piled into a messy bun, wrapped in one of the suite’s plush white robes. The belt is cinched just tight enough to emphasize her hourglass figure, the bare skin of her collarbone glowing in the candlelight. She’s scrubbed off her makeup, her freckles scattering across her nose and cheeks like stars.

I find her even more stunning like this.

“Better?” I ask, handing her a flute when she comes down the stairs.

She takes a sip, eyes widening at the Krug champagne’s bite. “Better. Terrified, but better.”

“Terrified?” I lead her to the dining table. “Of what?”

“This place. You. Tonight.” She shrugs one shoulder. The robe slips, revealing a line of collarbone I ache to kiss. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Neither have I.”

I pull her chair out for her then take a seat across the table. I lift a dome—Wagyu glistening under a veil of truffle ponzu. The aroma drifts up, earthy and decadent.

“Eat.”

She obeys, fork trembling in her fingers. The first bite earns a soft moan. My cock hardens instantly, and I clench my fist against my thigh under the table.

Control, Anatoly.

We eat in silent pleasure. She tastes everything, humming approval, cheeks flushing from the champagne. I watch her lipsclose around a bite of lobster agnolotti, the tip of her tongue catching a bead of saffron cream.

She has no idea what that does to me.

Half a bottle of Krug later, she leans back, hands on her stomach. “I’m going to need a forklift.”

“Good, then you’re satisfied.” I top off her glass, then mine.

She traces the rim, eyes suddenly shy. “I don’t really know what’s supposed to happen next.”

“What do you want to happen?”

She bites her lower lip. “I want you to lead the way.”