Page 48 of Under His Control

She’s not exactly shy, but there’s a flicker of awareness in her eyes when she sees me watching her. And Iamwatching. Every slow step, every sway of her hips, every movement of those curves that made last night feel like a goddamn fever dream.

“Come on in.”

I lean back against the wall of the pool, arms spread wide on the ledge behind me. Dominant. Open. Waiting.

Without hesitation, she dives into the deep end.

The water erupts around her, and when she surfaces, her dark hair is slicked back, droplets clinging to her skin.

I’m not just in trouble.

I’m fucked.

She smirks at me, then glides closer. The air between us is electric.

“Are you always this forward with your temporary wives?” she asks, a playful tone to her voice.

“Only the ones who show up to my pool who look like you and are smug about it.”

She turns her back to me and tips her head, water dripping from her lashes. She peers upside down at me, dimples cutting deep. “Multitasking looks good on performance reviews, boss.”

“Performance, huh?” I drift toward her, slow, predatory. “I’m more of a hands-on evaluation type.”

She stands upright and turns, meeting my stare, dark eyes dancing. “Good, because the benefits package here is outrageous.”

I circle her like a shark, letting her feel the heat even before I touch her. “Wait until you see the bonus structure.”

She laughs—a soft, sexy sound that tightens something low in my gut. I move behind her, hands sliding over her waist, fingers brushing the slope of her hips. The water doesn’t hide a damn thing; that black swimsuit clings to her skin like it’s painted on.

She presses her back against my chest. “Do all your HR policies involve swimming pools and sexual tension?”

“I find employee morale improves with strategic incentives.”

“And here I thought this was a hostile work environment.”

“Only if you fight me,” I murmur against her ear. She shivers. I bring my hand up, brushing wet strands off her neck, savoring the heat of her skin. “You still nervous?”

A pause.

“Yes,” she whispers, “but not as much.”

That’s all I need.

My hand coasts down her arm then around her stomach, spreading across her skin, claiming. “You’re not nervous about me hurting you.”

“No.”

“You’re nervous about wanting me this much.”

Her breath hitches, soft and sharp. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

She twists to face me, water lapping between us. Her eyes flash with challenge, but her body gives her away, trembling faintly. I brush my fingers up her spine, pausing just below the band of her top.

“Tell me to stop.”

She doesn't.