Page 90 of Under His Control

“I’m Russian.” His mouth lifts in the smallest smile. “Drama comes with the territory.”

His next kiss is softer. Slower. An apology letter of regret and relief. It melts into me like the promise he’s been afraid to make—unspoken until now. And when he pulls back just enough to whisper, “I love you,” my knees give up the fight.

The words hit like a powerful sunrise—warm, irrevocable, infinitely hoped for. Everything in me stills.

“I love you, too,” I say. The words lock something into place. Like a door finally closing against the rest of the world and everything that ever tried to pull us apart.

His fingers tighten on my waist, grounding us both. “I’m serious, Taylor. I will give it all up for you. For us.”

“You don’t have to,” I say with a weak smile.

His brows draw together, eyes searching mine.

I reach into my pocket with shaking fingers and pull out the folded sonogram. The secret I’ve been keeping, the one I touched a hundred times. The crease down the middle is soft and worn from worry, from hope.

I press it into his hand.

“I got my miracle. We’re having a baby, Anatoly.”

For a beat, nothing but silence.

Shock flashes across his face. Raw and wordless, so strong it knocks the breath out of him. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

His eyes drop to the photo in his hand, trembling fingers unfolding it carefully, like it might disintegrate if he’s not gentle. He stares at the blurry shape—our little jelly bean with its stubby arms and tiny beating heart. After a moment, his entire expression shifts from disbelief to awe.

“You’re sure?” he whispers, voice cracking. “I thought…Damas said…”

“I thought so, too.” I smile through a rush of tears. “But apparently my ovaries didn’t get the memo.”

He laughs—deep and genuine. His thumb brushes over the picture, over the tiny blur that will someday call him Papa. “We’re really having a baby?”

“Yes.”

His laugh turns into a choked sound. He kisses the sonogram, pressing it to his lips for a long, trembling second like it’s sacred. Then he kisses me, urgent and disbelieving, like he’s trying to taste this new reality between us.

The kiss ignites every inch of me.

Because now there’s no more bargaining. No more fear. No more pretending that what we have is anything but forever.

We’re going to be a family.

And nothing has ever felt more right.

“Lock the door,” he growls into my hair.

I kick the door shut and lock it. The act feels like it’s blocking out all the anger, fear, and doubt.

We make it three feet before he spins me, my back hitting the wall. His hands roam as if he’s confirming I’m real, that this moment isn’t another of fate’s nasty jokes. I tug the tie loose at his throat, and he shrugs out of his suit coat, tossing it on the couch.

“You’re way overdressed,” I say breathlessly, yanking his shirt from his waistband. His abs ripple beneath starched cotton, and I deftly undo the buttons, pushing it off his shoulders. I plant open-mouthed kisses from the dip of his collarbone to the line of dark hair disappearing under his belt.

His fingers scrape the hem of my oversized T-shirt—one of his, stolen weeks ago. He lifts it and I raise my arms, surrendering the fabric. Cool air licks my skin as he gives me a once-over.

“Look at you.” He cups my breasts, thumbs brushing already sensitive peaks. “All mine.”

“All yours,” I agree. “But you’re still wearing too many luxury labels.”

He grins as his belt clinks and trousers drop. He kicks them free, standing in black boxer briefs that do absolutely nothing to hide how badly he wants me. My mouth waters.