Page 91 of Under His Control

“Like what you see?” he asks, voice a decadent sin.

“Very much.” I hook a thumb beneath the elastic and release with a snap. “Off.”

He strips the last barrier, the thick, gorgeous proof of his hunger springing free. My pussy aches, pulsing hot. I slide to my knees, but he stops me, hauling me up.

“Tonight, I need to be deep inside you.”

The raw possessiveness, the reverence, coils heat low in my belly. I shove my panties down and step out of them. Neither of us cares that the blinds are half open; let the world see our lovemaking.

He grabs the backs of my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist, ankles locking. The blunt head of him nudges my entrance—slick, ready, needy. Our foreheads press together.

“Tell me you’re okay,” he whispers.

“I’m okay. I need you,” I plead.

He thrusts—slow and deliberate—a single slide that seats him to the hilt. We both gasp at the sensation, the connection. My walls flutter, adjusting, claiming. The stretch is perfect, like we’re made for one another.

I brace one palm on the wall, the other threading into his hair as he begins to move. Each controlled drive hits that spot that makes fireworks dance across my vision. Outside, Vegasglitters, but it’s nothing compared to the stars he pumps into my bloodstream.

“Harder,” I beg, nails scoring his shoulders.

He obeys, pace quickening. Sweat slicks our skin. He dips his head, mouth latching onto a nipple. Pleasure consumes, sharp enough to blur the edges of reality. I nibble his ear in gratitude.

The coil tightens. He slips a hand between us, thumb circling my swollen clit. My hips jerk. “Anatoly, I’m…so close.”

“Come for me, wife.” His thumb presses harder. His cock spears deep, deeper, and our world detonates as we come together—white noise, white light, white-hot everything. I pulse around him, drawing him in, milking him for everything he has.

He groans, thrusts once, twice, then freezes. Heat floods my body, filling me full of him. My name leaves his lips like a prayer.

He carries me to the sofa. We collapse onto the cushions in a heap of aftershocks and laughter.

We lie there, limbs tangled, chests heaving. His palm spreads gently over my lower belly.

We drift in and out in the sated hush, sweat cooling. The city lights strobe across the ceiling, paling before dawn.

Sometime later, he carries me to my old bed, tucking me beneath a quilt my mom sewed before cancer stole her. He stretches out, pulling me against his side, his big hand still cupping our future.

“Tomorrow,” he says into my hair, “we pack the rest, move you home for good.”

“Home,” I echo, savoring the taste of the word on my tongue.

“And we see your doctor. I want to hear that heartbeat myself.”

Warmth floods me. “You sure you’re prepared for Lamaze classes and midnight cravings?”

“I’ll buy the damn Lamaze studio. As for cravings…” He nuzzles my neck. “Anything you want.”

“Careful. I might want caviar-stuffed donuts at 3?a.m.”

He chuckles. “Done.”

A comfortable silence stretches, broken only by the city’s hum and our synced breathing.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” I say. “I just needed space.”

“I never want space from you.” He kisses my knuckles. “But I needed to take time tonight to find clarity, to see the difference between a legacy I inherited, and one we could make together.”

I press a palm to his chest. “You’re sure?”