Page 11 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

I pace my living room floor like a woman possessed. The contract from Anatoly’s lawyer is clutched in one hand, a glass of Cabernet in the other.

The ink is still fresh; the courier dropped it within a few hours of leaving Anatoly’s office.

He promised efficiency , though he also said I would be receiving an email from his attorney. I did, thirty minutes after our meeting, stating I could expect the contract later this afternoon. He wasn’t kidding. I’ve spent hours reading the thing over.

There’s a business card for Anatoly’s lawyer attached to the contract, but I’m determined to sort through all of it on my own.I sit cross-legged on my couch, laptop balanced on my knees, legal documents open on one side of the screen, and more Google tabs than I can count on the other.

The terms are brutally simple—brutal being the operative word. I squint at the screen.

Duration: Twelve months from the date of the civil ceremony.

One year of fake wedded bliss.

Financial security: An account will be opened in my name, funded with $100,000, labeled “For the bride’s peace of mind.”

Non-repayment clause: So long as I stay married for the full year, I keep the money. If I leave the marriage early, the funds boomerang back to Anatoly, and more importantly, Chris’s protection disappears along with them.

Awesome. No pressure. Just my brother’s life on the line.

Privacy : We can’t tell anyone it’s an arrangement. To the world, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Happily Ever After.

Right. And I’m Cinderella, minus the talking mice.

Option to extend: After twelve months, we either walk away or renegotiate in good faith.

“Okay,” I mutter, dragging my finger down the trackpad. “So, basically, I get married, I act normal, and I don’t run screaming into the night. In exchange, the Russian mafia doesn’t kill my brother. And I get $100,000 for my trouble, not to mention sharing the lifestyle of a billionaire.”

I blow out a long breath, flop back onto the cushions, and stare at the ceiling. I’m marrying my terrifyingly hot boss to save my idiot brother.

That’s it. No fine print about sex or anything like that. Nothing but a timeline and a promise that my brother lives.

I skim the contract one more time, looking for traps, but the language is shockingly kind. If anything, Anatoly’s giving me too much. I could never repay $70,000; it would take me decades. And that’s to say nothing of the hundred thousand he’s just gifting me.

I set the papers on the coffee table and stare at them.

I’ll sign it in the morning, I decide.

No sense pretending I’ll change my mind, but I want a good night’s sleep first—if I can sleep at all.

A glance at the clock tells me it’s 10:47?p.m. I’ve been vibrating with adrenaline for hours, my brain playing highlight reels of Anatoly’s mouth, his hands, that deep, velvet voice. Every time I remember him touching my knee, I feel a flutter between my thighs.

The man radiates lust like a furnace. If we share a bed—no, when we share a bed—there’s no way it stays purely transactional. And if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t think I want it to.

The one luxury in my apartment is the deep, claw-foot tub squeezed into the bathroom by a previous tenant with delusions of grandeur.

It’s ridiculous to have in such a small space, but tonight it feels like a blessing. I top off my wine, grab my phone and the little waterproof toy hidden in my nightstand, and head for the bath.

I turn on the tap. Before too long, steam begins to curl up as the tub fills, the faint scent of lavender rising with it. I strip, pausing to study myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. I’ve always been curvy and painfully aware of it.

The memory of Anatoly looking at my body like it was something he wanted to devour sparks heat low in my belly. He made me feel wanted, sexy.

I sink into the water with a deep sigh. The warmth wraps around me, soothing the ache in my shoulders and neck. I set the toy on the edge of the tub and close my eyes.

I’m back in his office, but the lights are dim, the city’s evening glitter painting his face in shadow.

Anatoly stands in front of me, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. “Come here, ?nevestushka. ” Bride-to-be.

He takes my wrists, gently guiding my hands to his chest. Heat radiates through the thin cotton of his shirt. I feel the steady pounding of his heart. “Unbutton me,” he orders softly.

My fingers tremble as I work the buttons, revealing hard planes of muscle dusted with dark-blonde hair. He shrugs the shirt off, muscles rippling. I’m afraid I might drool.

“Your turn,” he says, unbuttoning, then sliding my blouse from my shoulders. His palms skim down my arms, raising goose bumps. He cups my breasts through the lace of my bra, thumbs circling until the peaks tighten.

“Perfect.”

He kisses me, slow and claiming. His tongue tangles with mine, tasting, coaxing.

I moan into his mouth, arching against him.

He breaks away long enough to unclasp and toss my bra aside, sucking one nipple between his lips.

The sensation goes straight to my core. I gasp, fingers threading through his hair.

He lifts me effortlessly, placing me on his desk. Cool, polished wood against my back, hot mouth on my skin. He pushes my skirt up, finding the damp silk of my panties.

“You’re so wet already,” he growls. “Is that for me?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

He rips the fabric, the sound causing me to whimper. He spreads me wide, tongue stroking through the slick heat of my folds. The first lick is overwhelming, the second, devastating. He eats me out like a man starved, lips and tongue driving me higher until my legs are shaking.

“Come for me,” he commands. I do—crying out in the utmost pleasure, hips bucking against his face.

The fantasy is so vivid, my body is pulsing. I flick the vibrator on the lowest setting at first, sliding it between my thighs under the water.

My head tips back against the porcelain, a moan slipping free. I tease myself with thoughts of his mouth, his command, what I’m guessing is his impossible size. The toy hums, building pressure fast.

Back in the fantasy, he stands up after the shattering orgasm he just gave me, his eyes feral with lust.

Then he flips me onto my stomach. Papers scatter as he drags me to the edge, positioning me. The thick head of his cock presses against my entrance, and I tense.

“Breathe,” he soothes, sliding in slow. The stretch burns at first, then melts into pleasure so intense I see stars. He sets a punishing rhythm, one hand in my hair, the other braced on my hip, each thrust rocking the desk.

“Mine,” he growls, pounding deeper. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasp. “All yours.”

He drives harder, deeper, until my world narrows to the slick slide of him inside me, the slap of skin on skin, the heat of his breath.

I imagine the blunt head of his cock pushing deep, the stretch delicious, the fullness obscene. My free hand rolls my nipple, tugging lightly. The water in the tub sloshes as my hips lift, seeking more.

I crank the toy higher. The vibration pulses, and the fantasy swells. Anatoly’s mouth at my ear, whispering filthy Russian endearments while he thrusts slow and deep.

He flips me over onto my back again. “You take me so well, little wife. Look how your body swallows me.” He bites my shoulder, then soothes it with a kiss.

“Anatoly,” I whisper.

The orgasm gathers like a storm, tightening every muscle. I imagine him pinning my wrists above my head, licking the sweat from my throat. I imagine the other hand circling my clit as he pounds into me.

“Come for me again. I want to explode inside you while you come all over my cock.”

The toy throbs exactly where I need it, and my body obeys—clenching hard, pleasure detonating in waves that ripple from my core to my fingertips.

I bite my lip to muffle a cry, hips jerking as aftershocks pulse. The toy slips from my hand, buzzing against my thigh until I switch it off, chest heaving. Water laps the sides of the tub, bubbles clinging to my skin.

Slowly, I surface from the fog. My skin glows, limbs loose. I lift the toy, rinse it, and set it on the ledge to dry. Then I just breathe, eyes half-closed, replaying the fantasy like a favorite song.

I should be terrified. I’m about to sign a contract that makes me a dangerous billionaire’s wife for twelve months. But right now, all I feel is languid satisfaction—and a deep, molten anticipation.

Because if the reality is even half as good as the fantasy, the year ahead is going to change everything.

I reach for the oversized towel hanging on the hook, wrapping it tightly around myself as I step out of the tub, my heart still thudding in a slow, heavy rhythm.

My phone glows on the bathroom counter. It’s late, nearly midnight, but I remember what Anatoly clearly had said.

The moment you make your decision, I expect to know.

I create a text thread and type.

I’d like to meet. Maybe sign. Can we talk first?

I hesitate only a second before hitting send.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Oro Nero. Tomorrow. 7 p.m.

I stare at the screen, stunned. He really was waiting, like he knew I’d come around.

Like he expected me to.

I text back a simple response: okay.

Then I climb into bed, damp hair curling against the pillow, the towel still wrapped around me. I stare at the ceiling, my heart drumming.

What the hell am I getting myself into?