Page 17 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

T aylor turns her head slightly, glancing around the penthouse.

“This place…it’s something else.”

“It’s called the Empathy Suite. The Palms built it a few years ago. Two floors, nine thousand square feet, one of the most expensive hotel suites in the world. Designed by Damien Hirst. Art installations, personal butler, infinity tub, private healing salt room. Costs a hundred grand a night.”

Her head whips around. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” I glance up at the crystal-studded ceiling. “Damas booked it for two nights as a wedding gift. Knowing him, it was half flex, half joke.”

“And you accepted?” she asks, brow raised.

I shrug. “Figured if he wants to waste that kind of money trying to impress or annoy me, I may as well enjoy it.”

She turns in a circle, eyes wide as she drinks in the absurd splendor. “I feel like I’m standing inside a Bond villain’s fever dream.”

“It’s all yours. Forty-eight hours of unapologetic, Damas-funded indulgence.”

“Your brother has interesting taste in wedding gifts.”

“He has interesting motives.” I shrug off my jacket and toss it aside. “But tonight, we don’t care.”

I move toward her, catching her waist with one hand and brushing her hair from her shoulder with the other.

She moves away, gliding past the bar, her fingers trailing across the onyx counter, pausing only when her eyes land on the floor-to-ceiling glass installation along the far wall.

She tilts her head. Takes a step closer.

Then gasps.

“Are those sharks?”

I can’t help but grin. “They are.”

She walks closer to the tank, arms folded, gazing at the creatures in awe.

“You know, I spent most of my career working hotel front desks, folding towels into swans. And now I’m standing in a suite with a quarter-million-dollar shark exhibit and a butler on call.

Married to a man who could probably afford to buy the whole building. ”

I step up beside her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She smiles, soft but wicked. “I didn’t say that.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, lips parted, pulse fluttering just beneath that flawless throat. I slide a hand up the curve of her back, about to lean in, to pick up where the elevator left off—when her stomach betrays her with a low rumble.

She freezes.

I pause, biting back a grin. She tries to laugh it off, pressing a hand to her midsection. “God. That was loud.”

“But honest,” I reply.

She winces. “I swear I don’t always sound like a collapsing building.”

“You barely ate at dinner,” I remind her gently, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “I noticed.”

She shrugs. “Nerves. And…well, I didn’t want to pig out at my own wedding dinner.”

My jaw tightens.

I don’t like that she had to think about that. I especially don’t like the way she said the words “pig out,” like enjoying herself would’ve been a sin.

I tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at me. “Taylor, you don’t ever need to shrink yourself around me. If you want the chocolate mousse and the lobster tail, order both. Twice.”

Her cheeks flush. “Really?”

“I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

Her smile is cautious at first, then blooms full, dimple and all. “Alright then. I would like something to eat.”

I scoop the suite’s control tablet off the bar and pull up the private dining menu, but before I tap anything in, I remember the amused spark in her eyes back at Oro Nero when she told me she likes to pick her own food.

So I hand it to her. “Go wild.”

Her eyes light up like I just offered her keys to a private theme park.

She curls onto one of the velvet banquettes and scans the menu with a hunger I hadn’t realized I craved to see.

She says her selections aloud—A5 Wagyu tataki, lobster agnolotti, tempura maitake, white truffle fries, and two desserts.

When she finishes, she looks up at me with a wicked little smile. “That too much?”

“No,” I say without hesitation. “It’s perfect.”

And strangely, it is.

I don’t know this woman as well as I should, not yet. But watching her let go of whatever voice in her head tells her to make herself small, watching her take pleasure in something as simple as a meal, hits me in a way I didn’t expect.

I like seeing her this way—confident, playful, radiant.

We wander around the suite while we wait. Her fingers feel so small in my hand.

She trails beside me past the onyx bar, her hand brushing reverently over the bottles of fifty-year-old Glenfiddich. Past the floor-to-ceiling windows, where Vegas sprawls beneath us like a neon painting in the desert.

We spend a little time just looking around, taking in the enormity and opulence of the place.

At the base of the staircase, I pause.

Above us there’s a floating mezzanine, anchored by a circular bed draped in white linen, a mirrored ceiling—courtesy of the Palms’s flair for decadence—and an open-concept marble bathroom with a freestanding tub beneath a chandelier of handblown glass bulbs.

She stares up at it in wonder, mouth agape.

“What would you like to do first, nevesta ?” I ask.

Her stomach answers for her again.

Just then, the chime sounds. Our food has arrived, perfectly timed.

I open the door for the butler, who wheels in the gold-trimmed cart like he’s delivering treasure.

She’s glowing. She kicked her heels off when we first arrived and she stands there barefoot, comfortable. There’s a big, bright smile on her face. And for the first time tonight, I realize I’m not just looking forward to sleeping with my wife.

I’m looking forward to knowing her.

All of her.

Taylor eyes the tablet. “You just spent more on dinner than I made last quarter.”

“Get used to it.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile is pure delight. Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy that smile—and that’s close enough.

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 lips close 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.”

Fire races through my veins. I stand, extending my hand. “Come.”

She slides her fingers into mine. I lead her toward the glass doors. Beyond them, the private rooftop infinity pool glows sapphire, steam curling into the desert night. Vegas sprawls below like a fallen galaxy.

She presses a palm to the glass. “It’s beautiful.”

I open the door. Warm air drifts in, scented with chlorine and distant desert sage. She steps onto the terrace, robe fluttering around her calves.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” she says.

“Neither did I.” I shed my jacket and drop it over a lounge chair.

She laughs nervously. “Of course you didn’t.”

I move behind her, my hands settling on her shoulders. She tenses, then relaxes into my grip. “Why the hesitation?”

She shrugs again, robe slipping to reveal one smooth shoulder. “I’m not exactly Brandy Melville.”

I turn her to face me. “You think I want a coat hanger?” I untie the belt of her robe, slowly, giving her time to stop me. She doesn’t. “I want you .”

The robe parts. I push it off her shoulders and it puddles at her feet.

Moonlight bathes her naked body—full breasts, dusky nipples peaking in the night air, hips flaring into generous thighs. My mouth waters. I step back, devouring her with my gaze.

“You are perfect,” I say, voice hoarse.

She crosses her arms—instinctively shielding herself. I capture her wrists, lowering them to her sides. “Let me look.”

Her chest rises and falls. She’s trembling, but she bravely holds my gaze. I circle her, fingers ghosting along her waist, the dip of her spine. Goose bumps erupt under my touch. When I reach her front again, my restraint snaps. I bury one hand in her hair, tilt her face, and claim her mouth.

She tastes of champagne. She moans, lips parting. Our tongues tangle. I walk her backward until her calves meet the lounge chair.

Breaking the kiss, she breathes against my mouth. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

She steps back, a wicked grin on her full, plush lips.

“Why are you still wearing clothes?”