Page 18 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

A natoly’s clothes hit the floor. His eyes never left mine the entire time he undressed.

My skin prickles under his gaze, nerves and heat tangling low in my belly. I fight the urge to cover myself again.

“Beautiful,” he says

He reaches out, palm warm against my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth with aching slowness.

“You’re everything,” he says, eyes dragging down the curve of my breasts, over my belly, to the softness of my thighs, “exactly as you are.”

I swallow hard, the words hitting deeper than they should. I feel seen— wanted —not in spite of my body but because of it.

He slips an arm around my waist and pulls me flush to him, his mouth lowering to mine full of heat and need.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” he asks.

“Since you saw me alphabetizing guest complaints in HR?” I tease, trying to lighten the voltage thrumming between us.

“Since the first time you bent over the concierge desk and my brain short-circuited.” His hand slides to my throat, not squeezing—just claiming. “I’ve dreamed of you wet and begging ever since.”

“You don’t have to dream anymore,” I whisper.

A growl rumbles low in his chest. He spins me, pressing my front to the cool glass of the terrace doors. His body molds to mine—hard chest against my back, rigid length nudging my ass.

“Spread your legs,” he orders, breath hot at my ear.

I obey, bracing my palms on the glass. His fingers trail down my spine, my body shuddering at his touch. When he cups my sex, I gasp. I’m already slick and more than ready.

“Look at you,” he mutters against my neck, middle finger sliding through my folds. “So wet for me already.”

He lazily circles my clit, testing, then withdraws. I whimper.

“Patience,” he says, nipping my shoulder. “You’ll come when I say.”

The command in his voice liquefies my bones.

He sinks to one knee behind me, large hands parting my cheeks. The first hot swipe of his tongue steals my breath; the second has me arching like a bowstring. He licks with slow precision, humming each time I moan. Fingers slide inside—one, then two—crooking until sparks detonate behind my eyes.

“Anatoly—”

“Not yet.” He withdraws, stands, and guides me back inside to the dining table where we just ate. Plates and linens pushed aside, he hoists me onto the cool marble, spreading my thighs wide.

He kneels, tongue lashing my clit while his fingers return—pumping, curling, relentless. Pressure coils fast.

“Please,” I pant.

“Come for me.”

The command shatters me, and I cry out, hips bucking. He doesn’t stop—licking through the aftershocks until they border on too much.

My body deflates and I feel like jelly, the orgasm beyond devastating. He straightens, lips glistening. “That’s one.”

“One?”

“One of many.” He kisses me hard and I taste myself on his tongue. He lifts me off the table, my legs wobbly. He chuckles, carrying me bridal-style to the velvet pill-bench by the bar.

“On your knees, malyshka. ”

I kneel, cushioned by plush velvet, face level with his cock. It’s thick, long, and intimidating. When I wrap a hand around the base, he hisses his approval.

“Take me deep,” he rasps.

I swirl my tongue over the head, tasting him, then hollow my cheeks, easing down until he brushes the back of my throat. He curses in Russian as fingers tangle in my hair, guiding a slow rhythm.

“Look at me.”

I gaze up, lips stretched around him. His eyes burn like blue fire. The connection—dirty and intimate—sends a fresh pulse of arousal between my legs. I suck harder, using my hand to twist where my mouth can’t reach.

“Enough,” he groans, pulling me free with a wet pop. “Another minute and I’d finish.”

“Isn’t that the point?” I wipe my mouth, smirking.

He hauls me to my feet, spins me toward the bar, and bends me over the polished onyx. The cool stone kisses my breasts as his palm slides down my spine.

“You want my cock?” he asks, teasing my entrance with the blunt head.

“Yes.”

“Beg for it.”

“Please, Anatoly. I need it.”

He surges forward, slow and deep, every inch igniting fire in my core. I gasp, clutching the edges of the counter as he stretches me wide, filling me to the hilt.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters, a guttural moan escaping as he retreats, then drives back in with a force that shakes me to the core.

He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, claiming thrusts punctuated by sharp slaps to my ass that intensify the pleasure. One hand fists in my hair, pulling slightly, causing me to arch my back while the other snakes around to rub my clit in tight circles.

Pleasure builds fast, molten and merciless.

“I’m—”

“Hold it,” he orders, thrusts growing erratic. “Not yet.”

Tears sting my eyes; the need is brutal. “Please!”

“Now.”

I explode—white-hot and trembling—my walls clenching around him. He curses and pulls out, then flips me effortlessly onto my back atop the bar. He thrusts back inside, driving deeper from a new angle, causing little cries to escape from my throat.

“You feel that?” he pants. “You were made for me.”

“Yes—oh God?—”

He hooks my right leg over his shoulder, tilting my hips. The new depth steals my breath. He pounds harder, dirty praise spilling: “So fucking perfect…my curvy goddess…take every inch of me in that perfect pussy.”

I fracture again, a third orgasm ripping through me like lightning. He doesn’t slow, chasing his own edge.

“Come inside me,” I gasp, nails raking his back. “Fill me up, Anatoly.”

A roar tears from him. He thrusts once, twice, then stills, pulsing warmth deep inside my body. The world narrows to his ragged breaths and my pounding heart, our bodies joined as one.

For a moment neither of us moves. Then he eases out, catching me before I slide off the bar. My legs are useless, and he scoops me up, planting sweet kisses on my forehead.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

He carries me upstairs to the massive circular bed and lays me down, disappearing into the bathroom. Seconds later I hear running water. When he returns, he hands me a glass of water then tenderly cleans me.

“Hydrate,” he orders softly.

I drink, smiling at this tender side of him. He slips into bed beside me, drawing the duvet up, then pulls me against his chest.

Worry fills my head again as I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.

He feels the shift and tilts my chin to look at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I lie, brushing my lips over his. “Just happy.”

Warmth softens his ice-blue eyes. “Me, too.”

He tucks me in closer, heartbeat steady beneath my ear. Outside, the city parties, but inside, the suite is quiet—two strangers-turned-spouses wrapped in silk sheets and unexpected tenderness.

I drift, sated and safe, wondering when the real world will crash through the door. For now though, I let it fade, memorizing how the weight of his arm feels and the scent of his skin—cedar, smoke, and something uniquely Anatoly—before drifting off to sleep.