Page 20 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

S he’s quiet.

Too quiet.

I watch her from across the kitchen island, her fingers curled around a mug of coffee, knuckles a shade paler than they should be. There’s something in the way she’s holding herself—shoulders drawn, chin high, eyes calm but not present. Like she’s trying to stay still enough not to crack.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She blinks, startled. “Nothing.”

It’s an obvious lie, but I don’t press. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s when to circle and when to strike. She’s not ready. Fine. I can wait.

I glance toward the balcony. The pool glitters in the sunlight like it’s begging to be used. “It’s a good day for a swim.”

That earns me a smile. A small one, but at least it’s real.

“Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

I change into swim trunks. I slide open the terrace doors and step into the mild Vegas morning air.

I descend into the water, slow and silent. The heat wraps around my skin like silk. I lean back, floating, letting the tension ease out of my body one knot at a time.

I think of last night.

Of her beneath me, arching into my mouth like she was starving for it. The way she grabbed my hair, wrapped her legs around my hips, whispered my name.

Taylor is not fragile. She is not delicate. She is a storm wrapped in soft skin, all heat and breathless defiance.

I’d planned on a contract. A convenient way to satisfy the will’s terms without complication.

Instead, I got her.

Damas talks about heirs like he’s the one on a timeline. It’s like he wants to write the next chapter of my life for me.

I haven’t told her that the terms of the will included me producing a natural heir. Not because I’m hiding it, but because it doesn’t matter yet . If she turns out to be incapable or unwilling, we part ways after a year. No harm, no foul. But if she is…

I don’t know what I’ll do.

Before I can spiral too far down that rabbit hole, movement catches my eye.

I glance toward the suite door and stop breathing.

She steps onto the terrace barefoot, damp hair piled into a messy bun, dressed in nothing but a black two-piece swimsuit. Simple. Uncomplicated. Not trying to be sexy.

But she is. She can’t help it.

She looks incredible.

The bikini top lifts and frames her full, perfect breasts, while the high-waisted bottoms wrap around her like they were tailored for her body—emphasizing every curve, every inch of soft, plush skin I’ve already memorized.

She’s not exactly shy, but there’s a flicker of awareness in her eyes when she sees me watching her. And I am watching. Every slow step, every sway of her hips, every movement of those curves that made last night feel like a goddamn fever dream.

“Come on in.”

I lean back against the wall of the pool, arms spread wide on the ledge behind me. Dominant. Open. Waiting.

Without hesitation, she dives into the deep end.

The water erupts around her, and when she surfaces, her dark hair is slicked back, droplets clinging to her skin.

I’m not just in trouble.

I’m fucked .

She smirks at me, then glides closer. The air between us is electric.

“Are you always this forward with your temporary wives?” she asks, a playful tone to her voice.

“Only the ones who show up to my pool who look like you and are smug about it.”

She turns her back to me and tips her head, water dripping from her lashes. She peers upside down at me, dimples cutting deep. “Multitasking looks good on performance reviews, boss.”

“Performance, huh?” I drift toward her, slow, predatory. “I’m more of a hands-on evaluation type.”

She stands upright and turns, meeting my stare, dark eyes dancing. “Good, because the benefits package here is outrageous.”

I circle her like a shark, letting her feel the heat even before I touch her. “Wait until you see the bonus structure.”

She laughs—a soft, sexy sound that tightens something low in my gut. I move behind her, hands sliding over her waist, fingers brushing the slope of her hips. The water doesn’t hide a damn thing; that black swimsuit clings to her skin like it’s painted on.

She presses her back against my chest. “Do all your HR policies involve swimming pools and sexual tension?”

“I find employee morale improves with strategic incentives.”

“And here I thought this was a hostile work environment.”

“Only if you fight me,” I murmur against her ear. She shivers. I bring my hand up, brushing wet strands off her neck, savoring the heat of her skin. “You still nervous?”

A pause.

“Yes,” she whispers, “but not as much.”

That’s all I need.

My hand coasts down her arm then around her stomach, spreading across her skin, claiming. “You’re not nervous about me hurting you.”

“No.”

“You’re nervous about wanting me this much.”

Her breath hitches, soft and sharp. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

She twists to face me, water lapping between us. Her eyes flash with challenge, but her body gives her away, trembling faintly. I brush my fingers up her spine, pausing just below the band of her top.

“Tell me to stop.”

She doesn't.

Instead, her hands settle on my chest, fingertips skimming down the lines of muscle. “What if I don’t want to?”

I take a step forward, backing her against the wall of the pool, her breath coming faster now. Every curve of her body gleams beneath the water. The cups strain around her breasts, the fabric pulled taut over soft, perfect skin.

“You’re so beautiful like this.”

She swallows, her voice quiet. “You think I’m beautiful?”

I let my eyes drag slowly over every inch of her. “Taylor, I think you’re perfect.”

Her lips part, and for a beat, neither of us moves. Heat simmers, thick and aching. She’s trembling for me and it’s intoxicating.

I lean in slowly, letting my breath brush her lips. Her lashes lower as my hand cups her jaw, fingers threading into her damp hair.

And then I kiss her.

Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to taste the want between us. To feel her melt against me. To let her know this is no game.

She’s mine. She kisses me back like she knows it.

She exhales my name. I slide my hand downward to her already slick folds. I keep the rhythm deliberate, thumb steady, fingers coaxing, no hurry. She moans, the vibration thrumming through the water, through me.

She shudders at my touch, pressure coiling tighter and tighter until—release. Her hips roll helplessly, a ripple of pleasure crashing through her.

She clings to the edge, panting, cheeks flushed. I slip a knee between her legs and press. “Tell me what you need.”

She runs her nails through my wet hair, pulling me closer until her teeth graze my lower lip. “You. Hard. No speeches.”

“Understood.” I lift her onto the underwater bench, water swirling around her waist. Forcing her feet wide, I rip her bottoms off and slide two fingers deep inside her, curling to stroke the spot that makes her eyes flare. She locks onto my stare, defiance flickering, surrender waving underneath.

“Anatoly…” Her voice splinters when my thumb circles her clit.

I watch the tension build—a storm pulling power from every nerve.

“Ride it,” I order. She obeys, hips grinding against my hand.

The second orgasm hits fast and fierce. She clamps around my fingers, breath caught on a silent cry. I don’t let up until the tremors fade.

She slumps forward, half laughing, half cursing. “Who taught you that?”

“I’m self-motivated.” I sweep her into my arms, water sluicing off taut muscles. At the steps, the pool barely kisses our calves. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I line up, pushing in slow, feeling her wetness around me. The sensation steals our breath, and we curse in unison.

"God, you feel so good," she moans.

I drag my hands up her thighs, gripping the lush curve of her hips, driving into her with slow, brutal strokes that make her shudder.

Water surges over the edge with every relentless thrust, but I barely register it.

All I see is her—dark, damp hair clinging to her temples, skin flushed and glistening, full breasts bouncing with every plunge.

She rides me like she owns me.

Maybe she does.

"Anatoly," she gasps, nails digging into my shoulders, desperate. "Faster. Harder."

I growl low in my throat, obeying without hesitation. I drive into her relentlessly—my pace vicious, greedy—giving her everything she demands and everything I need.

Her chest slides against mine, slick friction sparking every nerve ending like dry timber catching fire. She peppers kisses along my jaw, my neck, her teeth grazing my throat in frantic little nips that make me curse under my breath.

"You take me so well," I rasp, burying a hand in her hair to drag her mouth to mine. "So fucking good, little wife."

Her answering whimper goes straight to my cock. I slip a hand between us, thumb pressing hard against her throbbing clit. She jerks, strangled sounds spilling from her lips.

"Finish," I demand against her mouth. "Now."

She shatters on a broken moan, her body locking down around me like a velvet fist, her nails carving half-moon crescents into my shoulders as her climax rips through her. I lose it on the next thrust, hips grinding up into her, spilling deep, my growl swallowed by her kiss.

The Strip blazes in the morning sun but nothing in the city burns hotter than the woman gasping my name as she collapses against my chest.

She’s mine, mine, mine.

And God help me, I don't think I’ll ever let her go.

I don’t bother with towels. Instead, I scoop her up, water dripping a trail across the marble floor as I carry her inside. Steam fogs the mirror when I turn on the shower. I set her under the spray, scrubbing gentle circles on her shoulders.

She catalogues my tenderness with a smile. “The ice king melts after all.”

“Temporary thaw,” I counter, working shampoo through her hair. Her lashes flutter closed, lips parting on a soft sigh that turns my blood to lava. Showered, we towel off and head to the bedroom. I tug on a pair of boxer briefs and hand her a gray T-shirt that swallows her down to mid-thigh.

She looks so sexy.

And vulnerable.

A dangerous combination.

I grab some cream from the nightstand. Her back’s sporting a red mark from the pool wall. She lowers herself onto the mattress, wincing a little as she tugs the shirt up to expose the angry bruise.

I kneel next to her, fingers gentle as I work the ointment into her skin. “Hurts?”

“A little,” she says. “But that is making it feel better.”

I rub slowly, like I’m branding her with my touch instead of healing her. I reach for the remote to darken the windows then crawl beside her. She fits against my chest perfectly.

The outside world fades. All that’s left is the rhythm of her breath, her body rising and falling against mine.

Her fingers drift over the scar just below my ribs. Long and narrow, it was a gift from a knife, back when I was younger and angrier. She traces it lightly but doesn’t ask.

Minutes pass. Her breathing deepens, but my mind refuses to rest.

I will soon be delivering the cash to the Bratva.

It should go cleanly. It will go cleanly. I’ve planned every detail. Still, a weight sits in my chest. Chris may be a screwup, but he’s still her brother. And if something goes awry, if Ivan or his people come sniffing around again…

The thought makes my jaw tighten. I’ve buried men for less.

I draw her closer, the need to protect her overwhelmingly strong. When she murmurs something in her sleep, I nearly forget that there’s a world outside and the upcoming meeting even exists.

This woman’s gotten under my skin. Worse, she’s buried herself in my heart.

All I want to do is nap beside her, hold her close.

I let my eyes close, my body rest.

For now, she sleeps safely in my arms.