Page 26 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)
TAYLOR
H is mouth claims mine while his hand fists the fabric of my dress, hiking it higher. The hard wall at my back and the harder man in front of me steal every coherent thought I had.
His thigh wedges between mine, tilting my hips just right, and when I grind my pussy against him, a low groan escapes from his throat.
I break the kiss long enough to whisper against his jaw, “Better hurry before I start taking charge.”
He chuckles. “You’d better be ready to back up that threat.”
The heat between us builds, frantic and passionate, until I’m practically clawing at his shirt, desperate to get closer. I yank the buttons open with shaking fingers, exposing the hard, hot skin beneath, and run my hands over the ridges of muscle, branding the memory into my palms.
His hands are everywhere—skimming my waist, squeezing the curve of my hips, roaming up to cup my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress. He touches me like he owns me, like he’s been starving for the feel of me and now can’t get enough.
“Taylor,” he growls against my mouth, the sound vibrating straight through me. I swear he’s memorizing me by touch alone, mapping every luscious inch, worshiping every soft, full curve like it’s his personal religion.
I gasp when he lifts me effortlessly, my thighs instinctively locking around his hips.
He presses me against the cool wall, the hard lines of his body cradling me perfectly, securely, possessively.
I can feel the rigid length of him through his slacks, feel the way he’s ready for me, and it sends a pulse of molten heat straight to my core.
“You’re mine,” he rasps, nipping along my jaw, his voice thick with possession.
My fingers thread into his hair, tugging lightly, loving the roughness in him, the restraint he’s barely holding onto.
“Yours,” I whisper, rocking my hips against him, needing more, needing everything .
We’re a tangled mess of gasping breaths and desperate hands, our bodies colliding in hungry, greedy touches. His mouth claims mine again, fierce and consuming, making my head spin until there’s nothing but him—his scent, his taste, his strength—wrapped around me.
He finally tears his mouth away just long enough to say, “Bed. Now,” I laugh—a giddy, sultry sound. He carries me across the room like I weigh nothing more than a thought.
He drops me onto the plush mattress without ceremony, following me down, bracing his weight with his forearms as he lowers his body against mine. I writhe beneath him, desperate for friction, desperate for him , and the heavy, delicious weight of his body settling over mine.
He tugs my dress up without hesitation, baring my thighs, my hips, my stomach. His hands trail reverently over my curves, rough fingertips tracing the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips, the softness of my thighs.
“Perfect,” he mutters. “You’re so perfect.”
I arch into his touch, shameless, aching for more.
“Anatoly,” I rasp, clutching at his shoulders. “Please.”
He peels my dress up over my head and tosses it aside. I’m left in nothing but a lace bra and panties, and the way he looks at me makes my whole body shudder.
“So beautiful,” he growls, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of my breast, then lower, trailing kisses across my belly. His hands never stop moving—caressing, gripping, worshipping.
When he hooks his fingers into the lace and drags my panties down, I lift my hips without hesitation, offering myself to him completely. There’s nothing but pure, aching need. The fabric slides down over my thighs and knees, forgotten.
He curses in Russian, a low growl that sends a jolt of electricity straight through me. It’s reverence, possession, and hunger all tangled into one guttural sound. His gaze drags over every inch of me.
Then he slides up my body until he’s perfectly aligned. The anticipation tightens every nerve until I’m trembling beneath him. His mouth finds mine again—tender, coaxing, hungry.
He swallows the sounds I make when he presses into me, inch by delicious inch, stretching me slowly, until he’s buried so deep I feel as if I might shatter.
“Anatoly—” I gasp, clawing at his shoulders, my thighs wrapping around his waist. I want him closer, deeper, everywhere. My entire body aches for him.
I don’t want to ever belong to anyone else.
His hips begin to move, grinding harder with each thrust. Every inch of him strokes places that feel electric, molten, devastating. The weight of him, the heat of his breath at my neck, the quiet grunts he releases when I clench around him—it all combines into something untamed.
My nails rake down his back, marking him, anchoring myself against the tidal wave building inside me. He growls my name into my ear, one hand sliding under my knee, lifting it higher, thrusting deeper.
“Say it. Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I breathe, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught of pleasure. “I’m all yours, Anatoly.”
His pace deepens, intensifies, hips rolling with ruthless control. Our skin is slick, sounds of mingled moans and the wet, obscene music of bodies colliding.
“Good girl,” he groans, his hand curling behind my head, cradling it like I’m breakable even as he ruins me. “Don’t you ever forget that.”
I won’t. Not when he’s inside me like this, not when every nerve sings his name, and my body begs for him to push me right over the edge.
And I’m so close.
“Oh God, Anatoly,” My voice cracks, high and breathless.
“That’s it, little wife,” he growls against my neck. “Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”
The pressure detonates, blinding and white hot. My whole body seizes, arching into him as I cry out, his name splintering from my lips. My release crashes through me, shaking me to the core. I clutch him tighter, barely holding on as pleasure pulses through every nerve like wildfire.
He groans my name, low and hoarse, driving into me one last time before erupting. His body shudders above mine, warmth spilling into me as he collapses onto his elbows, forehead pressed to mine, both of us gasping for air.
His skin is slick, his weight delicious, and I don’t want him to move. Ever.
He kisses my nose, soft and sweet, then shifts carefully, rolling us so I’m draped across his chest. We’re tangled in limbs and bedsheets. His hand traces lazy circles on my back, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Mmm.” I nod, eyes closed, lips brushing the curve of his collarbone. “More than alright. That was incredible.”
He chuckles softly, and it rumbles through me like a purr. “You’re incredible.”
I go still, breath catching. It’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them, like they snuck past his usual defenses and landed before he could stop them. I lift my head to look at him.
And suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by what we’ve become, by how safe I feel with him, by how terrifying it is to want something this much.
I curl back into his chest, pressing a kiss just over his heart.
Wrapped in his embrace, warmth settling deep in my bones, I close my eyes again. For now, there are no questions, no fears—just the soft, steady heartbeat of a man who holds me like he means it.