Page 3 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

It sounds insane. But who the hell else could cut me a check for seventy grand just like that?

I could throw myself at his feet, tell him I’ll work for a reduced salary, put in seventy-hour weeks.

I hesitate. Should I go to Charles first? He’s my manager and mentor, probably the closest thing I have to a father.

But Anatoly has Bratva connections. If he agrees to help me out, he could call them off—tell them not only to leave Chris alone, but also to make my brother persona non grata to them, no lending, no nothing. He could make sure Chris doesn’t get mixed up in this kind of situation ever again.

I sigh.

I’m doing this. I have to.

But first, I need a shower. I slip out of my clothes, realizing that I’m sweating from the conversation with Chris.

In the hush of the shower, I imagine—just for a second—walking into his office, sinking into one of those cold, modernist chairs, and staring him down.

“I need help,” I whisper, imagining the words trembling from my lips in his presence.

In my mind’s eye, he doesn't even blink. His blue eyes flick to mine, his expression cold as ice, as if he knew I'd come to him all along.

“What kind of help?” he asks. His deep voice is smooth, confident.

“My brother made a mistake, a big one. He’s in deep with the Smirnovs. Seventy grand deep.” I pause, voice shaky in this imaginary plea. “He’s going to die unless I can cover it.”

Silence.

Then, he stands and approaches—slow, commanding—his gaze raking over me like he’s assessing more than just the ask.

Damn, he’s tall. He stops in front of me and cups my jaw in one of his huge hands.

His voice lowers into something dark and intimate as he says, “And what are you willing to give me in return?”

My breath catches.

“Anything,” I whisper.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“I want you.”

His words sink into my skin like heat.

Not money. Not a favor. Me.

“You’ll be mine,” he says in a deep growl, “in every way.”

My pussy clenches at the thought, the hot water from the shower trailing over a lustful ache and need. I imagine his mouth at my throat, his hands sliding down, his voice in my ear as he claims what I just offered so freely.

I can practically feel his big rough hands pressing firmly into my waist, my hips, my breasts.

He spins me to face his desk. One palm spreads across my belly, while the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back just enough for his mouth to skim the edge of my jaw.

“Taylor,” he growls, his voice tinged with Russian dragging over my name like honey. “You came into my office and?—"

Then he’s on his knees, lifting one of my legs and hitching it up on the desk. He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth presses to the inside of my thigh and lingers there, open and hot, teeth scraping just enough to make my hips jolt.

In the fantasy, I’m not wearing any panties. He flicks his eyes to my pussy and licks his lips.

“Ever since I met you,” he says, “I’ve wondered what you taste like. Delicious, I imagine.”

I groan, tilting my head back when his tongue dips between my folds like he’s tasting dessert after a decadent feast. He licks slowly at first, savoring, cataloging every reaction, then faster, deeper, flicking and curling with precision.

He moans against me like I’m the one giving him pleasure.

His hands grip my ass, spreading me wider, keeping me still.

He teases my clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucks, just once, and my legs nearly give out. Then he does it again. And again. Faster. Rhythmic. Focused like a man who doesn’t stop until he gets exactly what he wants.

And what he wants is me coming undone. On his tongue. Screaming his name.

This isn’t the first time I’ve imagined this. Hell, it’s not even the tenth. I’ve lost count of how many late nights I’ve lain in bed, picturing Anatoly dragging me onto his desk, tearing off my clothes, eating me, screwing me, making me come.

But this time? This time, I can practically feel him. I can almost hear the wet sounds of his tongue sliding through me, the deep groan of satisfaction he lets out when I start panting his name.

My fingers dip between my thighs to find myself soaked. I stroke tight circles around my clit, pressure building fast. The image of his lips wrapped around me, his beard grazing sensitive skin, his voice commanding me to let go?—

“Come for me, Taylor. Show me how sweet you taste.”

I gasp, bite my lip, and rock against my hand.

And then it hits—hard, hot, and all-consuming. I cry out, one palm smacking the shower wall to keep me upright as wave after wave crashes through me. My thighs shake, my breath stutters as my nerves light up like sparklers.

And through it all, the only name on my lips is his.

Anatoly.

I sag against the tile, water washing over me, pulse still jackhammering in my throat.

This was supposed to be a stress-relief shower. A mental reset. But now I’m wrecked, panting his name, fully aware that my crush on my boss has officially crossed into delusional levels of sexual thirst.