Page 30 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

T he surveillance room of the Hospitium is soundproof, climate-controlled, and windowless—just the way I like it.

There’s no pretense here, no velvet, no showgirls, no poker-faced tourists swiping chips across felt. Just truth, in real time.

Damas’s face flickers across monitor three. He’s laughing with Charles in the conference corridor, that same easy grin he’s worn since we were kids—the one that always disarms, puts people at ease.

But I know better. I’ve always known.

He hasn’t done anything else suspicious since that day Ivan Smirnov waltzed in with a key to the kingdom.

Nevertheless, I watch Damas’s every move like he’s one of the marks, because if he is involved—if he handed Ivan a keycard, or worse, owes that rat bastard money—then we’re not just dealing with a breach of protocol.

We’re dealing with betrayal.

I don’t want to believe it. He’s my brother. But blood isn’t a guarantee of loyalty. Ask anyone who’s ever buried family over greed.

I toggle through the camera feeds. Ivan hasn’t returned to the casino since that stunt he pulled outside my office. My meeting with him for the cash drop was on his turf. There haven’t been any unexplained VIP charges. No security flags. It’s like he’s evaporated.

I don’t like it.

Men like Ivan don’t ghost. They plot. They wait.

Damas has been acting normal. Too normal. Like he’s trying to force me to overlook him. Poker nights. Foundation meetings. Sunday golf with that same pathetic slice he’s had since college. But the look on Mrs. B’s face the night Ivan showed up unannounced hasn’t left me.

I rub my jaw, the sharp burn of a two-day stubble scraping against my palm. Accusing Damas without proof would only burn the bridge beyond repair. But I’m not a man who lets snakes slither through my walls unchecked.

I’ll keep watching.

Because no matter what smile he wears in public, I need to know what he’s hiding in private.

Sooner or later, everyone shows their hand.

By the time I reach the elevator, the ache in my temples has sharpened into a low, persistent throb living behind my eyes and burning like fire. Taylor texted an hour ago asking if I could grab some oat milk on my way up—innocent and domestic, like we’re any normal couple.

Like she didn’t nearly get caught in the crossfire of Bratva drama I swore would never touch her.

The new keycards are encrypted, unique to each user, and cross-referenced against biometric logs. Charles handled the reprogramming personally. Every old card was decommissioned and logged. I’ve told her all of that more than once.

But she still locks the deadbolt from the inside.

It doesn’t bother me the way it would have years ago.

Back then, any challenge to my authority made me see red.

But with her, it’s not anger. It’s a cold weight I carry because I failed her once already.

She needs control and she needs to feel safe.

And if locking that door helps her sleep at night, then so be it.

Still, I text her from the elevator car like always.

Coming up. Five minutes.

The reply is immediate.

Door’s open. And I hope you remembered the oat milk.

I smirk, glancing down at the plastic bag in my hand containing the carton of oat milk I picked up from one of the hotel restaurant’s kitchens.

Taylor answers the door in a tank top and loose shorts, hair twisted up into one of those messy knots that somehow looks like it belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine. Barefoot, no makeup, and still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Hey, you,” I greet.

She smiles wide, coffee-colored eyes alight with something warmer than just a welcome. Something that punches me square in the chest.

Before she can say a word, I kick the door closed behind me and pull her into my arms.

The bag with the oat milk falls to the ground.

She opens her mouth as I kiss her—no hesitation, just heat. Soft lips, hungry sounds, that little gasp she makes when I back her into the wall beside the foyer, hands sliding beneath the hem of her tank top.

“You smell like vanilla,” I growl against her throat, nipping gently. “And I’ve had a goddamn week.”

Taylor laughs breathlessly, her arms wrapping around my neck. “You need to decompress?”

“No,” I rasp, lifting her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around my waist. “I need to ruin your evening plans.”

“Pretty sure you are my evening plans.”

I carry her past the kitchen, into the bedroom, into the shadows of our oversized walk-in closet. She lets out a surprised laugh when her back hits the wall gently between two rows of perfectly tailored Italian suits.

“We have a whole bed,” she says, grinning.

“I don’t need a bed,” I answer simply, tugging her tank top over her head.

She’s not wearing a bra. Just smooth, velvety skin and curves I’ve memorized but never get tired of tasting. My mouth finds her breasts, and she responds with a moan, fingernails scoring my shoulders through my shirt.

“Clothes,” she gasps. “Off. Now.”

“You first.”

She wriggles out of her shorts with a twist of her hips that makes my pulse spike.

When her panties follow, I nearly lose it.

She’s already soaked. Glistening. Needy.

Beautiful in a way that should be illegal.

I step back only long enough to strip; my eyes locked on her the whole time, like she’ll vanish if I blink.

“That’s better,” she whispers, voice husky with want.

I press her back into the wall, one hand braced above her head, the other between her thighs, teasing her until her legs tremble. Her moans echo off polished wood and mirrored glass.

“Please,” she whispers, biting her lip. “Anatoly?—”

The way she says my name wrecks me.

I thrust inside her in one smooth motion, her body arching, eyes wide. She fits around me like we were carved to match.

“Fuck, Taylor.” My voice cracks as I bottom out.

She clutches at my back, mouth moving against my neck, desperate. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

I don’t.

My rhythm is slow at first, drawing her out, making her whimper with every thrust. She clings to me, legs locked around my waist, and I press her harder into the wall as she climbs.

“You’re mine,” I growl, voice ragged. “Every moan. Every tremble. Mine.”

“Yes,” she gasps, head thrown back, eyes fluttering. “Always yours.”

Her first orgasm hits hard—sudden and full-bodied, her inner thigh muscles tightening with brutal intensity. She cries out my name, and I swear I’ll never get tired of hearing it. I keep going, chasing that edge for both of us.

“Good girl,” I whisper, thrusting deeper. “Let go for me again.”

And she does.

I don’t stop moving, don’t let up. Not yet.

She clings to me like I’m the only solid thing in her world, and maybe, right now, I am.

I can feel her heart beating against my chest, her sweat-slicked skin hot and perfect beneath my hands.

I lower us to the plush bench in the center of the walk-in closet, never pulling out.

She ends up in my lap, straddling me, flushed and breathless, still pulsing around me.

“Anatoly…” she whispers, voice aching with need.

I catch her jaw gently in one hand, forcing her eyes to stay on mine. “You still with me, little wife?”

Her lips curve into a dazed smile. “Still with you. You trying to break me?”

“No,” I say, voice rough as I thrust up into her again, deeper this time. “Trying to remind you who you belong to.”

Her breath catches on a moan. “I haven’t forgotten.”

She rocks against me with shaky determination, grinding her hips with each slow roll, her breasts pressed to my chest. Every movement drives me closer to the edge, but I hold back—just to watch her unravel again.

My hands move over her, reverent and possessive. I thumb her nipples, brush sweat-soaked strands of hair from her face, slide a palm down her spine to grip her ass and guide her rhythm.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I mutter, eyes drinking her in. “Look at you—taking everything I give you.”

Her head falls to my shoulder, and she gasps into my neck. “Don’t stop. I need?—”

“I know what you need,” I whisper, thrusting harder, deeper. “Let me give it to you.”

She lifts her head, eyes wide and glassy, mouth parted. “Anatoly. With you, I feel…complete.”

That’s it. That’s the last push. Her words hit deeper than they should, splitting something wide open in my chest, even as the pleasure builds unbearably low in my spine.

My hands tangle in her hair as I push up into her one last time—a brutal, perfect thrust—and she shatters again, crying out as she clenches tight around me. Her pleasure trips mine like a land mine, and I come hard, groaning her name into the sweat-damp hollow of her neck as I drain into her.

We collapse into each other, tangled and slick, gasping in the heavy silence that follows.

She shifts slightly, her body still molded to mine, and I hold her there, my arms tight around her. Her head rests on my chest, right above my heart.

Neither of us says anything for a while. Our breath slows. The city bustles busily below us, but in here, we’ve carved out something intimate. Private. Untouchable.

“I needed that,” she says softly, fingers trailing absently over my shoulder.

“I know,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “So did I.”

She lifts her head, and I study the flush still high in her cheeks, the softness in her eyes. There’s a fragility there I rarely see in her—but I don’t call attention to it. I just reach up and brush my knuckles gently down her cheek.

“I don’t like that you’re still afraid,” I admit, voice low.

Her lips press into a thin line. “I know the lock is solid. I know the cards were replaced. But I can’t help it. I just need the extra layer. Just in case.”

I nod slowly. “Then you lock it. Every time.”

Her brow furrows. “Does that bother you?”

“It bothers me that you’re scared,” I answer honestly.

She swallows hard, clearly trying not to let that hit her too deeply, but I see the shine in her eyes. She leans in and presses her lips to mine.

“Thank you.”

I pull her close and lift her off my lap, carrying her effortlessly toward the bathroom without needing to ask if she wants a bath. I already know the answer.

The steam rises quickly as I run the water. She slides in with a satisfied sigh, sinking into the enveloping heat. I join her, and she curls into me again, her body small against mine.

“I hate not knowing where my brother is,” she says suddenly.

I tighten my grip, just a little. “We’ll find him.”

She nods slowly. “I know. It’s just…I feel like I finally have something good, but I’m scared my past is going to take it all away.”

“It won’t,” I say, with more certainty than I feel. “Not while I’m breathing.”

She tilts her head back. “Promise?”

I lean in, kiss her forehead, and answer quietly.

“Promise.”