Page 38 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

T he sudden knock yanks me out of a dream where I’m juggling flaming room-service trays while wearing a wedding gown made of casino chips.

I peel an eye open, realize I’ve fallen asleep sideways on my sofa, and curse the crick in my neck.

Another rap—slow, measured, familiar.

My pulse sprints.

Anatoly.

I launch off the cushions, nearly face-plant over the coffee table, and pad to the peephole. His head is bowed.

Butterflies riot. Anger flutters, too, but it’s half melted seeing the way he’s shifting his weight. He’s nervous. I unlatch the deadbolt and open the door.

He doesn’t speak; he simply cups the back of my neck and pulls me into a kiss so deep my head spins.

He tastes like scotch and mint. His free arm wraps around my waist, hauling me against a chest that feels like home.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against my mouth. “I left before I listened. That was unacceptable.”

“You get partial credit for a fast turnaround.”

He frames my face. “It doesn’t matter if children are impossible. I’ll dismantle the inheritance clause, burn the will, buy a new casino if I have to. I just—” His throat works, and for a second he looks like he might fall apart. “I need you, solnishka .”

“That’s remarkably dramatic. Ten out of ten.”

“I’m Russian.” His mouth lifts in the smallest smile. “Drama comes with the territory.”

His next kiss is softer. Slower. An apology letter of regret and relief. It melts into me like the promise he’s been afraid to make—unspoken until now. And when he pulls back just enough to whisper, “I love you,” my knees give up the fight.

The words hit like a powerful sunrise—warm, irrevocable, infinitely hoped for. Everything in me stills.

“I love you, too,” I say. The words lock something into place. Like a door finally closing against the rest of the world and everything that ever tried to pull us apart.

His fingers tighten on my waist, grounding us both. “I’m serious, Taylor. I will give it all up for you. For us.”

“You don’t have to,” I say with a weak smile.

His brows draw together, eyes searching mine.

I reach into my pocket with shaking fingers and pull out the folded sonogram. The secret I’ve been keeping, the one I touched a hundred times. The crease down the middle is soft and worn from worry, from hope.

I press it into his hand.

“I got my miracle. We’re having a baby, Anatoly.”

For a beat, nothing but silence.

Shock flashes across his face. Raw and wordless, so strong it knocks the breath out of him. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

His eyes drop to the photo in his hand, trembling fingers unfolding it carefully, like it might disintegrate if he’s not gentle. He stares at the blurry shape—our little jelly bean with its stubby arms and tiny beating heart. After a moment, his entire expression shifts from disbelief to awe.

“You’re sure?” he whispers, voice cracking. “I thought…Damas said…”

“I thought so, too.” I smile through a rush of tears. “But apparently my ovaries didn’t get the memo.”

He laughs—deep and genuine. His thumb brushes over the picture, over the tiny blur that will someday call him Papa. “We’re really having a baby?”

“Yes.”

His laugh turns into a choked sound. He kisses the sonogram, pressing it to his lips for a long, trembling second like it’s sacred. Then he kisses me, urgent and disbelieving, like he’s trying to taste this new reality between us.

The kiss ignites every inch of me.

Because now there’s no more bargaining. No more fear. No more pretending that what we have is anything but forever.

We’re going to be a family.

And nothing has ever felt more right.

“Lock the door,” he growls into my hair.

I kick the door shut and lock it. The act feels like it’s blocking out all the anger, fear, and doubt.

We make it three feet before he spins me, my back hitting the wall. His hands roam as if he’s confirming I’m real, that this moment isn’t another of fate’s nasty jokes. I tug the tie loose at his throat, and he shrugs out of his suit coat, tossing it on the couch.

“You’re way overdressed,” I say breathlessly, yanking his shirt from his waistband. His abs ripple beneath starched cotton, and I deftly undo the buttons, pushing it off his shoulders. I plant open-mouthed kisses from the dip of his collarbone to the line of dark hair disappearing under his belt.

His fingers scrape the hem of my oversized T-shirt—one of his, stolen weeks ago. He lifts it and I raise my arms, surrendering the fabric. Cool air licks my skin as he gives me a once-over.

“Look at you.” He cups my breasts, thumbs brushing already sensitive peaks. “All mine.”

“All yours,” I agree. “But you’re still wearing too many luxury labels.”

He grins as his belt clinks and trousers drop. He kicks them free, standing in black boxer briefs that do absolutely nothing to hide how badly he wants me. My mouth waters.

“Like what you see?” he asks, voice a decadent sin.

“Very much.” I hook a thumb beneath the elastic and release with a snap. “Off.”

He strips the last barrier, the thick, gorgeous proof of his hunger springing free. My pussy aches, pulsing hot. I slide to my knees, but he stops me, hauling me up.

“Tonight, I need to be deep inside you.”

The raw possessiveness, the reverence, coils heat low in my belly. I shove my panties down and step out of them. Neither of us cares that the blinds are half open; let the world see our lovemaking.

He grabs the backs of my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist, ankles locking. The blunt head of him nudges my entrance—slick, ready, needy. Our foreheads press together.

“Tell me you’re okay,” he whispers.

“I’m okay. I need you,” I plead.

He thrusts—slow and deliberate—a single slide that seats him to the hilt. We both gasp at the sensation, the connection. My walls flutter, adjusting, claiming. The stretch is perfect, like we’re made for one another.

I brace one palm on the wall, the other threading into his hair as he begins to move. Each controlled drive hits that spot that makes fireworks dance across my vision. Outside, Vegas glitters, but it’s nothing compared to the stars he pumps into my bloodstream.

“Harder,” I beg, nails scoring his shoulders.

He obeys, pace quickening. Sweat slicks our skin. He dips his head, mouth latching onto a nipple. Pleasure consumes, sharp enough to blur the edges of reality. I nibble his ear in gratitude.

The coil tightens. He slips a hand between us, thumb circling my swollen clit. My hips jerk. “Anatoly, I’m…so close.”

“Come for me, wife.” His thumb presses harder. His cock spears deep, deeper, and our world detonates as we come together—white noise, white light, white-hot everything. I pulse around him, drawing him in, milking him for everything he has.

He groans, thrusts once, twice, then freezes. Heat floods my body, filling me full of him. My name leaves his lips like a prayer.

He carries me to the sofa. We collapse onto the cushions in a heap of aftershocks and laughter.

We lie there, limbs tangled, chests heaving. His palm spreads gently over my lower belly.

We drift in and out in the sated hush, sweat cooling. The city lights strobe across the ceiling, paling before dawn.

Sometime later, he carries me to my old bed, tucking me beneath a quilt my mom sewed before cancer stole her. He stretches out, pulling me against his side, his big hand still cupping our future.

“Tomorrow,” he says into my hair, “we pack the rest, move you home for good.”

“Home,” I echo, savoring the taste of the word on my tongue.

“And we see your doctor. I want to hear that heartbeat myself.”

Warmth floods me. “You sure you’re prepared for Lamaze classes and midnight cravings?”

“I’ll buy the damn Lamaze studio. As for cravings…” He nuzzles my neck. “Anything you want.”

“Careful. I might want caviar-stuffed donuts at 3?a.m.”

He chuckles. “Done.”

A comfortable silence stretches, broken only by the city’s hum and our synced breathing.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” I say. “I just needed space.”

“I never want space from you.” He kisses my knuckles. “But I needed to take time tonight to find clarity, to see the difference between a legacy I inherited, and one we could make together.”

I press a palm to his chest. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything in my life.” He covers my hand with his.

Tears sting my eyes, soft and grateful. “Then let’s renegotiate our deal.”

“No lawyers,” he warns.

“Fine.” I clear my throat. “Here are the terms: one marriage—duration indefinite. Clause: unconditional love, renewable daily. Penalty for breach: sleeping on the couch.”

He flips me, settling half his body over mine. “Addendum: couch penalty only enforced after birth. Until then, I’m your living pillow.”

“Deal.” I seal it with a kiss—slow, savoring, definitive.

Sleep tiptoes closer. Before it claims me, I whisper, “Thank you for coming for me.”

“I’ll always come for you,” he whispers back.