Page 39 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

I wake tangled up in my husband—one leg draped over his thigh, and his hand spread possessively across my belly like I’m something sacred he fell asleep guarding.

The man sleeps like a marble statue. He’s gorgeous, heavy, completely immovable. Sunlight slips between slatted blinds, striping his olive skin in amber gold. My fingers twitch, already itching to trace every band of color with a sinful brush. Maybe with my fingertips. Maybe with my mouth.

“Morning, solnishka ,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “Your heart’s beating too loud for sleep.”

“You’re clinically observant,” I murmur, grinning as I nuzzle into his jaw, inhaling his wonderful scent.

“You planning to keep this human furnace temp level forever?”

“If it means you stay,” he says, lids finally lifting, those glacier blue eyes focused and laser sharp. “I’ll hold this exact position for the next seventy years.”

I snort. “You say that now. Give it two years and a teething baby.”

“I’ll still be here,” he murmurs, “just like this.”

His fingers brush across my stomach in slow circles as he studies my face.

“You’re staring,” I tease, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I’m memorizing,” he says, dead serious. “Every freckle. Every soft spot. Every part of you that’s mine.”

I open my mouth to give him some sassy retort, but it dies the second his lips touch the center of my throat. Soft. Lingering. Worshipful.

“You always this handsy at sunrise?”

“Only with you.”

His hand trails lower, fingers spreading across my inner thigh. He watches me like he doesn’t want to miss a single breath I take.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs, voice dark velvet. “Did you dream about me?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m going to taste you now,” he says simply. Like it’s a fact, not a request.

He shifts lower without giving me time to protest, not that I would. I gasp as he kisses down my belly, hands parting my thighs with a mix of reverence and hunger.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” His voice is low, possessive. “You think I could wake up with you in my arms and not start my day worshipping you?”

I bite my lip, chest rising.

Within seconds, his mouth is on me.

Soft. Slow. Devastating.

His tongue sweeps a gentle, teasing path over my folds, a lazy first taste that makes my entire body jerk.

He doesn’t rush. He licks and kisses like he’s savoring something rare, like every moan I make is a secret reward he's earned.

One deliberate stroke at a time, building pressure, coaxing me closer.

“Anatoly,” I whisper, my voice already dissolving, breath catching. My fingers dive into his thick hair, clutching hard. My hips lift without permission, searching for more.

He growls against me—a claiming, primal sound. The vibration shoots straight through me, tightening every nerve like a wire about to snap.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t let up.

He pins my thighs wide, big hands anchoring me to the bed like I’m something wild that needs to be held down. And maybe I am, because I feel feral—burning, trembling, alive—under his mouth.

He devours me with purpose, tongue stroking deeper, circling my clit with maddening precision, pulling whimpers from my throat like he’s tuning an instrument. I can’t think, can’t speak. I can only feel. Hot and slick, spiraling toward the edge.

“You taste like heaven,” he says between strokes.

My back arches. The pressure crests hard, shocking in its intensity. I cry out, everything inside me locking tight, then releasing all at once.

I come with a shattered gasp, stars exploding behind my eyes, thighs trembling against his grip.

He doesn’t move until he’s wrung every last wave from it, until I’m boneless, gasping, and half-drunk on pleasure. Only then does he press a kiss to the inside of my thigh, slow and sweet.

“Good morning, my love,” he murmurs, voice smug and warm.

I chuckle. “Now that’s what I would indeed call a good morning.”

Slowly, his grin fades into something thoughtful. Fingers tighten at my hip. “I need to know…why are you still keeping this apartment?”

Busted.

Heat creeps up my neck and I bite my bottom lip, searching the stucco ceiling for a witty save. “Well, you see, I’m a planner. In case our tidy marriage-of-convenience were to implode, I needed a spare parachute.”

“What we have is not tidy,” he murmurs, sliding my leg higher up his torso. “Nor convenient. It’s…” His eyes soften. “Permanent.”

He presses his mouth against my ear. “Give up the backup plan, Taylor. Let’s go all-in.”

I’m about to answer—with tongue, teeth, and possibly synchronized pelvis rotation—when my phone erupts on the nightstand.

“Let it go to voicemail,” I mutter, already hunting for the pulse between his legs.

Then it rings again. And again. Three times in under fifteen seconds. It’s our family emergency code from when Chris and I shared dirty laundry baskets and Pop-Tarts for dinner.

I freeze. “That’s Chris.”

Anatoly eases off me, brows knitting. “Put him on speaker.”

The moment I swipe answer, chaos pours from the phone. Heavy breathing, a low moan, the echo of a large room.

“Chris?” My voice cracks. “Where are you?”

A garbled reply comes as syllables sliding into each other like wet soap. I catch the word “help” and something that could be, “I’m hurt.”

“I can’t understand you. Slow down.”

More broken sounds, then a ragged groan so raw my blood ices over.

Anatoly sits upright—every muscle alert. He mouths location?

“Chris, honey, look around. Look for a street sign, store name, anything.”

The phone scrapes—like it’s sliding across concrete—then someone else picks up. A smooth baritone I’d know anywhere.

“Hello, Taylor.”

Damas.

Anatoly’s head jerks, eyes flaring to a lethal brightness. “Where are you?” he snaps. “And what the hell have you done to my wife’s brother?”

Silence, followed by a chuckle that slithers down my spine. “Relax, brother. Our friend simply overindulged—again.”

“Bullshit,” I hiss. “Chris is sober now.”

Static hush. A distant smack, then Chris’s muffled yelp.

I bolt off the bed, one hand fisting the sheet around me, the other strangling the phone. “Stop it! He paid his debt. We all paid!”

“Not to me,” Damas says, voice honey-thick and sinister. “Your brother owes me a debt of respect.”

Anatoly’s fist smashes the mattress. “Put him on!”

More scuffling, then Chris sobbing something unintelligible.

“Damas, please,” I beg, tears breaking free. “What do you want?”