Page 39 of Under His Control
“I intend to.”
CHAPTER 15
ANATOLY
Taylor turns her head slightly, glancing around the penthouse.
“This place…it’s something else.”
“It’s called the Empathy Suite. The Palms built it a few years ago. Two floors, nine thousand square feet, one of the most expensive hotel suites in the world. Designed by Damien Hirst. Art installations, personal butler, infinity tub, private healing salt room. Costs a hundred grand a night.”
Her head whips around. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” I glance up at the crystal-studded ceiling. “Damas booked it for two nights as a wedding gift. Knowing him, it was half flex, half joke.”
“And you accepted?” she asks, brow raised.
I shrug. “Figured if he wants to waste that kind of money trying to impress or annoy me, I may as well enjoy it.”
She turns in a circle, eyes wide as she drinks in the absurd splendor. “I feel like I’m standing inside a Bond villain’s fever dream.”
“It’s all yours. Forty-eight hours of unapologetic, Damas-funded indulgence.”
“Your brother has interesting taste in wedding gifts.”
“He has interesting motives.” I shrug off my jacket and toss it aside. “But tonight, we don’t care.”
I move toward her, catching her waist with one hand and brushing her hair from her shoulder with the other.
She moves away, gliding past the bar, her fingers trailing across the onyx counter, pausing only when her eyes land on the floor-to-ceiling glass installation along the far wall.
She tilts her head. Takes a step closer.
Then gasps.
“Are those sharks?”
I can’t help but grin. “They are.”
She walks closer to the tank, arms folded, gazing at the creatures in awe. “You know, I spent most of my career working hotel front desks, folding towels into swans. And now I’m standing in a suite with a quarter-million-dollar shark exhibit and a butler on call. Married to a man who could probably afford to buy the whole building.”
I step up beside her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She smiles, soft but wicked. “I didn’t say that.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, lips parted, pulse fluttering just beneath that flawless throat. I slide a hand up the curve of her back, about to lean in, to pick up where the elevator left off—when her stomach betrays her with a low rumble.
She freezes.
I pause, biting back a grin. She tries to laugh it off, pressing a hand to her midsection. “God. That was loud.”
“But honest,” I reply.
She winces. “I swear I don’t always sound like a collapsing building.”
“You barely ate at dinner,” I remind her gently, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “I noticed.”
She shrugs. “Nerves. And…well, I didn’t want to pig out at my own wedding dinner.”
