Page 40 of Under His Control
My jaw tightens.
I don’t like that she had to think about that. I especially don’t like the way she said the words “pig out,” like enjoying herself would’ve been a sin.
I tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at me. “Taylor, you don’t ever need to shrink yourself around me. If you want the chocolate mousse and the lobster tail, order both. Twice.”
Her cheeks flush. “Really?”
“I like a woman who knows what she wants.”
Her smile is cautious at first, then blooms full, dimple and all. “Alright then. I would like something to eat.”
I scoop the suite’s control tablet off the bar and pull up the private dining menu, but before I tap anything in, I remember the amused spark in her eyes back at Oro Nero when she told me she likes to pick her own food.
So I hand it to her. “Go wild.”
Her eyes light up like I just offered her keys to a private theme park. She curls onto one of the velvet banquettes and scans the menu with a hunger I hadn’t realized I craved to see. She says her selections aloud—A5 Wagyu tataki, lobster agnolotti, tempura maitake, white truffle fries, and two desserts.
When she finishes, she looks up at me with a wicked little smile. “That too much?”
“No,” I say without hesitation. “It’s perfect.”
And strangely, it is.
I don’t know this woman as well as I should, not yet. But watching her let go of whatever voice in her head tells her to make herself small, watching her take pleasure in something as simple as a meal, hits me in a way I didn’t expect.
I like seeing her this way—confident, playful, radiant.
We wander around the suite while we wait. Her fingers feel so small in my hand.
She trails beside me past the onyx bar, her hand brushing reverently over the bottles of fifty-year-old Glenfiddich. Past the floor-to-ceiling windows, where Vegas sprawls beneath us like a neon painting in the desert.
We spend a little time just looking around, taking in the enormity and opulence of the place.
At the base of the staircase, I pause.
Above us there’s a floating mezzanine, anchored by a circular bed draped in white linen, a mirrored ceiling—courtesy of the Palms’s flair for decadence—and an open-concept marble bathroom with a freestanding tub beneath a chandelier of handblown glass bulbs.
She stares up at it in wonder, mouth agape.
“What would you like to do first,nevesta?” I ask.
Her stomach answers for her again.
Just then, the chime sounds. Our food has arrived, perfectly timed.
I open the door for the butler, who wheels in the gold-trimmed cart like he’s delivering treasure.
She’s glowing. She kicked her heels off when we first arrived and she stands there barefoot, comfortable. There’s a big, bright smile on her face. And for the first time tonight, I realize I’m not just looking forward to sleeping with my wife.
I’m looking forward toknowingher.
All of her.
Taylor eyes the tablet. “You just spent more on dinner than I made last quarter.”
“Get used to it.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile is pure delight. Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy that smile—and that’s close enough.
