Page 44 of Under His Control
“Yes.”
“Beg for it.”
“Please, Anatoly. I need it.”
He surges forward, slow and deep, every inch igniting fire in my core. I gasp, clutching the edges of the counter as he stretches me wide, filling me to the hilt.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters, a guttural moan escaping as he retreats, then drives back in with a force that shakes me to the core.
He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, claiming thrusts punctuated by sharp slaps to my ass that intensify the pleasure. One hand fists in my hair, pulling slightly, causing me to arch my back while the other snakes around to rub my clit in tight circles.
Pleasure builds fast, molten and merciless.
“I’m—”
“Hold it,” he orders, thrusts growing erratic. “Not yet.”
Tears sting my eyes; the need is brutal. “Please!”
“Now.”
I explode—white-hot and trembling—my walls clenching around him. He curses and pulls out, then flips me effortlessly onto my back atop the bar. He thrusts back inside, driving deeper from a new angle, causing little cries to escape from my throat.
“You feel that?” he pants. “You were made for me.”
“Yes—oh God?—”
He hooks my right leg over his shoulder, tilting my hips. The new depth steals my breath. He pounds harder, dirty praise spilling: “So fucking perfect…my curvy goddess…take every inch of me in that perfect pussy.”
I fracture again, a third orgasm ripping through me like lightning. He doesn’t slow, chasing his own edge.
“Come inside me,” I gasp, nails raking his back. “Fill me up, Anatoly.”
A roar tears from him. He thrusts once, twice, then stills, pulsing warmth deep inside my body. The world narrows to his ragged breaths and my pounding heart, our bodies joined as one.
For a moment neither of us moves. Then he eases out, catching me before I slide off the bar. My legs are useless, and he scoops me up, planting sweet kisses on my forehead.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers.
He carries me upstairs to the massive circular bed and lays me down, disappearing into the bathroom. Seconds later I hear running water. When he returns, he hands me a glass of water then tenderly cleans me.
“Hydrate,” he orders softly.
I drink, smiling at this tender side of him. He slips into bed beside me, drawing the duvet up, then pulls me against his chest.
Worry fills my head again as I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
He feels the shift and tilts my chin to look at him. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I lie, brushing my lips over his. “Just happy.”
Warmth softens his ice-blue eyes. “Me, too.”
He tucks me in closer, heartbeat steady beneath my ear. Outside, the city parties, but inside, the suite is quiet—two strangers-turned-spouses wrapped in silk sheets and unexpected tenderness.
I drift, sated and safe, wondering when the real world will crash through the door. For now though, I let it fade, memorizing how the weight of his arm feels and the scent of his skin—cedar, smoke, and something uniquely Anatoly—before drifting off to sleep.
CHAPTER 17
