Page 47 of Under His Control
What else haven’t you told me? The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t speak them. Instead, I smile. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
He watches me with an unreadable expression, like he’s waiting for me to say something else.
I take another sip of coffee and hold his gaze.
CHAPTER 18
ANATOLY
She’s quiet.
Too quiet.
I watch her from across the kitchen island, her fingers curled around a mug of coffee, knuckles a shade paler than they should be. There’s something in the way she’s holding herself—shoulders drawn, chin high, eyes calm but not present. Like she’s trying to stay still enough not to crack.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She blinks, startled. “Nothing.”
It’s an obvious lie, but I don’t press. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s when to circle and when to strike. She’s not ready. Fine. I can wait.
I glance toward the balcony. The pool glitters in the sunlight like it’s begging to be used. “It’s a good day for a swim.”
That earns me a smile. A small one, but at least it’s real.
“Yeah. That sounds perfect.”
I change into swim trunks. I slide open the terrace doors and step into the mild Vegas morning air.
I descend into the water, slow and silent. The heat wraps around my skin like silk. I lean back, floating, letting the tension ease out of my body one knot at a time.
I think of last night.
Of her beneath me, arching into my mouth like she was starving for it. The way she grabbed my hair, wrapped her legs around my hips, whispered my name.
Taylor is not fragile. She is not delicate. She is a storm wrapped in soft skin, all heat and breathless defiance.
I’d planned on a contract. A convenient way to satisfy the will’s terms without complication.
Instead, I gother.
Damas talks about heirs like he’s the one on a timeline. It’s like he wants to write the next chapter of my life for me.
I haven’t told her that the terms of the will included me producing a natural heir. Not because I’m hiding it, but because it doesn’t matter yet.If she turns out to be incapable or unwilling, we part ways after a year. No harm, no foul. But if she is…
I don’t know what I’ll do.
Before I can spiral too far down that rabbit hole, movement catches my eye.
I glance toward the suite door and stop breathing.
She steps onto the terrace barefoot, damp hair piled into a messy bun, dressed in nothing but a black two-piece swimsuit. Simple. Uncomplicated. Not trying to be sexy.
But she is. She can’t help it.
She looks incredible.
The bikini top lifts and frames her full, perfect breasts, while the high-waisted bottoms wrap around her like they were tailored for her body—emphasizing every curve, every inch of soft, plush skin I’ve already memorized.
