Page 56 of Under His Control
When he leans in, I meet him halfway.
The kiss is slow at first—unhurried, exploratory—but it heats up fast. His mouth demands, and I give, hands sliding into his hair, tugging him closer. He groans low against my lips, and that sound alone almost makes me forget my own name.
I shift onto his lap, dress riding up shamelessly. His hands grip my hips, strong and sure, leaving no doubt exactly how badly he wants me.
“Taylor,” he growls against my mouth, voice strained. “You keep doing that and we won’t make it upstairs.”
I grin, kissing along his jawline. “Maybe that’s the idea.”
Before we can find out, the SUV rolls to a smooth stop. The driver’s voice comes through the sound system.
“We’re here, Mr. Ovechkin.”
Anatoly rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Yeah, but what a way to go,” I chuckle.
We hop out, the entry way of theHospitiumbustling with staff and guests, coming and going.The front doors whisper open into the casino’s sparkling lobby.
Normally, I love this place. It’s the heart of my day, my turf. But tonight, it doesn’t feel familiar, it feels tense. And I don’t quite know why.
Anatoly walks beside me, his hand low on my back, warm and steady, like he’s subtly claiming me as his own. Not that I mind. My skin practically hums under his touch.
But then I see them.
Two men in dark suits lean against the marble pillar by the private elevator—our elevator. The one that only Anatoly, Charles, and a select few are supposed to have access to. These guys are definitely not on that list.
They’ve got an ex-military look to them, and there’s no doubt they’re packing heat under their jackets. Postures are too perfect; eyes are too still.
Not hotel security. Not bellhops. Definitely not guests.
Anatoly goes rigid next to me.
I glance up at him, trying to keep my voice breezy. “That your welcoming committee?”
He doesn’t blink. “Something like that.”
Well, okay then. Time to stop pretending this is normal.
The taller guy pushes off the pillar, and I swear the marble moves under his weight.
“Mr. Ovechkin,” he says, voice low and menacing. “Ivan’s waiting upstairs. In your office.”
I glance at Anatoly. If the temperature in the lobby was chilly before, it’s straight-up arctic now. He pulls his phone out slowly. It looks like he’s two seconds from losing it but refusing to give these guys the satisfaction.
“Ivan is here?” he asks. The calmness in his voice is more terrifying than if he shouted the words.
“Waiting,” the man confirms. “Impatiently.”
Anatoly doesn’t respond. He taps out a message on his phone—probably to Charles—and slips it back in his pocket. Then his hand finds mine, giving it a firm squeeze. Reassurance wrapped up in ten fingers.
“Charles is sending bellhops,” he says to me. “They’ll bring your things upstairs.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. So much for peacefully settling into wedded bliss.
The elevator doors open and we step inside. The second they close, the tension inside Anatoly boils over.
