Page 63 of Under His Control
I lean against the bathroom doorway, contemplating the life I just stepped into.
Unpacking quickly becomes meditation.
The walk-in closet is bigger than my entire kitchen at my apartment. His suits are arranged by color with military precision: grays, blues, navies, dark greens, and blacks, all spaced exactly an inch apart. His shoes are lined up on dark wood shelves like soldiers—polished Oxfords, sleek Italian loafers, and boots. There are also several pairs of running shoes and casual sneakers.
I add my splash of chaos carefully.
Silk blouses in poppy reds and bright jewel tones slip in next to his steely order. My battered Converse and a few pairs of heels, boots, and sandals settle next to his regimented rows of leather. A few sundresses—a couple of them too short, a few maybe a little too loud—find homes beside his crisp button-downs.
Our worlds collide politely.
I smooth the hangers, heart thudding. There's something weirdly intimate about putting my clothes in beside his, likefitting puzzle pieces together that weren’t meant to match but somehow click together anyway.
I shake my head, laughing. Get a grip, Taylor.
I trail my fingers over the fabrics. I notice a drawer cracked open a little bit, and I nudge it open further, revealing rows of cuff links gleaming under the soft lighting. Tiny weapons of mass seduction. Onyx studs. Gold knots. Silver ones engraved with theHospitiumlogo.
God,I think,he even armors up sexy.
I keep moving, nosy as hell now. The lower shelves contain casual wear. And tucked neatly at the bottom are his swim trunks. Tight. Black. Designer. The kind that leave very little to the imagination.
I fan myself dramatically with one hand.Okay, so my husband’s a walking thirst trap.
For a second, I just stand there like an idiot, imagining Anatoly wearing nothing but those trunks, glistening from the pool, water dripping down all those chiseled planes of muscle. These definitely aren’t the swim trunks he wore in the penthouse pool the day after our wedding.
A clatter jerks me back to reality. One of my boots topples sideways off the shelf, hitting the floor with a loudthud, disrupting this temple of masculine order.
I scramble to fix it, cheeks burning. "Smooth, Taylor," I say. "Real smooth."
An uncertain smile tugs at my mouth when I place the boot back. Maybe I don’t fit here perfectly. Maybe I’m still half wild, half worried, half wondering what the hell I’m doing.
Yet despite my concerns, it still feels...right.
I’m folding my last pair of jeans when I hear the door open. Anatoly strides in, tie loose, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up, showing his powerful forearms.
“Any leads?” I ask, stuffing my jeans into a drawer, trying to pretend like I wasn’t just fantasizing about him.
“Not yet. The meeting will be held first thing in the morning. The current cards will be neutralized by midnight.” He leans on the closet doorframe, eyes scanning the newly mingled clothing. “It’s surreal, seeing color in here.”
“Happy to brighten your monochromatic world.” I toss him a smile over my shoulder.
A beat of silence before he looks away, something clearly on his mind.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I hate that you were scared.”
I push the drawer shut and turn to face him. “I was angry, more than scared, and curious. Who would be willing to sell us out and put us in danger?”
He nods in understanding. “Bribery is cheaper than breaking in. Someone needed the cash or likes taking risks.” His gaze sharpens. “Anyone under you that you know of—guest services, concierge—holding a grudge? Deep in debt?”
I shake my head. “None of them has access cards. Plus, Mrs. B would have to authorize replacements.”
“Then we start with Damas’s staff.” A shadow crosses his face, and I spot a flicker of hurt and disappointment. Family betrayals cut the deepest.
Silence reigns for a beat, then a wry grin spreads across his face. “Technically,” he says, drawing me close, “we’re still on our honeymoon until dawn. The rest can wait.”
Heat unfurls low in my belly as his palms slide to my waist, thumbs brushing the curve of my ribs. “And what is it that newlyweds do on honeymoon nights?”
