Page 64 of Under His Control
There’s a predatory gleam in his eye. “Let me show you.”
My heart does a flip, and I smile. I rise on tiptoe and brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth.
I expect him to steer me toward the bed, but at the last second, he grins wickedly and pivots us toward one of the walls of the walk-in closet instead.
“Oh no,” I laugh breathlessly as my back bumps against the smooth wall. “Not even making it to the bed?”
He cages me in with his arms, towering, sexy, and so stupidly handsome that my knees threaten betrayal. “Efficiency,” he murmurs. “One of my best qualities.”
I loop my arms around his neck, tugging him closer until our bodies are pressed flush. “You’re lucky you’re hot,” I tease.
He nips my lower lip, making me gasp. “Lucky’s not the word I’d use.”
Before I can sass back, his hands skim down my sides, over the curve of my hips, gripping the skin on my thighs like he can’t getenough of me. His appreciation isn't hidden; it’s blatant, hungry, worshipful.
“You drive me insane,” he growls against my throat. “You know that? Every inch of you, Taylor. Every goddamn inch.”
A moan escapes and I arch into him shamelessly, loving how easily he handles me, how much he clearly wants every curvy part of me. When his palm slips under the hem of my dress, fingers brushing bare skin, I swear my brain short-circuits.
“You planning to ravish me right here?” I manage, breathless.
His grin is pure sex. “Planning’s over. It’s execution time.”
CHAPTER 24
TAYLOR
His mouth claims mine while his hand fists the fabric of my dress, hiking it higher. The hard wall at my back and the harder man in front of me steal every coherent thought I had.
His thigh wedges between mine, tilting my hips just right, and when I grind my pussy against him, a low groan escapes from his throat.
I break the kiss long enough to whisper against his jaw, “Better hurry before I start taking charge.”
He chuckles. “You’d better be ready to back up that threat.”
The heat between us builds, frantic and passionate, until I’m practically clawing at his shirt, desperate to get closer. I yank the buttons open with shaking fingers, exposing the hard, hot skin beneath, and run my hands over the ridges of muscle, branding the memory into my palms.
His hands are everywhere—skimming my waist, squeezing the curve of my hips, roaming up to cup my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress. He touches me like he owns me, like he’s been starving for the feel of me and now can’t get enough.
“Taylor,” he growls against my mouth, the sound vibrating straight through me. I swear he’s memorizing me by touch alone, mapping every luscious inch, worshiping every soft, full curve like it’s his personal religion.
I gasp when he lifts me effortlessly, my thighs instinctively locking around his hips. He presses me against the cool wall, the hard lines of his body cradling me perfectly, securely, possessively. I can feel the rigid length of him through his slacks, feel the way he’s ready for me, and it sends a pulse of molten heat straight to my core.
“You’re mine,” he rasps, nipping along my jaw, his voice thick with possession.
My fingers thread into his hair, tugging lightly, loving the roughness in him, the restraint he’s barely holding onto.
“Yours,” I whisper, rocking my hips against him, needing more, needingeverything.
We’re a tangled mess of gasping breaths and desperate hands, our bodies colliding in hungry, greedy touches. His mouth claims mine again, fierce and consuming, making my head spin until there’s nothing but him—his scent, his taste, his strength—wrapped around me.
He finally tears his mouth away just long enough to say, “Bed. Now,” I laugh—a giddy, sultry sound. He carries me across the room like I weigh nothing more than a thought.
He drops me onto the plush mattress without ceremony, following me down, bracing his weight with his forearms as he lowers his body against mine. I writhe beneath him, desperate for friction, desperate forhim, and the heavy, delicious weight of his body settling over mine.
He tugs my dress up without hesitation, baring my thighs, my hips, my stomach. His hands trail reverently over my curves, rough fingertips tracing the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips, the softness of my thighs.
“Perfect,” he mutters. “You’re so perfect.”
