Page 73 of Under His Control
Damas has been acting normal.Toonormal. Like he’s trying to force me to overlook him. Poker nights. Foundation meetings. Sunday golf with that same pathetic slice he’s had since college. But the look on Mrs. B’s face the night Ivan showed up unannounced hasn’t left me.
I rub my jaw, the sharp burn of a two-day stubble scraping against my palm. Accusing Damas without proof would only burn the bridge beyond repair. But I’m not a man who lets snakes slither through my walls unchecked.
I’ll keep watching.
Because no matter what smile he wears in public, I need to know what he’s hiding in private.
Sooner or later, everyone shows their hand.
By the time I reach the elevator, the ache in my temples has sharpened into a low, persistent throb living behind my eyes andburning like fire. Taylor texted an hour ago asking if I could grab some oat milk on my way up—innocent and domestic, like we’re any normal couple.
Like she didn’t nearly get caught in the crossfire of Bratva drama I swore would never touch her.
The new keycards are encrypted, unique to each user, and cross-referenced against biometric logs. Charles handled the reprogramming personally. Every old card was decommissioned and logged. I’ve told her all of that more than once.
But she still locks the deadbolt from the inside.
It doesn’t bother me the way it would have years ago. Back then, any challenge to my authority made me see red. But with her, it’s not anger. It’s a cold weight I carry because I failed her once already. She needs control and she needs to feel safe. And if locking that door helps her sleep at night, then so be it.
Still, I text her from the elevator car like always.
Coming up. Five minutes.
The reply is immediate.
Door’s open. And I hope you remembered the oat milk.
I smirk, glancing down at the plastic bag in my hand containing the carton of oat milk I picked up from one of the hotel restaurant’s kitchens.
Taylor answers the door in a tank top and loose shorts, hair twisted up into one of those messy knots that somehow looks like it belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine. Barefoot, no makeup, and still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, you,” I greet.
She smiles wide, coffee-colored eyes alight with something warmer than just a welcome. Something that punches me square in the chest.
Before she can say a word, I kick the door closed behind me and pull her into my arms.
The bag with the oat milk falls to the ground.
She opens her mouth as I kiss her—no hesitation, just heat. Soft lips, hungry sounds, that little gasp she makes when I back her into the wall beside the foyer, hands sliding beneath the hem of her tank top.
“You smell like vanilla,” I growl against her throat, nipping gently. “And I’ve had a goddamn week.”
Taylor laughs breathlessly, her arms wrapping around my neck. “You need to decompress?”
“No,” I rasp, lifting her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around my waist. “I need to ruin your evening plans.”
“Pretty sure you are my evening plans.”
I carry her past the kitchen, into the bedroom, into the shadows of our oversized walk-in closet. She lets out a surprised laugh when her back hits the wall gently between two rows of perfectly tailored Italian suits.
“We have a whole bed,” she says, grinning.
“I don’t need a bed,” I answer simply, tugging her tank top over her head.
She’s not wearing a bra. Just smooth, velvety skin and curves I’ve memorized but never get tired of tasting. My mouth findsher breasts, and she responds with a moan, fingernails scoring my shoulders through my shirt.
“Clothes,” she gasps. “Off. Now.”
