Page 92 of Under His Control
“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything in my life.” He covers my hand with his.
Tears sting my eyes, soft and grateful. “Then let’s renegotiate our deal.”
“No lawyers,” he warns.
“Fine.” I clear my throat. “Here are the terms: one marriage—duration indefinite. Clause: unconditional love, renewable daily. Penalty for breach: sleeping on the couch.”
He flips me, settling half his body over mine. “Addendum: couch penalty only enforced after birth. Until then, I’m your living pillow.”
“Deal.” I seal it with a kiss—slow, savoring, definitive.
Sleep tiptoes closer. Before it claims me, I whisper, “Thank you for coming for me.”
“I’ll always come for you,” he whispers back.
CHAPTER 37
TAYLOR
Iwake tangled up in my husband—one leg draped over his thigh, and his hand spread possessively across my belly like I’m something sacred he fell asleep guarding.
The man sleeps like a marble statue. He’s gorgeous, heavy, completely immovable. Sunlight slips between slatted blinds, striping his olive skin in amber gold. My fingers twitch, already itching to trace every band of color with a sinful brush. Maybe with my fingertips. Maybe with my mouth.
“Morning,solnishka,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “Your heart’s beating too loud for sleep.”
“You’re clinically observant,” I murmur, grinning as I nuzzle into his jaw, inhaling his wonderful scent.
“You planning to keep this human furnace temp level forever?”
“If it means you stay,” he says, lids finally lifting, those glacier blue eyes focused and laser sharp. “I’ll hold this exact position for the next seventy years.”
I snort. “You say that now. Give it two years and a teething baby.”
“I’ll still be here,” he murmurs, “just like this.”
His fingers brush across my stomach in slow circles as he studies my face.
“You’re staring,” I tease, eyes narrowing playfully.
“I’m memorizing,” he says, dead serious. “Every freckle. Every soft spot. Every part of you that’s mine.”
I open my mouth to give him some sassy retort, but it dies the second his lips touch the center of my throat. Soft. Lingering. Worshipful.
“You always this handsy at sunrise?”
“Only with you.”
His hand trails lower, fingers spreading across my inner thigh. He watches me like he doesn’t want to miss a single breath I take.
“You’re already wet,” he murmurs, voice dark velvet. “Did you dream about me?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to taste you now,” he says simply. Like it’s a fact, not a request.
He shifts lower without giving me time to protest, not that I would. I gasp as he kisses down my belly, hands parting my thighs with a mix of reverence and hunger.
“You don’t have to.”
