Page 93 of Under His Control
“I want to.” His voice is low, possessive. “You think I could wake up with you in my arms andnotstart my day worshipping you?”
I bite my lip, chest rising.
Within seconds, his mouth is on me.
Soft. Slow. Devastating.
His tongue sweeps a gentle, teasing path over my folds, a lazy first taste that makes my entire body jerk. He doesn’t rush. He licks and kisses like he’s savoring something rare, like every moan I make is a secret reward he's earned. One deliberate stroke at a time, building pressure, coaxing me closer.
“Anatoly,” I whisper, my voice already dissolving, breath catching. My fingers dive into his thick hair, clutching hard. My hips lift without permission, searching for more.
He growls against me—a claiming, primal sound. The vibration shoots straight through me, tightening every nerve like a wire about to snap.
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t let up.
He pins my thighs wide, big hands anchoring me to the bed like I’m something wild that needs to be held down. And maybe I am, because I feel feral—burning, trembling, alive—under his mouth.
He devours me with purpose, tongue stroking deeper, circling my clit with maddening precision, pulling whimpers from my throat like he’s tuning an instrument. I can’t think, can’t speak. I can only feel. Hot and slick, spiraling toward the edge.
“You taste like heaven,” he says between strokes.
My back arches. The pressure crests hard, shocking in its intensity. I cry out, everything inside me locking tight, then releasing all at once.
I come with a shattered gasp, stars exploding behind my eyes, thighs trembling against his grip.
He doesn’t move until he’s wrung every last wave from it, until I’m boneless, gasping, and half-drunk on pleasure. Only then does he press a kiss to the inside of my thigh, slow and sweet.
“Good morning, my love,” he murmurs, voice smug and warm.
I chuckle. “Nowthat’swhat I would indeed call a good morning.”
Slowly, his grin fades into something thoughtful. Fingers tighten at my hip. “I need to know…why are you still keeping this apartment?”
Busted.
Heat creeps up my neck and I bite my bottom lip, searching the stucco ceiling for a witty save. “Well, you see, I’m a planner. In case our tidy marriage-of-convenience were to implode, I needed a spare parachute.”
“What we have is not tidy,” he murmurs, sliding my leg higher up his torso. “Nor convenient. It’s…” His eyes soften. “Permanent.”
He presses his mouth against my ear. “Give up the backup plan, Taylor. Let’s go all-in.”
I’m about to answer—with tongue, teeth, and possibly synchronized pelvis rotation—when my phone erupts on the nightstand.
“Let it go to voicemail,” I mutter, already hunting for the pulse between his legs.
Then it rings again. And again. Three times in under fifteen seconds. It’s our family emergency code from when Chris and I shared dirty laundry baskets and Pop-Tarts for dinner.
I freeze. “That’s Chris.”
Anatoly eases off me, brows knitting. “Put him on speaker.”
The moment I swipe answer, chaos pours from the phone. Heavy breathing, a low moan, the echo of a large room.
“Chris?” My voice cracks. “Where are you?”
A garbled reply comes as syllables sliding into each other like wet soap. I catch the word “help” and something that could be, “I’m hurt.”
