Page 2 of Under Control

The wordcrushingis the perfect description.

“Okay, I can do this.” I turn my back on the French doors and whip off my jacket. I hesitate, not sure what to do with it, and end up draping it over the back of a couch.

Cold air brushes over my skin. My nipples go hard and goosebumps race down my arms, but at least I did it. I conquered my fears.

I’m butt-ass naked.

And standing in a random room.

Part of me is aware that the housekeeper might come back, but I’m past caring at this point. If she sees me naked, whatever.

I need to break the ice, and the only way out is through.

Or in this case, the only way out is to expose myself.

The doors open behind me. I see the flicker of shadows reflected in the glass of a nearby picture. I turn, my mouth open to make some wry comment to Merrick about catching me at an awkward moment, but?—

It’s not Merrick.

It’s not his housekeeper, either.

Instead, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life is standing there staring at me with an expression caught between surprise and curiosity.

I don’t move. He doesn’t either. My jacket is a few feet away. I’m very,veryaware of my erect nipples—it’s freaking cold in here—and the way his eyes move down my body.

Like he’s scanning me and taking in every single exposed inch.

He’s tall. Very tall. Thick, dark hair, a black suit that fits his muscular frame like it’s about to start screaming, and tattoos. The inky lines poke out at the edges of his sleeves and collar. He’s got a square jaw, full lips, and piercing blue eyes that rip into me.

If I weren’t totally exposed and feeling wildly vulnerable, I’d probably start drooling over this man.

He’s insanely attractive.

That’s an understatement. I didn’t know humans could look like that in person.

I don’t think the wordhandsomedoes him justice; he’s oozing with raw sex charisma.

Every inch of him glows with an inner strength, and he seems to dominate the room with his presence.

It’s the way he holds himself. Straight spine, shoulders back, face composed. One hand is tucked into his left pocket, the other’s pressed into his jacket, like he’s reaching for something.

He keeps staring at me and doesn’t say a word. His surprise and curiosity have changed into something else.

An intensestare.

Not the sort of stare a stranger throws my way on the subway, but something much deeper.

Like he’s assessing me. Like he can’t look away, even if he wanted to.

It’s intoxicating, that sheer, overwhelming attention, especially coming from a man like him.

Which is insanely unnerving, considering I’m wearing only a pair of heels, and he’s big enough that he could stride across this room, grab me, and crush me with one massive palm.

“You are not Natalya,” he says at last.

That breaks the spell.

I lunge forward, grab my jacket, and start pulling it on.

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