Page 9 of Under His Control
He spins me to face his desk. One palm spreads across my belly, while the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back just enough for his mouth to skim the edge of my jaw.
“Taylor,” he growls, his voice tinged with Russian dragging over my name like honey. “You came into my office and?—"
Then he’s on his knees, lifting one of my legs and hitching it up on the desk. He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth presses to the inside of my thigh and lingers there, open and hot, teeth scraping just enough to make my hips jolt.
In the fantasy, I’m not wearing any panties. He flicks his eyes to my pussy and licks his lips.
“Ever since I met you,” he says, “I’ve wondered what you taste like. Delicious, I imagine.”
I groan, tilting my head back when his tongue dips between my folds like he’s tasting dessert after a decadent feast. He licks slowly at first, savoring, cataloging every reaction, then faster, deeper, flicking and curling with precision. He moans against me like I’m the one giving him pleasure. His hands grip my ass, spreading me wider, keeping me still.
He teases my clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucks, just once, and my legs nearly give out. Then he does it again. And again. Faster. Rhythmic. Focused like a man who doesn’t stop until he gets exactly what he wants.
And what he wants is me coming undone. On his tongue. Screaming his name.
This isn’t the first time I’ve imagined this. Hell, it’s not even the tenth. I’ve lost count of how many late nights I’ve lain in bed, picturing Anatoly dragging me onto his desk, tearing off my clothes, eating me, screwing me, making me come.
But this time? This time, I can practically feel him. I can almost hear the wet sounds of his tongue sliding through me, the deep groan of satisfaction he lets out when I start panting his name.
My fingers dip between my thighs to find myself soaked. I stroke tight circles around my clit, pressure building fast. The image of his lips wrapped around me, his beard grazing sensitive skin, his voice commanding me to let go?—
“Come for me, Taylor. Show me how sweet you taste.”
I gasp, bite my lip, and rock against my hand.
And then it hits—hard, hot, and all-consuming. I cry out, one palm smacking the shower wall to keep me upright as wave after wave crashes through me. My thighs shake, my breath stutters as my nerves light up like sparklers.
And through it all, the only name on my lips is his.
Anatoly.
I sag against the tile, water washing over me, pulse still jackhammering in my throat.
This was supposed to be a stress-relief shower. A mental reset. But now I’m wrecked, panting his name, fully aware that my crush on my boss has officially crossed into delusional levels of sexual thirst.
CHAPTER 3
ANATOLY
“Don’t shoot the messenger. You know I’d never give you bad news by choice.”
I stand at my office window, gaze out at the sprawling Las Vegas skyline, and listen to my brother’s voice.
“I know,” I say, turning toward Damas. My brother has been there for me as long as I can remember—even when I was too stubborn to ask for help.
I trust him. But that doesn’t make his message any easier to swallow.
“They’re really going to do it?”
Damas leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching me with that sharp, restless energy he always carries. Damas is all quick glances and dry smirks—handsome, but in a rougher, more angular way.
He wears his dark hair messy, though in a stylish sort of way, his tailored clothes always just slightly askew, like he’s one step out of sync on purpose.
And right now, his trademark smirk, the one he always seems to wear, is missing.
He nods. “Yeah. They’re really going to do it.”
“Unbelievable. Part of me had hoped this was all a sick joke.”
