Page 16 of Under His Control
“I understand the risk,” she says, “but I’m not leaving. I need to see him.”
I let the moment stretch, amused at how firmly she stands her ground. Mostcower at Mrs. B’s glacial stare. But Taylor isn’t so easily intimidated, it seems, and that’s enough to make me want to step in.
Sliding the folder of legal documents away, I move to the door and push it open. The tension is thick, as Mrs. B is about to call security, phone in hand, while Taylor braces herself like a boxer in the ring. Her eyes dart to me, and for a heartbeat, we stare at each other.
A faint pink colors her cheeks, and she sucks in a breath.
My gaze sweeps over her quickly. The tightness of her skirt, the way her waist curves, stirs a possessive spark in me, my cock twitching to life.
A thought flickers:I wonder what she looks like underneath all that fabric.
My grandmother would have called it rodovyye bedra—regal hips. I call it a problem I can’t ignore.
“What’s going on here?”
Mrs. B narrows her eyes. “Sir, Ms. Jenson here is insisting on seeing you without an appointment. I was just about to call security. I still can.”
I regard Taylor for a long moment.
“No. I can handle this.”
Mrs. B’s eyebrows raise. “But?—”
I raise my hand before turning my attention back to Taylor.
She isn’t frightened; she’s controlled—and control is a language I respect.
Mrs. B scowls, but she doesn’t try to stop us as I gesture for Taylor to come inside my office, closing the door behind her.
The moment she enters, my office feels smaller somehow, thick with an electricity that crackles like static in the air. Her scent hits me first—something light and floral—with an underlying sweetness that’s mouthwatering.
“Sit,” I say. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She nods, then perches at the very edge of the seat, as if ready to bolt at any second. Her knuckles whiten around the armrests, though her expression is calm.
Impressive control. I open a discreet cabinet built into the bookshelves and retrieve a bottle of red wine. It’s early, but I have a feeling we both need something to smooth the edges.
“Drink?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder as I select two crystal glasses.
“I start work in half an hour.”
“The boss won’t mind.”
She laughs softly. “You mean you?”
I grin with a feeling of genuine amusement. “That I do.”
As she hesitates, I see a mixture of nerves and simmering curiosity in her eyes.
“Sure,” she says. “But just a little.”
I pour two glasses, swirling one briefly before handing it to her. Her slender fingers close around the glass stem, brushing mine. A tiny tingle pulses at the contact.
My body remembers the elevator—the way rage and want tried to share the same breath—and I tighten the reins.
I settle behind my desk, swirling the contents of my own glass, letting the aroma fill my senses. She takes a cautious sip, then sets it down, exhaling like she’s steeling herself for a plunge into deep, icy water. I can’t blame her. It’s not every day a lower-level manager storms my office unannounced. That’s usually a quick route to losing one’s position.
“So,” I say as I steeple my fingers, “tell me what’s so urgent that you’d risk your job to see me.”
