Page 12 of The Mob Boss's Bride
I position myself between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. She's wet, ready, but I still pause, waiting for her nod before pushing forward. The feeling of her tight heat enveloping me is almost enough to undo me then and there.
"Fuck," I growl, burying my face in her neck as I fight for control. "You feel incredible."
Her legs wrap around my waist, drawing me deeper. Her hands explore my back, my shoulders, learning the contours of my body as I learn hers. When I begin to move, she moves with me, finding our rhythm together.
I try to go slow, to be gentle, but the need to claim her overrides my control. My thrusts become harder, deeper, my hands holding her hips to angle her just right. She doesn't protest—instead, she meets each thrust, her nails digging into my shoulders in a way that only drives me wilder.
"Mine," I growl against her ear. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"Yours," she gasps, the word breaking on a moan as I hit a spot that makes her arch beneath me. "I'm yours, Atlas."
Those words push me toward the edge. I reach between us, finding the spot that will send her over again. I want to feel her come around me, want to give her pleasure she's never known.
"Come for me again," I command, my voice rough with need. "Let me feel you."
She does, her body clenching around mine, her cry muffled against my shoulder. The sight of her coming undone—my wife, in my bed, wearing my ring—sends me over the edge. I bury myself deep inside her as I come, her name a groan on my lips.
After, I hold her close, our bodies still joined, her head on my chest. Her breathing slows, matches mine. My fingers trace idle patterns on her back, unwilling to break contact.
"I never knew it could be like that," she whispers again, sounding almost in awe.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. "It's never been like that for me either," I admit, the words escaping before I can censor them.
She lifts her head, looking at me with surprise. "Really?"
Instead of answering, I kiss her, slow and deep. When I pull back, I trace her swollen lips with my thumb. "Get some rest. We're not done for the night."
She blushes but doesn't protest, settling against me with a soft sigh. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, her body relaxing in sleep.
I watch her, this woman who is now legally, physically mine. My wife. My protection. Mine to keep safe, to please, to possess.
I'll never let her go. The thought should frighten me—I've never wanted to keep anyone before. But looking at Fern, feeling her warm weight against me, all I feel is right. Settled. Like something I didn't know was missing has finally clicked into place.
Mine. All mine. Forever.
five
. . .
Fern
I wakeup tangled in sheets that smell like sex and Atlas's cologne, my body tender in places I've never felt before. The memories flood back in vivid detail—his mouth on mine, his hands mapping my body like territory he intends to memorize, the words he growled against my skin as he claimed me over and over. I should feel used. I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel a liquid heat pooling in my belly at the mere memory, and a confusion that runs soul-deep. How can my body betray me like this, responding so eagerly to a man who practically forced me into marriage? A man who, I remind myself firmly, represents everything I should fear?
Sunlight streams through the windows, indicating it's well into morning. Atlas is gone, his side of the bed cold. I stretch, wincing slightly at the pleasant ache between my thighs, then curl back into the warm spot where our bodies joined repeatedly through the night.
Three times. We had sex three times, each more intense than the last. The third time, he'd taken me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, something in his gaze so intimate it frightened me more than his roughness. That wasn't just sex. That was... something else. Something I'm not ready to name.
"It's just physical," I whisper to the empty room. "Just chemistry. Just survival."
But the diamond on my finger catches the light, throwing tiny rainbows across the ceiling, and even I don't believe my words.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, looking for something to wear. My dress from yesterday is draped carefully over a chair, but beside it lies one of Atlas's t-shirts—left deliberately, I'm sure. The thought of him selecting clothes for me to wear should irritate me. Instead, I find myself lifting the shirt to my nose, inhaling his scent before pulling it over my head.
The bathroom is a marble palace with a shower big enough for six people. I stand under the spray for long minutes, trying to wash away my confusion along with the evidence of our night together. It doesn't work. Every soap and shampoo smells like him. Every bruise and mark on my body reminds me of his mouth, his hands, his possession.
When I emerge, wrapped in a plush towel, Atlas is there. He lounges against the doorframe, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes. He's dressed in black pants and another henley, this one deep blue that makes his eyes seem even darker by contrast.
"Morning, wife." He says the word like it tastes good in his mouth.
