Page 22 of The Mob Boss's Bride
He makes quick work of our remaining clothes, lifting me back onto the table once we're both naked. Flour clings to our damp skin, creating a mess that should be annoying but somehow only adds to the eroticism of the moment—both of us too desperate for each other to care about the chaos we're making.
Atlas positions himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against me. "Look at me," he commands softly.
I meet his gaze, seeing something there beyond just desire—something that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
"You were made for me," he says as he enters me in one smooth thrust. "Made for this. For us."
The words should scare me—their permanence, their certainty. Instead, they warm something deep inside me, something that's been growing since that first night in his bed.
"Yes," I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. "For you."
He moves within me, each thrust precise and perfect, hitting exactly where I need him. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he claims me on the table he built for my passion, in the room he created for my happiness.
"Mine," he growls, leaning forward to kiss me, flour transferring between our bodies with each movement. "My wife. My Fern."
"Yours," I agree, the word no longer feeling like surrender but like claiming something for myself. "And you're mine."
Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, pleasure, possession—before he redoubles his efforts, driving into me with renewed intensity. One hand slides between us, finding the bundle of nerves that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
"Come for me," he urges, his voice strained with the effort of control. "Show me who you belong to."
Release builds within me, a tide rising too fast to contain. When it breaks, I cry out his name, my body clenching around him in waves that pull him over the edge with me. He comes with a groan, my name a prayer on his lips, his forehead pressed against mine as we breathe the same air.
For long moments afterward, we stay connected, flour-dusted and spent. His arms cradle me close, his lips pressing gentle kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
"We destroyed your new kitchen," he finally says, amusement in his voice as he surveys the floury chaos around us.
I laugh softly, running my fingers through his hair, leaving white streaks. "Worth it."
He lifts me easily, still joined, and carries me toward a door I hadn't noticed before. "Bathroom," he explains. "Shower. Then we'll clean up."
In the shower, as warm water sluices flour from our bodies, Atlas washes me with a tenderness that makes my throat tight. His hands are gentle, reverent almost, as they move over curves he's memorized in our weeks together.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, noticing my silence.
The truth slips out before I can censor it. "What if I like being yours?"
His hands still on my skin, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes me shiver despite the warm water. "Do you?"
I nod slowly, admitting it to both of us. "I do. I like being Mrs. Vale. I like being here, with you. I like... belonging to you." I swallow hard. "Is that crazy? After how this started?"
Instead of answering with words, he kisses me—soft and sweet and achingly tender. When he pulls back, there's something in his eyes I've never seen before—vulnerability, hope.
"Not crazy," he says quietly. "Perfect. Because I like you being mine too. Need it, even."
The admission—so simple, so profound—settles something restless inside me. This wasn't how I planned to find love. It wasn't how I imagined my life would go. But standing here, in the arms of a man who built me a kitchen because he saw my need for creation, who fights flour battles with me one moment and makes love to me the next, I can't bring myself to regret any of it.
"You were made for me, sugar," he whispers against my wet hair, echoing his words from earlier. "And I think maybe I was made for you too."
I press closer, fitting my body to his like puzzle pieces finding their match. What started as protection has become something else entirely. Something real. Something that feels dangerously like forever.
And I'm no longer fighting it.
eight
. . .
Atlas
