Page 30 of The Mob Boss's Bride
"You've been planning this." It's not a question.
"For months." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wanted it to be perfect. Wanted you to have the romance you deserved from the beginning."
She laughs softly, shaking her head. "Only you would think a proper proposal requires a custom ring and a speech when we're already married."
"You deserve more than I can ever give you," I say simply. "But I'll spend my life trying."
Her expression softens, and she rises on tiptoes to kiss me again. "I love you, Atlas Vale. My husband. My choice."
The words—my choice—settle something restless inside me, some lingering doubt that she might eventually regret the circumstances that brought us together. She has chosen me, freely and fully.
I deepen the kiss, my hands sliding down to her hips, drawing her flush against me. She responds immediately, her body molding to mine in the way I've grown addicted to. When she feels my arousal pressing against her stomach, she pulls back slightly, laughing.
"Atlas, the bakery opens in twenty minutes?—"
"Plenty of time." I'm already backing her toward her office, toward the small daybed she keeps there for long workdays. "I need to make love to my fiancée."
"I'm already your wife," she reminds me, but she's not resisting, her hands already working at the buttons of my shirt.
"Both." I kick the office door closed behind us, lifting her to sit on her desk. "My wife who just agreed to be my wife again. Who chose me." I pull her apron over her head, then work on the buttons of her blouse. "Who I'm going to spend forever making happy."
Her hands are just as busy, pushing my shirt from my shoulders, running over the tattooed skin she knows as well asher own now. "Twenty minutes," she says again, but there's no conviction in it.
"I'll be quick." I slide her blouse off, unhooking her bra with practiced ease. "But not too quick."
I capture a nipple in my mouth, reveling in her gasp, in the way her hands clutch at my shoulders. Six months of learning her body, and still I'm insatiable for her. Still I discover new ways to make her moan, new sensitive spots that make her gasp my name.
"Atlas," she breathes as I pull her to the edge of the desk, tugging her leggings and panties down in one efficient movement. "The blinds?—"
"Closed." I drop to my knees before her, spreading her thighs wider. "I checked when I came in."
Her laugh turns to a moan as I taste her, my tongue seeking out the spots I know drive her wild. Her hands fist in my hair, guiding me, urging me on. I bring her to the edge quickly—I wasn't lying about being fast—but pull back before she can fall, enjoying her whimper of frustration.
"Not yet," I murmur against her inner thigh, biting gently. "Not until I'm inside you."
I stand, unfastening my pants, freeing myself. Her eyes darken at the sight, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in a way that nearly undoes my control. I position myself at her entrance, teasing us both.
"I love you," I tell her, needing to say the words that once seemed impossible for me. "Every part of you. Every day, more."
"I love you too." She wraps her legs around my waist, urging me closer. "Now please?—"
I enter her in one smooth thrust, swallowing her cry with my mouth on hers. The feeling of her around me—tight, wet, perfect—still takes my breath away. I establish a rhythm that's fast butcontrolled, angling to hit the spot that makes her eyes flutter closed.
"Look at me," I command softly. "I want to see you."
Her eyes open, blue and dazed with pleasure, focusing on mine with effort. I increase my pace, one hand slipping between us to where we're joined.
"That's it," I encourage as her breathing quickens, as her inner muscles begin to flutter around me. "Let go for me, sweet girl."
When she comes, it's with my name on her lips, her eyes never leaving mine, her body arching beautifully beneath me. The sight—my wife, my love, lost in pleasure I've given her—pushes me toward my own release.
But before I let go, something possessive and primal surges through me. Something I've been thinking about for weeks.
"I want to get you pregnant," I growl against her ear, my rhythm faltering as I near the edge. "Want to see you round with my child. Want to watch our baby grow inside you."
Her eyes widen, but not with fear or rejection. Instead, I see something warm bloom in their blue depths. "Yes," she whispers, her legs tightening around me. "Make me pregnant, Atlas. Give me your baby."
The words—her consent, her shared desire—shatter my control. I come with a groan, burying myself deep inside her, the possibility of creation adding a new dimension to our joining.
