Page 4 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

four

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Atlas

The diamond sits on her finger like it was made for her hand.

My mark. My claim. I watch her examine it, the way the sunlight splinters through the stone, casting tiny rainbows across her skin.

She hasn't taken it off, which satisfies something primitive in me.

She agreed. She's mine. Now I just need to make it official before she changes her mind or someone tries to take her from me.

"Stay here," I tell her, my voice rougher than intended. Her eyes lift to mine—still wary, still uncertain, but with something else now. Something that makes my blood heat. "I need to make arrangements."

"For what?" She tugs the hem of my shirt lower on her thighs, a gesture that only draws my attention to the expanse of bare skin below.

"Our wedding." The word hangs between us, solid and undeniable.

She swallows, the movement visible in her slender throat. "Now? Today?"

"Today." I step closer, unable to resist touching her. My fingers trace the line of her jaw. "The sooner, the better."

In my office, I make three calls. The first to Judge Ormond, who owes me several favors and won't ask questions about expedited licenses. The second to my lawyer, who will handle the paperwork and ensure everything is legally binding. The third to Marco.

"I need the west wing prepared. The formal sitting room. And find something appropriate for a bride to wear." A pause as he absorbs this. "Size four, I'd guess. Nothing flashy. Something white."

"Boss, are you?—"

"Just do it, Marco."

I hang up before he can ask questions I don't want to answer. Yes, this is fast. Yes, it's unexpected. No, I don't care what anyone thinks.

My mind returns to Fern as I sign the papers my lawyer sends over. Her softness. The way she trembled when I kissed her. The taste of her—sweet like her pastries but with an unexpected heat beneath. She's everything I didn't know I wanted. Everything I now refuse to live without.

It's not just desire, though that burns hot enough. It's the need to protect, to possess, to keep. She looked at me with those big blue eyes, fear and attraction warring in them, and something in me broke open. Something I thought I'd killed years ago.

By afternoon, everything is ready. I return to the bedroom to find Fern dressed in the clothes I had delivered—a simple white sundress that makes her look even more innocent than she is. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, still damp from the shower. No makeup. She doesn't need it.

"The officiant is here," I tell her, drinking in the sight of her. "Downstairs."

She nods, fingers twisting together. "This is really happening."

"Second thoughts?" I keep my voice neutral, but something must show in my face because she takes a step toward me rather than away.

"No. I mean, yes, but—" She takes a deep breath. "I understand the necessity. I just never imagined my wedding day would be like this."

"What did you imagine?"

A small, sad smile curves her lips. "I don't know. Something small but meaningful. Friends. Maybe in the garden behind my bakery when the roses bloom. Not..." She gestures vaguely. "This."

Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest. For the first time, I consider what I'm taking from her. Not just her freedom, but her dreams.

"I'll make it up to you," I promise, the words surprising me as much as her. "We can have another ceremony later. However you want it."

Her eyes widen slightly. "I thought this was temporary."

I don't answer. We both know it isn't.

The officiant waits in the formal sitting room, an older man with a kind face who asks no questions about the rushed ceremony or the lack of guests.

Marco has done well—the room is tastefully arranged with white lilies and candles, a makeshift altar created from what must be every flower in my hothouse.

Fern pauses in the doorway, her eyes taking in the scene. "Oh," she breathes, and something in her expression softens. She looks at me, a question in her eyes.

"I told them to make it nice," I say with a shrug, as if the effort means nothing. As if I haven't been texting specific instructions for the past hour.

"It is nice," she whispers. "Thank you."

She walks toward me, toward the altar, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. In the candlelight, her skin glows golden, her hair a halo of pale silk. She looks ethereal. Untouchable. And soon to be completely, legally mine.

The ceremony is brief but binding. The officiant speaks of commitment and partnership, words that seem both foreign and strangely right. When it's time to exchange vows, I take Fern's hands in mine. They're small, soft—baker's hands, with a small burn scar on one thumb that I want to kiss.

"I, Atlas Vale, take you, Fern Whitaker, to be my wife.

" The traditional words feel ancient in my mouth, weighted with more meaning than I expected.

"To have and to hold, from this day forward.

For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer.

In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, till death do us part. "

Her eyes widen at the standard vows. Perhaps she expected something modified, something that acknowledged the unusual nature of our arrangement. But I meant every word.

When it's her turn, her voice trembles slightly, but she doesn't falter.

"I, Fern Whitaker, take you, Atlas Vale, to be my husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, till death do us part."

The ring I place on her finger is a simple platinum band that nestles against the engagement ring. Her hands shake as she slides a matching band onto mine—a ring Marco somehow procured within hours, another small miracle.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The officiant smiles benevolently. "You may kiss your bride."

I cup Fern's face in my hands, tilting it up to meet mine.

This kiss is different from our first—still possessive, still claiming, but with something else too.

Something that feels dangerously like tenderness.

Her lips are soft beneath mine, yielding then responding, her hands coming to rest lightly on my chest.

When we part, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. She looks beautiful. She looks mine.

The officiant departs with signed papers and a generous envelope. Marco tactfully disappears. And then we're alone, husband and wife of less than five minutes, standing in a room filled with flowers and flickering candles.

"So," she says softly, "what happens now?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implication. I could give her space, time to adjust. I could be patient.

I've never been patient.

"Now," I say, sweeping her into my arms in one fluid motion, "I take my wife to bed."

She gasps, her arms automatically winding around my neck. "Atlas?—"

"Unless you want me to stop." I look down at her, giving her this one chance to set boundaries. "Do you want me to stop?"

Her teeth catch her lower lip, her internal conflict visible in her eyes. Then, slowly, she shakes her head. "No."

That single word unleashes something primal in me. I carry her upstairs, to my bedroom—our bedroom now—her body light and warm against my chest. She smells like my soap, which only heightens my possessiveness. She's wearing my ring, my name. Soon she'll be wearing my marks on her skin.

I set her on her feet beside the bed, the massive four-poster that dominates the room. She looks small standing there, vulnerable in her white dress with her eyes wide and uncertain.

"We don't have to do this tonight," I say, the words costing me. "If you need time?—"

"No." She cuts me off, her voice stronger than I expect. "If we're doing this—this marriage—we should do it properly. All of it."

My control nearly snaps at the consent in her words. "Are you sure?"

In answer, she reaches for the hem of her dress and pulls it over her head in one smooth motion.

Underneath, she's wearing nothing but simple white cotton panties.

No bra. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her—full breasts with pink nipples already tightening under my gaze, the soft curve of her stomach, the flare of her hips.

"Jesus, Fern." The words come out strangled. "You're fucking perfect."

Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't cover herself. "Your turn."

I strip efficiently, watching her eyes widen as my body is revealed—the tattoos that cover my chest and arms, the scars from years in my business, the evidence of how much I want her. Her gaze lingers there, her lips parting slightly.

"Still sure?" I ask, moving closer.

She nods, reaching for me, her hand brushing my chest with hesitant curiosity. "You're... not what I expected."

"Good or bad?"

A small smile touches her lips. "Intimidating. But good."

I capture her hand, pressing it flat against my heart so she can feel it pounding. "You do this to me. Only you."

Then I'm kissing her, backing her toward the bed, lowering her onto the mattress. She goes willingly, arms wrapping around my neck to pull me down with her. I brace myself above her, careful not to crush her with my weight.

"Tell me what you like," I murmur against her throat, trailing kisses down to her collarbone. "Tell me how to please you."

She makes a small, embarrassed sound. "I don't... I haven't done this much."

The admission sends a surge of possessive pleasure through me. "How much is 'not much'?"

"Um, never, actually…" She trails off, blushing deeper.

"Never?" I can't hide my satisfaction. "I'll make it good for you, sugar. I promise."

I take my time with her, exploring every inch of her body with hands and mouth.

She's responsive, arching into my touch, small sounds of pleasure escaping her lips.

When I take a nipple into my mouth, she gasps, her hands flying to my hair.

When I slide lower, tracing the waistband of her panties with my tongue, she whimpers.

"Atlas, please..."

"Please what?" I look up at her, enjoying the sight of her flushed and needy. "Tell me what you want."

"I don't—I can't?—"

"Yes, you can." I hook my fingers in her panties, drawing them slowly down her legs. "You're my wife now. Nothing to be ashamed of."

When she's fully naked, I pause to admire her—all soft curves and pale skin, a feast laid out for me alone. Mine. All mine.

"Beautiful," I murmur, pressing kisses to her inner thighs. "So fucking beautiful."

She tries to close her legs, shy under my scrutiny, but I hold them open gently but firmly. "Don't hide from me. I want to see all of you."

Then my mouth is on her, tasting her, and her shyness disappears in a cry of pleasure. Her hands fist in my hair, her hips rising to meet me. I work her with tongue and fingers until she's trembling, until my name falls from her lips like a prayer.

"That's it, sugar," I encourage her. "Let go for me. Show me how good it feels."

When she comes, it's with a surprised cry, her body shuddering beneath my mouth. I guide her through it, gentling my touch as she becomes sensitive, then moving back up her body to claim her mouth again.

She's dazed, beautiful in her pleasure, her eyes hazy and lips swollen. "I didn't know it could be like that," she whispers.

Pride and satisfaction surge through me. "We're just getting started."

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.