Page 6 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

He reaches past me to take a warm cookie, his chest brushing my back as he does. The contact, even through fabric, sends a spark of awareness along my skin.

"These are good," he says after taking a bite, sounding almost surprised.

"Don't sound so shocked. I do own a bakery."

A smile curves his lips—one of his rare, genuine smiles that transforms his face from intimidating to devastating.

"I know you're talented. I just didn't expect.

.." He gestures to the domestic scene before him—cookies cooling, flour dusting the countertops, me in his shirt. "This. In my kitchen. It looks right."

The simple statement carries more weight than it should. It looks right. I look right. Here, in his space, wearing his clothes, creating something. Like I belong.

"I don't belong here," I say, voicing the thought aloud, but it sounds unconvincing even to my own ears.

Atlas sets down the cookie and steps closer, until my back hits the counter. He places his hands on either side of me, caging me in without touching.

"You do belong here." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Right here. In my house. In my kitchen." His gaze drops to my lips. "In my bed."

"Atlas," I breathe, both warning and invitation.

"Tell me you don't want this." His face lowers to mine, his breath warm on my lips. "Tell me you don't want me, and I'll step back. But don't lie to yourself."

I should say it. Should push him away. Should remember that this marriage is just for protection, just temporary, just a business arrangement.

But I can't lie. Not to him. Not to myself.

"I want you." The confession falls from my lips like a secret, like a surrender. "I shouldn't, but I do."

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, hunger, satisfaction—before his mouth claims mine. The kiss is deep and consuming from the first touch, his tongue sweeping in to taste the chocolate lingering on mine. His hands move to my waist, lifting me easily to sit on the counter.

"Wrap your legs around me," he commands against my mouth.

I obey without thinking, my body responding to his authority on a primal level. The position brings the heat of him directly against my core, only thin layers of fabric between us. I gasp at the contact, at the evidence of how much he wants me.

"Feel what you do to me?" He rocks against me, a controlled movement that sends sparks of pleasure through my body. "All day, watching you in my house, wearing my clothes, knowing you're mine? I've been hard for hours."

His words should offend me—the possessiveness, the crudeness—but instead they light a fire under my skin. I rock back against him, seeking more friction, more pressure.

"That's it, sugar." His hands slide up my thighs, pushing the t-shirt higher. "Show me how much you want it."

His mouth moves to my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that he discovered last night. I moan, my head falling back to give him better access. His teeth graze my pulse point, then bite down gently, sending a shudder through me.

"Mine," he murmurs against my skin. "Say it."

I'm too far gone to resist. "Yours."

His hands find my breasts beneath the shirt, thumbs brushing over already hardened nipples. "Again."

"Yours, Atlas." My voice breaks as he pinches lightly, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to my core. "Please..."

He knows what I'm asking for. In one smooth motion, he lifts me off the counter, spins me around, and bends me forward. The cool marble presses against my heated skin as he pushes the shirt up to my waist, exposing me.

"So wet already," he groans, one finger tracing my entrance through the thin cotton of my panties. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," I gasp as he pushes the fabric aside and slides a finger into me. "Oh god?—"

"Not god." He works me slowly, adding a second finger, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves that makes stars explode behind my eyes. "Just me. Just your husband."

The word sends a unexpected thrill through me. Husband. Mine, as much as I am his.

I hear the rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper, then he's positioning himself at my entrance. "Tell me you want this," he demands, the head of his cock teasing me. "Tell me you want me inside you."

"I want you," I pant, pressing back against him. "I want you inside me. Now."

He enters me in one long, smooth thrust that steals the breath from my lungs. The angle is different this way—deeper, more intense, hitting places that make my vision blur.

"Fuck," he growls, his hands gripping my hips. "So tight. So perfect."

He starts to move, setting a rhythm that's neither gentle nor rough but somewhere in between—controlled power, restrained hunger. One hand slides around to rub circles where I need it most, the other maintaining his bruising grip on my hip.

"You were made for me," he says, his voice strained with the effort of control. "Made to take me like this. Made to be mine."

Words desert me as pleasure builds, higher and stronger than I thought possible. All I can do is feel—him inside me, around me, his scent and his touch consuming me completely.

"That's it, sugar," he encourages as my body begins to tighten around him. "Let go for me. Come for your husband."

The command, the possession in his voice, sends me over the edge. I come with a cry that echoes in the cavernous kitchen, my body clenching around him in waves that seem endless. He follows me immediately, his rhythm faltering as he drives deep one final time, his release hot inside me.

For long moments, we stay locked together, his chest pressed to my back, his breath harsh against my neck. One of his hands covers mine on the counter, our fingers entwining, wedding bands touching.

Slowly, reality returns. I'm bent over a kitchen counter, freshly baked cookies cooling beside me, my husband—my forced husband, I remind myself desperately—still inside me.

But when Atlas gently turns me to face him, lifting me into his arms like I weigh nothing, the tenderness in his eyes undoes me. This isn't just sex. This isn't just lust or convenience or protection.

This is something deeper, something more dangerous. Something that feels alarmingly like the beginning of love.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, carrying me toward the stairs, apparently unconcerned about the mess we've left behind.

I rest my head on his shoulder, too overwhelmed to meet his gaze. "That I shouldn't want this," I whisper truthfully. "But I do. God help me, I do."

His arms tighten around me, a silent acknowledgment of my confession. I feel his lips press against my hair, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache.

I'm falling for him. For the dangerous man who forced me into marriage, who keeps me in his fortress, who takes me with a possessiveness that should frighten me but instead makes me feel wanted in a way I've never experienced.

This isn't Stockholm Syndrome. This isn't just gratitude for protection or response to his undeniable physicality. This is... something else. Something that feels terrifyingly like fate.

And I'm not sure I want to fight it anymore.