Page 21 of The Mob Boss's Bride
We work side by side, and it's... nice. Domestic in a way I never expected with Atlas. When I reach for the vanilla, our hands brush, and the now-familiar spark of awareness jumps between us.
"Like this?" he asks, turning on the mixer.
"Perfect." I move closer to check, and he puts an arm around my waist, drawing me against his side. It's such a casual, comfortable gesture—the kind real couples make without thinking.
Everything goes smoothly until Atlas reaches for more flour and somehow knocks the bag, sending a cloud of white powder exploding over both of us.
"Shit." He jumps back, but it's too late. Flour dusts his black henley, his jeans, even his hair. "Sorry, I?—"
I can't help it. I laugh. The sight of Atlas Vale—dangerous crime boss, intimidating presence, the man who makes hardened criminals tremble—covered in baking flour is too absurd.
He stares at me for a moment, flour streaking his dark beard, then his lips twitch. "Funny, am I?"
"A little." I try to stifle my giggles. "You look like you've been caught in a snowstorm."
A gleam enters his eye—playful, dangerous. "Is that so?"
Before I can react, he grabs a handful of flour and gently smudges it across my cheek. "There. Now we match."
"Atlas!" I gasp in mock outrage, then grab my own handful, flicking it at his chest. "You started it."
His laugh—a rare, rich sound that transforms his face—fills the kitchen. "So that's how it's going to be?"
What follows is a ridiculous, childish flour fight that leaves us both covered head to toe in white powder. I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard, nor the last time I saw Atlas so unguarded. When he finally catches me around the waist, pulling me against his flour-covered chest, we're both breathless with laughter.
"You're a mess," he says, brushing flour from my cheek with his thumb.
"Your fault." I'm still giggling, high on the simple joy of playfulness with this man who so rarely lets his guard down.
"I take full responsibility." His voice drops lower, the laughter fading into something more heated as his thumb traces my lower lip. "And I'll help you clean up."
The mood shifts so quickly it leaves me dizzy. One moment we're playing like children; the next, his eyes are dark with desire, his body hard against mine.
"We're covered in flour," I point out, but my voice has gone breathless.
"So we are." He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "Guess we'll need a shower. But first..."
His mouth captures mine in a kiss that tastes like sugar and flour and hunger. His hands lift me effortlessly onto the prep table, flour billowing around us in a white cloud. I should protest—this is my new kitchen, we're making a mess—but his tongue slides against mine, and rational thought abandons me.
"This is becoming a habit," I murmur against his lips as his hands push up my shirt. "Taking me on kitchen counters."
"You complaining?" He raises an eyebrow, fingers tracing the underside of my breasts through my bra.
"Not at all." I tug at his flour-dusted shirt. "But we're getting flour everywhere."
"Don't care." He pulls my shirt over my head, then his own. "Been watching you bake for an hour. Been wanting to taste you for just as long."
His mouth moves to my neck, leaving floury kisses down to my collarbone. My head falls back, giving him better access as his hands unclasp my bra, tossing it aside. Flour dusts my bare skin now, and Atlas's tongue follows, licking it away with deliberate strokes that make me shiver.
"Sweet," he murmurs against my breast before taking a nipple into his mouth. "Always so sweet for me."
My hands fist in his hair, holding him closer as pleasure spirals through me. Five weeks of his touch, his body, and still he can reduce me to incoherence with just his mouth on my skin.
"Atlas," I gasp as his hand slides between my legs, pressing against me through my leggings. "Please."
He straightens, eyes dark with want. "Please what? Tell me what you need, sugar."
"You. Inside me. Now." The words come without hesitation now, my earlier shyness long gone.
