Page 41 of Rent a Mob Boss

I’m going to kill him. I’m going to marry him, and then I’m going to kill him.

The ceremony is short because Dorian doesn’t like long speeches, and neither do I, and the officiant keeps it simple—vows, rings, the basics. Except for the ring part.

Because the ring part involves Poptart.

This was Lillie’s idea. It was a terrible idea, and I said so, and Dorian said so, and Ms. Beaumont said so with her eyes, but Lillie wanted Poptart to carry the rings down the aisle in a little pouch on his halter, and none of us—not a single adult in this household, including a man who controls half the eastern seaboard—was able to say no to her.

So Poptart is led up the aisle by one of the stable hands, wearing a white ribbon on his halter and a small silk pouch tied to his neck. The guests are delighted, and he makes it approximately three-quarters of the way to the arch before he sees the rose petals on the ground and decides they’re food.

He stops. He drops his head. He begins to eat.

“Poptart, no,” Lillie hisses from her position beside me.

Poptart does not acknowledge her. Poptart has found rose petals, and he is chewing them with the placid commitment of an animal who has never once in his life been in a hurry.

The stable hand tugs the lead. Poptart does not move. The stable hand tugs harder. Poptart leans back against the rope the way he leaned back in the parking lot at Sweetwater, with the full-body stubbornness of a creature who knows he cannot be made to do anything through reason.

“Oh, for—” Dorian starts, and then Tristan appears.

I don’t know where he came from. I never know where Tristan comes from. He materializes beside the horse, and without a word, without expression, without the slightest disruption to the stillness that surrounds him like weather, he takes the pouch off Poptart’s halter and walks it to the arch and hands it to Dorian.

The guests applaud. Poptart continues to eat rose petals. Lillie puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head.

Dorian slips the ring on my finger. I do the same with his. The officiant says the words, and Dorian kisses me. It’s the kind of kiss that makes my grandmother clear her throat from the second row.

That’s it. I’m married.

I am married to a mob boss, and I have never been happier in my entire life.

We planned this. A few minutes alone during the cocktail hour, when we’d step away and change into our reception attire. That means a second dress for me, along with a pair of dance-friendly flats I already can’t wait to slide my feet into after meeting and greeting for the past half hour post-ceremony.

“We have twenty minutes before the reception,” my husband announces as we step into the suite while a party unfolds outside.

“We have fifteen,” I point out.

“I’ll take fifteen.”

The bedroom door closes behind us, and his mouth is on mine before the lock clicks. My back hits the door, and his hands find the silk at my waist, and I’m already reaching for his belt, because we’ve been playing it cool for the last hour while the tension has been building like a storm front. I need him the way I need air, which is to say desperately and immediately.

“The dress—” I gasp against his mouth. “Don’t ruin the dress, I have to change but don’t ruin⁠—”

“I’m not going to ruin the dress.” He’s already working the zipper down, slowly, carefully. The silk slides off my shoulders and pools at my ankles, and now his hands are on my bare skin. Stroking, caressing, his lips skimming my throat and my shoulder until I shiver.

“Fifteen minutes,” I remind him before gasping when he sucks my taut nipple through the lace cup covering it.

“I’ve done more with less.” He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around him, and he carries me to the bed and lays me down, and the veil is still in my hair, and I don’t care. His mouth moves down my throat, my collarbone, lower, and I arch into him and pull at his shirt.

“Off,” I manage. “Take it off.”

He does, and I run my hands over his chest, and he makes a sound against my skin that undoes something in me and makes me cup the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss. His hand slides up my thigh, finds what’s underneath, and I arch into him again. I give myself to him the way I always do, because this is the only way I ever want to be.

“Wet,” he grunts before he rolls his hips and grinds his dick against me. His fingers move, and I gasp and grip his shoulders.

“Dorian…” I moan when he makes contact with my throbbing clit.

“I know.” He always knows—where to touch, how to move, the exact pressure that turns me liquid. His hand works between us until my hips buck, and I moan into his mouth. I’m already falling apart when he pushes into me, and the feeling is so full and so right that I make a sound I’ll be embarrassed about later.

“Fuck.” It’s a grunt, deep, animal, delivered once he’s filled me. “I love this sweet pussy. I love you.”