12. Lemon #2
“Look, Princess, I’ve lost my mind over you, fallen head over heels in love, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. The only title that means anything to me now is wife, and you’re going to be mine in six weeks. Now come here and kiss me.”
My fingers reach for the necklace again, and I watch as he holds his breath, not blinking while he waits for me to decide what to do.
But I know I’m not going to take it off, because regardless of the fact that he put a beautiful necklace that he considers the equivalent of a wedding ring on me without explaining or asking permission, I still want this with him.
It’s all happening too quickly, and maybe I’ll end up regretting it, but I want this.
I love him, and I want this happy ever after he’s describing. I want him.
Pushing up out of the sofa, I stand in front of him, watching him watch me with this hopeful look in his eyes. Rising up onto my tiptoes, I seal my fate with four words. “I love you too,” I whisper as I press my lips to his.
“Wait, who is coming?” I ask.
“My friend, Gaelle, and her wife, Holly. They’ve been in Portland visiting Holly’s family, but they’re going up to Big Sky for a babymoon, so they’re stopping for a visit and to have breakfast on their way through Montana.”
“I should probably go and check that Avery hasn’t thrown all of my stuff onto the street,” I say, hoping that there isn’t too much truth in the excuse I’m giving as a reason to leave.
“After breakfast, we’ll go and pack up the rest of your stuff. You can just let your landlord know that you’ve moved out and will not be renewing the lease once it ends.”
“Wait, what? I can’t just move out. I haven’t even started looking for a new place yet.”
Lifting up onto his elbow, he peers down at me. “You’re not looking for a new place. You’re moving in here.”
“What?” I scoff. “No, I’m not. I can’t move in with you after knowing you for less than a week.”
“You fell in love with me and agreed to marry me after less than a week,” he says with a smirk.
“I did not.”
Curling his finger beneath the necklace that I haven’t even attempted to remove, he grins seductively. “Gaelle and Holly are married, but Gaelle is a Domme, and Holly is her sub. They’re currently expecting their first baby.”
“It’s weird for me to be here when your friends visit.”
“It’s not weird. They’re looking forward to meeting you.”
“They are?”
“Of course. Now while I know that neither me, Gaelle, nor Holly will care if we’re all naked, I’m guessing you’d rather put some clothes on.”
“Are you serious?” I whisper-yell.
Chuckling, he drags me to the side of the bed, lifts me into his arms, and walks us into the bathroom.
Unlike last night when I showered alone, this morning, he turns on the water, then walks us beneath the stream, not putting me down until he has to admit defeat and lower me to my feet so we can both wash.
Once we’re clean, he painstakingly dries me, rubbing the towel gently over each finger, before moving down my body until I’m a standing heap of relaxed goo. Following him back into his closet, I spot my dresses in a haphazard pile on top of the counter, then glance at Atticus to gauge his reaction.
His jaw tics when he spots the pile and silently picks them all up.
Instead of telling him to stop, I watch him carefully hang my dresses beside his clothes in his beautiful closet.
Once he’s finished reintegrating my things with his, he turns back to me.
Gathering me in his arms, he pulls me close, then buries his face in my neck, inhaling deeply.
“After Gaelle and Holly leave, we’ll grab some packing boxes and start collecting your things.
Do you know Avery’s schedule? Will she be home? ”
“I can’t move in with you, Atticus. It’s too soon,” I tell him, ignoring how amazing it feels to be enclosed in his arms.
“It’s the perfect time,” he says, tipping my chin back and pressing his lips to mine.
I’m breathless by the time he pulls back. “Get dressed, Princess,” he rasps, pinching my chin before reluctantly pulling away.
It takes me a moment to recalibrate how to feel away from his touch, like my nervous system is rebooting. Once I feel a little closer to normal, I dry and style my hair into a loose fishtail braid that falls over my shoulder with tendrils of hair framing my face.
After rubbing some moisturizer into my skin and slicking some gloss over my lips, I open his closet door and stare at the dresses I haven’t worn since I got here.
I don’t know if it’s all the wedding talk or simply because it’s so pretty, but my gaze keeps returning to the white corseted dress that screams kidnapped princess.
The boned, corseted top cinches my waist and exaggerates my already large breasts, making them period-drama-worthy main characters. The skirt is tiered, full, and rises at the front on one side to flash a tantalizing amount of leg.
Lifting the hanger off the rail, I stare at it for a moment like I’m debating wearing it.
But truthfully, I’m not even fooling myself.
Of course I’m going to wear it. Dropping the towel I have wrapped around me to the floor, I unhook the dress from the hanger, then untie the ribbons from the corset and drop the entire thing over my head.
With my arms in the air, I shimmy the dress down my body, lifting and positioning my breasts inside the corset before I reach behind me and grab the ribbons.
There’s a technique for how to tighten a corset without help, but even after watching hundreds of YouTube videos, I still haven’t perfected it.
So instead of elegantly transforming myself into a leading lady, I’m twisting like a pretzel while I huff and puff dramatically.
“Let me help,” Atticus says, placing his hands over mine and gently removing them from the ribbons. “Like this?” he asks, immediately understanding the logistics of my corset and tightening, then tying the ribbons like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Despite the boning and the way the corset shapes me, this dress is surprisingly comfortable. Smoothing down the skirt, I fluff it out, making sure the slit is sitting where I want it before I step toward the mirror to assess my appearance.
“This closet is unbelievable,” I mutter to myself as I take in my reflection in his insanely flattering mirror.
“We’ll need to expand it. You have more clothes than I do, and I barely have space for my things.”
“If you make this closet any larger, it basically becomes an apartment,” I scoff.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Princess,” he says, curling his arm around my waist and looking at our reflection in the mirror.
Just like yesterday, he’s in a perfectly fitted black button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. But on top he’s wearing a vest that clings to him like a second skin, and black suit pants that accentuate every one of his many, many muscles.
I swallow so thickly, I think it’s audible. But honestly, how the hell is a man who looks like Atticus interested in me?
“Did you make this dress?” he whispers against my ear, our gazes still locked in the mirror.
I shake my head. “I designed it and made the pattern, but I had a seamstress make it because I didn’t want to mess up the stitching on the corset,” I tell him, running my hands over the perfectly flat boning.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you. So do you,” I tell him, then immediately feel stupid, because who tells a man that they look beautiful?
“We look beautiful together,” he says, either not noticing or not caring about my stupid comment. But he’s right. Despite our differences, we do look good together. My white, princessy innocence is such a contrast to his dark, dangerous vibe, but it works. We work.
Tilting my head to the side a little, Atticus curls his finger beneath the gold collar at my neck and presses a hot kiss against the pulse point in my throat.
I’m still not sure that I’ve processed the real significance of the collar, or if his dominant nature will ultimately become an issue.
But right now, it feels right to believe his words and that he doesn’t want or need me to be anything but me.
“Let’s go and make breakfast. Their flight just landed, so they’ll be here in about an hour.”
When we get into the kitchen, I set to work making blueberry cinnamon sheet pan pancakes, while Atticus heads down to the studio to let Felix know that his friends are going to be here soon.
Last night, Felix only came upstairs long enough to have dinner with us and Marcus before he disappeared back downstairs to keep working.
I’ve never met an artist before, but right now, Felix seems to be hyperfixated on his work.
Only neither Atticus nor Marcus seems to be concerned with how many hours he’s spending in his studio, so perhaps this is normal for him.
The pancake batter is done, and I’m pouring it into the sheet pan by the time Atticus comes back upstairs.
“I’ve asked Marcus if he’d mind going to get some croissants from Tori’s store for us, and while he’s gone, I’ll cook some bacon and sausage.
Would you mind cutting some fruit for a platter? ” Atticus asks.
Working beside him in his kitchen is easy, like we’ve been cooking breakfast together all our lives and not like this is the first time we’ve done it.
“I’m pretty sure this is more than just some croissants,” Marcus says as he pushes through the loft door carrying an enormous cake box.
Chuckling softly, Atticus nods, then steps forward to take the box from Marcus, placing it on the large dining table and opening the lid.
Inside are several huge, flaky croissants as well as other delicious-looking pastries and some of the macarons Felix ate out of the box Atticus picked up from his sister’s store on Thursday.
“She always does this,” Atticus says, smiling indulgently as he pulls a platter from a cabinet and artfully places the baked goods onto it.