Page 30 of Forging Legacy

He sinks to the floor, his long legs kneeling on the wood, torso aligned with my thighs. “They can’t see in, Fern. Tinted windows.”

I feel his palms on my legs and bite my lip, studying the glass. “It doesn’t look tinted—oh!”

He starts licking me, long, slow strokes of his warm tongue. He gently places one thigh and then the other over his shoulders so I’m surrounding his head as he burrows between my legs. There’s nothing for me to do but run my fingers through his messy hair and relax into the sensation.

Wyatt licks me like I’m a dessert. Here, in this mansion on the mountain, he makes me feel like I’m the most precious, necessary thing he ever dreamed of. It goes on for what feels like ages until I’m moaning his name and arching my back, waves of pleasure crashing around me. Every time I open my eyes, I see Wyatt’s face, his eyes dark with lust and his lips glistening with my own moisture. It’s filthy and wonderful, and I come, shouting his name until it echoes off the pristine walls.

After, he carries me back up to bed, where our coffee is waiting. And it’s almost like it never happened, except I’m fully sated, and he’s hard as stone, one hand lazily stroking himself while he drinks his coffee and stares at me.

I set my mug back on the nightstand and turn to face him. “That was pretty special, you know.”

He grins. “I’ve been dreaming of doing that.” I stare down at his crotch, loving the way his hand looks fondling his length.

I run a hand along his chest. “What exactly do you do when you dream of that?”

He arches a brow, setting his empty mug on his nightstand. “I think you know what I do, Fern.”

I climb over him, one leg on either side of his, but settle myself midway down his thighs, not touching him where he’s glistening and leaking. I like the feel of his hairy legs against my smooth ones. “I want you to tell me. And show me.” I bite my lip, placing my hands on his shoulders. He sucks in a breath and moves his hand more rapidly along his cock.

“I touch myself until I come,” he whispers, eyes closed. And then his eyes fly wide, staring at my body, my face.

“I want to see,” I tell him, and I really, really do want that. I want to see his head thrown back in ecstasy, hot ropes of release splattering his rock-hard abs. “Show me, Wyatt. Show me what you do when you think about eating me out on your dining table. Show me how it turns you on to make me come so hard.”

“Fuck, Fern.” His hand flies along his dick, his other flailing through my hair, finding purchase, tugging. It stings, electrifying. We lock eyes, and I watch his face contort as he gets closer to the edge. I can see why it turns him on so much to go down on me. Inspired, feeling brave, I scoot backward and out of his grasp. I stick out my tongue and taste the tip of him, a salty burst of moisture on my tongue. “Oh, gorgeous, you don’t have to. I wanted to make today about you …”

Wyatt is panting like he’s just finished a match. I place a hand on his thigh, the other on top of his own hand, grasping his erection. “This is about me,” I whisper.

And it’s true. As I slide my mouth onto him, I can feel the power I have in this moment. I can feel his surrender, the awe and appreciation he’s experiencing alongside the evident pleasure. I’m delighted to learn I can draw groans and grunts from Wyatt’s mouth as I lick and suck, tease and kiss. His hand drops away, cupping my chin. When I glance up at him, with several inches of him in my mouth, his eyes fly wide, and his head drops back. Wyatt emits a bellow and comes forcefully into my mouth. I pull off, licking at the drops of his pleasure but watching greedily as more white ropes spray up onto his abs. It’s filthy and just what I wanted to see.

When I reach out to dab a finger in the mess and then taste that, too, Wyatt seems to actually pass out.

Hours later, or maybe it’s days or months … we’re finally dressed, cuddling in the kitchen while he heats up some sort of breakfast casserole he brought in the giant cooler of delights. I can’t stop kissing him and giggling, touching him as we wait to eat. It’s like any millimeter of space between us is far too much after what we just shared.

And then I hear a car door slam, the sound of women laughing. I stiffen. Wyatt hasn’t heard yet. He’s nibbling at my chin when the front door of the house opens to reveal a woman with a salt-and-pepper ponytail flanked by an older woman with a short bob and … my art history professor.

The three of them stop laughing and stare at us, the older two women tittering with laughter and the younger one dropping her hands to her hips. “Wyatt Henry De Luca! What the hell are you doing here?”

Chapter24

Wyatt

“Fern, wait!”She ducked out of my arms and sprinted up the stairs when my fucking mother barged into the house. I’m torn between wanting to run after Fern and tell her everything will be okay, and facing the apparent repercussions of bringing her here without checking in with my family that they weren’t using the place.

Mom stands in my way, hands on her hips, while Grand and Lolly laugh hysterically behind her. “Wyatt Henry De Luca,” she repeats. And that does it.

“Do not use that name, Mom. I’ve asked you so many times.”

She shakes her head, appalled. “That’s your response right now? An irritation about semantics?”

“It’s not a fucking irritation. God, you know how much I hate any connection to that name. It makes me sick.” I try to shove past her after Fern, but she places a hand on my shoulder.

Mom’s face softens. “Wyatt, baby. We need to talk. Your friend is okay. Nobody is going to chase her down.” I grit my teeth, wondering if Fern is spooked enough to jump out the window upstairs and ski to freedom. I decide she’s not that foolish and I follow Mom over to the sofa, thankful she didn’t head for the wooden table I still need to clean off.

“I think I know her,” Grand says, glancing up the stairs where Fern disappeared. “Is she a student? She is. She’s one ofmystudents.” Grand laughs, joining us on the couch. “Imagine that!”

“Glad you find this so amusing,” Mom snorts. “Wyatt, what are you doing here? You know there’s a schedule for the ski house.”

This is the first I’ve heard of a schedule, but it shouldn’t surprise me, knowing my family. I wonder how many times this happens—someone bringing a romantic partner out here only to be thwarted by another Stag looking to relax in peace and quiet. I glare at my mom. “I thought you were in Texas with the national team.”

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