Page 323 of Legacy
She pauses when she sees me watching. One hand rests on the doorframe. Her head tilts, mouth twitching into the smallest, knowing smile.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Of course I’m staring,” I murmur. “Look at you.”
She walks toward the bed slowly, deliberately. Her bare feet making no sound on the floor. She stops at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips, one brow raised.
“Do you have something to say, Don Amato?”
I shift the covers down a few inches, smirking lazily. “Yeah. Come here.”
She shakes her head, that smile spreading as she climbs onto the bed, crawling toward me. Her hair falls loose from the clip, tumbling around her shoulders.
“You’re a menace,” she warns.
“Very true.”
She laughs, crawling over my legs until she’s straddling my hips, hands resting on my chest.
“You’re smug,” she says, dragging her nails lightly over my skin. “You’re bossy. You’re always armed. And you take up more than half the bed.”
I rest my hands on her thighs, letting them glide up slowly.
“And yet you keep coming back.”
Her voice softens. “Because you’re my home.”
That one sentence wrecks me.
My hands still. My breath stutters.
She leans forward, brushing her mouth over mine, just once. Barely a kiss.
And then again.
And again.
Until I’m gripping her hips and she’s sighing against my lips like she belongs there—because she does.
Because she always fucking has.
Her kisses grow slower. Deeper. Each one pressed into me like she’s carving herself into bone.
And I let her.
Because I want her etched into every fucking part of me.
I roll us over, her back hitting the sheets with a soft gasp as I settle between her thighs, bracing myself on my forearms. Her hair fans out against the pillow like wildfire, a strap slipping off one shoulder.
I glance down.
Christo.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way she looks like this. Stretched out. Trusting. Wearing barely anything but wearing me all over her.
Her chest rises and falls, that little satin number doing nothing to hide the curve of her breasts, the way her nipples pebble beneath the thin fabric. Her thighs shift, one knee brushing my side.
“You’re unreal,” I mutter, brushing her hair off her face. “You know that?”
