Page 358 of Legacy
We stay like that, trembling, pressed together, the air thick with sex and sweat and the scent of us.
He presses a kiss to the back of my neck before pulling the gag free, letting it fall.
His hands untie the garter, bringing my wrists down, kissing each one softly before pulling me back against his chest, his arms wrapping around me.
His lips brush my ear.
“Officially Mine,” he whispers again, softer now, but no less true.
His hands are gentle now, a stark contrast to how they just claimed me, how they made me his.
He tucks himself away, breath still uneven, and reaches for me, steadying me as my legs wobble beneath the weight of what just happened. His palm cups my cheek, thumb brushing over my skin like he can erase the flush of heat there.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent. “Even when you’re wrecked for me.”
I try to catch my breath, my fingers trembling as they smooth my dress down, but he’s already there—straightening the bodice, brushing invisible wrinkles from the satin, his touch lingering like he doesn’t want to let go.
He crouches, picks up the bit of lace that once was my panties, smirks, and tucks it into his pocket like a trophy.
“Angelo,” I whisper, half scolding, half breathless.
But he’s focused, determined, his hands gliding over me, ensuring every piece is in place. He adjusts my necklace where it’s shifted, smooths a stray lock of hair from my face, his fingers tender as they trace the curve of my jaw.
Then he lifts my left hand, presses his lips to my ring, the symbol of what we are now, of what we’ll always be.
“Mia Regina.My Queen,” he says softly, his eyes burning into mine. “Perfect. As you should be.”
His knuckles brush my cheek once more, and then he offers his arm, that cocky grin slipping back into place.
“Ready to go remind them all who you belong to?”
I swallow hard, still trying to gather myself.
“Lead the way,Don Amato.”
And together, we step out into the waiting world, as if we hadn’t just stolen forever in the space of a heartbeat.
Chapter 63
Angelo
The music is soft. Strings and piano echoing off marble columns, glittering chandeliers reflecting candlelight like stars caught in crystal.
She’s glowing in that ivory dress—my wife.
My fucking wife.
I haven’t let her stray too far all night. Not when half the men in this room would sell their souls to get a taste of her smile. But she weaves through the crowd like she owns it now, every head turning as we pass, her fingers brushing against mine until we step toward the balcony where we first met.
The door clicks open.
Santo.
He nearly collides with us at the threshold, muttering something under his breath.
Adriana tilts her head. “Where’s Vasilisa?”
Santo’s eyes flick toward the ballroom. “Bathroom. She’s not feeling well.”
