Page 114 of Legacy
But God help me, I do.
My hands fist in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space between us. He lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing, setting me on the edge of the counter. His body slots between my thighs, and when I feel him—hard, hot, insistent—through our clothes, a choked sound escapes me.
He presses his mouth to my jaw, then my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below my ear.
I shudder.
“You still taste the same,” he mutters into my skin, voice wrecked. “Still sound the same when you gasp like that.”
He moves like he remembers every inch of me, every whimper I ever gave him. One hand slides under my shirt; flat palm gliding up my ribs, fingers splaying against my skin like he’s checking I’m real.
I arch into him, needing more, needing friction.
His other hand cups the back of my neck, tilting my head so he can kiss me again. I kiss him back with everything I’ve tried to bury—rage, grief, lust, longing. I drink him in like it’ll drown the ache in my chest.
“I missed you,” he breathes against my lips. “Every goddamn day.”
A whimper tears from me before I can stop it.
His hand dips lower, sliding along my inner thigh, slow and lingering, as though this isn’t about power or victory, butworship.
My head falls back, a soft gasp slipping free.
And in that second—I let go.
Just for a moment, I stop fighting.
Stopthinking.
Stop remembering everything he ruined.
Because right now, his mouth is on my throat, his hand is teasing between my thighs, and I don’t feel angry.
I feel alive.
I feel like I’m home.
I exhale a shaky sigh like it’s the first real breath I’ve taken in five years.
My hands thread into his hair, tugging, grounding. He groans at the feel of it.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he growls softly.
I don’t answer.
Because I do.
His hand slips beneath the waistband of my leggings, and he curses under his breath.
“You’re already soaked through,” he rasps, lips dragging along my collarbone. “You’re mine.”
His fingers push against my panties and I moan, my body moving on instinct—rocking against them, chasing more.
His fingers dip, I gasp, breath catching.
My hand clutches his wrist.
“Condom,” I whisper, voice rough, lips grazing the shell of his ear.
