Page 105 of Their Broken Legend

So, they vanished.

The next twelve hours are strange, moving fast when Xander is inside me, then slow and restless when he is boxing out his rage. We barely speak a word. We’re both stubborn arseholes, so the silence becomes a collective space where we welcomed our fatigue and sadness.

I don’t push him.

I don’t take it to heart… much.

This time, I let him brood. Like he asked of me that day when he kicked my door open to prove how easy it could be done. Though, he was punch-drunk that day. The volatile and impulsive behaviour of Xander is all I know.

And it matches me.

We are both messy.

He might be angry right now, but he still has that worshipful intent deep within blue flecks whenever his gaze sweeps over me. I haven’t lost him.

The next morning, over his shoulder, I stare at the ceiling. Xander’s body covers mine. Hard, sharp muscles press over my soft, curved figure in a deeply protective way.

His head is buried in my hair, hot breath cascading down my neck. And he’s inside me, thickening in his early morning slumber as his consciousness gathers.

I feed my hands through his hair, the short dark strands soft and boyish while his body is anything but.

Coming to, he starts to rock against me, sliding in and out at a reverent pace. One I haven’t experienced before. It’s been fast, hard, me on top, bent over, against the wall, tied to the boxing bag, sitting on the washing machine. This, though, this sluggish, easy pace, is making love.

It’s slow and clumsy, so I wrap my legs around his thighs to help guide his leisurely thrusting. The pressure on my core all night has kept me distracted, on the edge of arousal, wet against his pelvis, and ready.

I know when he’s completely awake. His lips slide over to mine, his tongue dancing inside my mouth, his groans clashing with my moans.

Rolling, he grinds on me.

The perfect spot.

Right there…

I moan as he orders, “You are moving in.”

What?Wrapped in the way he stimulates my clit and rubs my internal walls at once, I struggle to respond. My brain is lost in the motion between my thighs. He grabs my throat, his thumb in the centre, feeling every one of my swallows. “Don’t argue with me about it either. I will take care of you. I will protect you.” His thrusts get deeper and steady. The methodical rhythm is like a coiling wire, slowly collecting sensation into a ball in my core. “It makes sense. Don’t say it doesn’t. You don’t have a home. I have one that’s too damn big and lonely.”

I swallow thickly—he feels it on his thumb. “Andyou don’t trust me.”

“I have to. I’ll make myself.”

“You haven’t spoken to me in hours. Living with you is the first thing that needs to be said?” I blink at him. For a moment, the gravity of this discussion doesn’t register. Innately, I want to argue, but the fight inside me is surrounded by love and a desperate need to show it to him.

I’m going to earn your trust, Xander.

Just watch me.

After all that, he still wants me. The dirty, gritty parts of me. Like he always did. He will bathe in those parts, and the clean, poised ones, too. I don’t want to say no to him. Cut him off to spite the concept of a woman I tried so hard not to be— my mother. I was wrong. About her. About me. I want to say yes to him, ‘Yes, I’d love that.’

“Okay, Hothead. I’ll stay with you,” I whisper into his kiss and my acceptance turns the needy petting into the kind that is capable of devouring our souls. Deep. Unwavering. Full of passion.

Full of love.

And love is messy. I don’t love him messy by accident. I love him messy by choice. I want to hate him at times. Hate the shitty parts. I want to be intoxicated by him. An addict for the good parts. I want to scream about the aches and pains and cry into his kisses because love is flooding my soul.

I want it messy.

Within a few minutes, the precision of his deep drives, the motions of our mouths, the licking of our tongues, snaps that coil in my abdomen.

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