Page 52 of Legacy

Reagan

Legacy.

His road name hums between us. And while I never use that name for him, right now, it has the desired effect. Because what I want in this moment isn’t just Jesse King, the man. I want the biker with a lethal gaze and blood on his hands. I want to feel what it’s like to fully let go when I’ve always been so responsible.

I want him to see me like this—confident and vulnerable just for him. He gives me the courage to do it. To claim what I want without apology, fueled by this look in his eyes that begs for me to come apart.

The seams of my carefully crafted mask fray, and I want to shed what’s always held me back.

There’s something about this man. This land. It breeds wild abandon and excitement. Under the stars, in the back of Jesse’s truck, the limited parts of the universe are suddenly infinite.

I’m falling into him. Breaking my rules. Knowing he’s one bad decision followed by another, promising worse if I lose all my inhibitions.

I’ve seen the truth for myself—at his club and in his heart.

Tasted it on his lips—heartbreak and longing.

Throwing caution to the wind, I submit anyway.

Jesse dips down to claim me in a kiss. His hand wraps my throat as his thumb teases my chin, angling me so he can take me deeper. The taste of whiskey mixed with mint sweeps my senses, and I’m drifting away.

My fingers roam over his shoulders. Down his chest. They slip beneath his cut, down to his hips. And that slight graze of his hard, bare muscle when his shirt tugs up makes my thighs clench. He’s all hard lines while I’m curves, and I hope he doesn’t mind that this past year, I’ve been nicer to myself. Allowing me the freedom to live how I want. To eat what I want. To chase what feels good.

I’ve been indulging—and Jesse is one more example of it.

Dragging my fingers to the front of his jeans, I barely reach the button before he stops me.

“Not yet, sweetheart.” He grabs both my wrists in one of his hands and shoves them overhead, pinning them to the bed of the truck above me.

The way he handles me like I’m not the least bit breakable is the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced.

Jesse kisses a path down my chest. All tongue and teeth like he wants to devour me. His feet are still firmly planted on the ground, giving him leverage, while I’m at his mercy,pinned to the truck bed. My legs lock around his hips, desperate for contact when my hands can’t roam into his thick hair like I want them to.

And when he reaches my belly button, I lose all common sense. I’m wiggling.

Begging.

His tongue circles before he continues lower until he has no choice but to release my wrists so he can grab my thighs and tug my ass to the edge of the bed. His calloused palms hold my knees wider.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He stands to his full height, towering over me. With one hand he bunches my dress at my waist, fixing his gaze on my core. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

I am.

I’m a needy mess. Toes curling, back arching as he presses his thumb to the wet spot on the lace.

He’s teasing me again. Wicked amusement plays in his eyes, like he’s trying to decide whether he’s going to devour me whole or push me away.

I don’t give him the choice. I grab his wrists and anchor his hands where I need him. “Are you going to play with me, or are you going to fuck me, Jesse? I thought bikers were all about action. But if that’s your mafia friends, then—”

He slides two fingers past my underwear and shoves them knuckle-deep inside me, cutting me off. His face lowers to mine as he rolls his thumb up over my clit, stealing my breath.

“What was that you were saying, Reagan?” He sinks his teeth into my lower lip, tugging. “I’ll fuck you when I’m ready. But I want to see you squirm first.”

His fingers curl, and my body buckles. Responding to every flutter of his thumb rocking back and forth. Every rough thrust of his hand marking somewhere I didn’t know existed in my center.

I’ve never been handled like Jesse handles me. One hand tightens around my throat while the other slides in even strokes. Guiding me to the precipice where my vision darkens. His tongue slips into my mouth, so I feel him everywhere.

“You’re a good girl.” He drags his tongue over my lower lip, simultaneously striking the bundle of nerves that makes it so I can’t think anymore. “You’re everything pretty and perfect and sweet. Just like they wanted you. Aren’t you, Reagan?”

---