Page 162 of Legacy
Her in the bed next to me is heaven and torture.
She let meholdher.
The heat of her body pressed against mine all night, her back to my chest, the scent of her hair tangled in my sheets, in my lungs, in the air I can’t stop breathing.
Every shift, every soft exhale, every tiny movement reminding me she’s right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to taste.
Close enough that I could feel her heart beating, steady and quiet, each thump a reminder that she’s alive, that she’s here, that she’sreal.
But not mine.
Notyet.
And it’s killing me.
Because the part of me that’s still a selfish bastard wants to take her now, to close that last inch of distance, to claim what’s already fucking mine.
But I don’t.
I hold her.
All night.
I let her be the one to decide. Let her be the one to end it.
She didn’t.
She fell asleep.
And I lay there, wide awake, with her warmth sinking into every hollow part of me I thought would stay empty since I let her go.
When the sun starts to bleed through the curtains, I slip out of bed before I can change my mind, before I can do something we can’t take back.
I stalk down the block to the shop, every step a war to keep from turning around, crawling back into bed, and burying myself in her until she remembers she’s mine.
I grab bagels. Coffee. Something to keep my hands busy so I don’t put them where they don’t belong.
When I get back, she’s in the living room.
Dressed in tight black leggings that cling to every curve I have memorized, and a baggy t-shirt that’s unmistakably mine.
She went through my drawers.
Picked that one.
A dangerous smile tugs at my lips.
She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me. Wearing my shirt. Standing there with her hair piled on top of her head, exposing the soft line of her neck I want to wrap my hand around.
Fuck.
It shouldn’t mean anything.
But it does.
It means everything.
“Morning,” I mutter, setting the bag down on the counter, my eyes still on her. Watching. Waiting.
