Page 18 of Legacy
His mouth moves against mine with aching precision, and I cling to his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering me to earth. My body buzzes. My skin hums.
I forget everything.
The schemes. The lies. The way I shouldn’t be here.
Right now, I’m just me. Just a girl dancing barefoot in the glow of a few glasses of wine, pressed against a man who makes the world go quiet.
When he pulls back, just a breath away, his eyes are unreadable. But he doesn’t let go.
“It’s late,” he murmurs against my lips, “We’ve been drinking.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth and my breath hitches.
“I’ll take the couch, you take the bedroom,” he pulls back his eyes catching mine.
I nod despite myself, reluctantly pulling away I get ready for bed.
The room smells like him; spicy tobacco and something warm that makes my chest ache. I slip into my pajamas from my go bag and slip into the bed
I try to sleep.
I really do.
But sometime around 3 A.M. I wake up tangled in the sheets, my head foggy and my heart loud in my chest. The shorts I’m wearing feel wrong—tight, clingy—and before I can talk myself out of it, I push them down and toss them onto the floor.
Now in just a T-shirt barely reaching mid-thigh and my panties I pad barefoot into the living room.
To him.
The lights are off, but I see him, stretched out on the couch, shirtless, in dark gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. One arm is thrown over his eyes, the other draped across his stomach. He looks too good to be real.
I pause for half a second.
Then I slide in next to him.
He shifts, confused, his brows pulling together in sleepy disapproval.
“You’re supposed to stay in the bedroom,” he mumbles, his voice rough and husky with sleep.
I nuzzle in closer, pressing my face against his bare chest, breathing him in like it’s instinct.
“I didn’t want to be alone,” I whisper.
His arm wraps around me without hesitation, pulling me tight against him. His breath is warm against my hair. There’s a beat of silence. Then another.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice quiet and sure. “You’re not alone.”
And just like that, wrapped in the heat of him, in the hush of the loft, with the music long gone and no one left awake—I fall back asleep.
***
In the morning, I wake on the couch alone.
Sunlight streams through the loft’s wide windows, soft and golden, casting long lines across the floor. The blanket I barely remember pulling over myself is tangled around my legs, and I sit up slowly, groggy and warm.
Then I hear it—the quiet clatter of pans, the faint sizzle of something on the stove.
Angelo.
