Page 22 of Legacy
“We don’t have to have sex yet if you don’t want to,” she says softly, barely looking up from her plate. “But… I don’t want to sleep alone.”
My brain stalls, short-circuiting on her softness.”
What kind of virgin says that to a man she’s just met?
Unless she’s joking.
She’s probably joking.
“Angelo?” she prods, her fork paused mid-air. Like she’s commenting on the weather.
The casualness of it kills me.
The audacity of this woman.
It has my heart doing somersaults in my chest.
“Yes?” I finally manage, even though my voice is nowhere near steady. I search for a clever retort. Nothing comes.
She smiles; soft, sly, and full of something dangerous. “You distracted?” she asks, voice as sweet as honey and twice as thick.
“No,” I lie.
My eyes betray me, lingering on her lips, remembering the way they tasted, the way she moaned my name.
“Why would you think that?”
Her laughter rings out again, bright and unfiltered. It echoes off the loft walls and fills the air between us.
“Because your eggs are getting cold,” she says, nodding to my untouched plate.
I glance down.
She’s right. I shovel a bite into my mouth, and I immediately regret it. I almost choke because all I can taste is her.
I cough, hard, reaching for my glass, trying to wash the burn away. She watches me with something between amusement and concern.
“You okay?” she asks, eyes gleaming even as her voice softens.
“Yeah,” I rasp, throat dry. “Fine.”
Six days.
Just six days with her.
I tell myself that again as we eat in silence, but every tick of the clock feels louder now, more threatening. There’s something ticking under the surface of this morning, like a fuse has been lit and no one’s willing to acknowledge the flame.
“Angelo?” she says again, but this time her voice has changed. It’s quieter. Hesitant.
“Yeah?”
She sets her fork down. “Are you…upsetwith me?”
I look up and it hurts; seeing the question in her eyes. She’s still teasing on the outside, but inside? There’s that same flicker of uncertainty I saw last night on the couch. She’s letting me see something real.
“No,” I say, honest and low. “No, Tesoro. It’s not you.”
She nods, visibly relieved, but there’s still a tension in the air. Heavier now.
