Page 223 of Legacy
“Is there a reason behind this?” I ask, my voice sharper than I mean it to be, cutting through the quiet.
He glances at me over his shoulder, the faintest smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, dark eyes dragging down the length of me in his shirt.
“The jeans too,” he says. “Take them off.”
I gape at him. “Are you serious?”
That smirk widens, slow, devastating, just enough to make my heart skip, to make heat coil low in my belly.
This man.
The worst part is, I can’t decide if I hate him for it or if I’ve never wanted him more.
He’s messing with me.
Has to be.
He knows the version of me that existed five years ago, the girl who kissed him in the dark and trusted he wouldn’t break her.
I’ll take the leap.I’ll trust him.
My fingers move, slow but decisive, as I unbutton my jeans. The zipper hums, loud in the hush of the loft. I slide them down, the denim brushing over my legs, pooling at my ankles before I step out.
He doesn’t comment.
Just drops pasta into the boiling water, the hiss and clatter sharp, like he didn’t just undress me with a sentence.
His eyes flick to me again; slow, deliberate.
They drag over the hem of his shirt hanging low on my thighs, and my cheeks burn.
“Take your hair down.”
The words are so soft they’re almost a question.
Almost.
I hesitate.
But I reach up, tugging out the tie. My hair spills over my shoulders, loose and wavy, sliding along the collar of his shirt. For a moment, the only sound is the rolling boil of water and the faint exhale that slips past his lips.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, eyes lit up, voice like velvet over gravel.
He doesn’t look away.
It’s like he’s drinking it in, drinkingmein and the silence stretches, thick enough to choke on.
I can’t take it anymore.
“Angelo…”
“Hop on the counter.”
I blink. “Excuse me?” A disbelieving laugh huffs past my lips.
He steps closer, and the air feels different—charged, electric.
His voice is low, calm, unyielding. “Do you need me to help you up?”
