Page 272 of Legacy
“Please,” I gasp, shame and need warring inside me as I rock back against him, desperate for friction, for release. “Please, Angelo, I—”
“Apologize,” he demands, pulling back to slam into me again, the force stealing the breath from my lungs.
I love andhatehim for this.
Hatehow he makes me beg.
Lovehow he makes me feel.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes as my thighs quiver, my pussy clenching around him, slick and wanting.
“Again.”His hand wraps around my throat, squeezing just enough, exactly how I like it, forcing my head back as he fucks into me, deep, hard, punishing.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, the word breaking as pleasure and humiliation swirl, threatening to drown me.
“Good Tesoro,” he praises, his thumb stroking over my pulse as he thrusts deeper, hitting that spot that makes me see stars. “Say it again.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears of pleasure slipping down my cheeks as my body trembles, on the brink, needing him to let me fall.
His mouth drops to my ear, his voice a dark promise. “Now you can come. Consider it your forgiveness.”
He pulls back and thrusts hard.
My orgasm rips through me like fire—violent, raw, consuming. It breaks me open, every nerve ending screaming his name, every thought burned away until I’m nothing but his.
He keeps fucking me through it, praising me softly, letting me ride it out, letting me feel every inch of him, every ounce of his claim.
He follows a moment later, groaning my name like a curse and a vow, spilling deep inside me, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.
His hands trail up my hips to my bound wrists, removing the belt, rubbing the tender skin before pressing soft kisses there, grounding me.
He leans over me, breath hot against my neck.
“You lie again,” he murmurs, kissing just below my ear, “and I won’t be so merciful.”
I laugh weakly, boneless and shattered beneath him.
“Promise?”
Chapter 45
Angelo
“It makes no sense for me to meet him. He already knows who I am.”
Her voice is soft, but the way she says it, tight, almost distracted, tells me everything.
She’s nervous.
And fuck, it’s adorable.
Not that she’d appreciate me saying that out loud.
I glance over as I guide the car up the winding road to my father’s estate, the iron gates swinging open ahead like the jaws of something waiting to swallow us whole.
She’s smoothing the front of her dress again, palms brushing over the fabric for the fifth time since we left the house.
“You look gorgeous,” I tell her, because she does. Because she always does. Because I need her to know it’s not just the dress or the hair or the way she carries herself.
