Page 52 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

He grabs my chin, tilting it up so I’m forced to meet his eyes.

“You lied to me. ”

He kisses me.

Hard.

It’s not sweet—it’s punishing. Possessive. His teeth catch my lower lip, and when I whimper, he groans into my mouth like it’s all he’s been waiting for.

“You lie,” he breathes against my lips, “and yet you sleep in my bed every night and let me touch you like you’re mine.”

“I am yours,” I whisper, voice shaky.

“Then prove it.”

Before I can breathe, his hands clamp around my hips, pulling me off the counter and spinning me.

My palms slap against the cold stone, a gasp tearing from my throat as he bends me over the counter, pressing my chest into the icy surface until my nipples pebble, the chill biting into my skin.

“Fuck,” I whimper, heat and cold clashing in my veins as his body cages me from behind.

He kicks my legs wider, his thigh pressing between mine, forcing me open, making me feel how exposed I am. His hands smooth down my back, slow, possessive, until they reach the lace of my panties.

He pauses.

And laughs.

“Look at you,” he says, voice dark silk, pulling the lace tight against me so it presses into my swollen, aching pussy. “Already soaked, Tesoro. Dripping for me, even when you’re bent over like this, even after lying to me.”

My breath hitches, shame and want tangling, pooling hot in my belly.

His fingers drag over the damp lace, teasing, pressing just enough to make me rock back against him without thinking. Desperate.

“So fucking needy,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over my clit through the lace, sending jolts of pleasure through me. “I should make you say it. Make you beg me to fuck you like the desperate needy girl you are. ”

I let out a broken sound, my forehead pressing to the cold counter, thighs trembling.

“Say it,” he demands, voice low, lethal. “Tell me who you belong to while I have you like this.”

“You,” I gasp, hips rocking back against his hand, needing more, even if he’s barely giving me anything. “I’m yours, Angelo.”

His thumb circles harder, slower, making me squirm, making me whimper as he keeps me on the edge.

“Good Tesoro,” he praises darkly, leaning over me, his chest pressing against my back, his breath hot against my ear. “But you don’t get to come. Not yet.”

“Please,” I choke out, shame burning through me as I grind against his hand, chasing the friction.

He laughs, dark and sharp, pulling his hand away entirely, leaving me empty, clenching around nothing.

“I said you don’t get to come,” he repeats, licking the shell of my ear as his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down slow, letting the cool air kiss my soaked skin.

“Not until I say,” he commands, stepping back just enough for me to feel the absence of him—before his hand comes down on my ass, a sharp slap that sends heat licking across my skin.

I gasp, my body jolting, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the sting, the humiliation, the arousal so intense it feels like it might kill me.

“Now,” he says, voice low, dangerous, “spread your legs wider for me, Tesoro. Let me see what’s mine.”

I swallow, forcing my trembling legs to move, spreading them wider for him, pressing my palms flat against the cold counter.

“Happy now?” I mutter, sass creeping into my voice even as I’m bare, open, dripping for him.

He chuckles, low and dark, the sound rumbling against my spine .

I hear the soft hiss of leather sliding through belt loops, the sharp, deliberate sound of the belt being pulled free.

My breath catches.

Before I can turn, his hands grab mine, pulling them behind my back, wrists pressed together.

The leather wraps around them, snug and unyielding, the buckle clicking.

I shiver, heat flooding me, pooling low as the reality of it sinks in—bound, bent over the counter, completely at his mercy.

He steps closer so the heat of him wraps around me, his chest brushing my back, his cock heavy and hard where it presses against me.

“Oh, Tesoro,” he murmurs, amusement curling around the words like smoke, “now you’re definitely not going to come.”

He grips my hips, fingers bruising, pulling me back against him as he leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“This is for me.”

And then he thrusts in.

No warning.

I gasp, my entire body jolting forward as he fills me in one hard, deep stroke, the thick slide of him punching the air from my lungs, stealing my thoughts.

Fuck. He’s so deep.

The stretch, the burn, the way he drags against every sensitive spot inside me as he pulls back just to slam in again, slow and devastating, like he’s branding me with every thrust.

My fingers curl against the belt, nails scraping against the leather as I bite down on a moan, trying to keep quiet, trying to keep control, but he’s relentless.

His grip tightens on my hips, pulling me back to meet each thrust, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet kitchen, mixing with the soft, desperate sounds spilling from my lips .

“Angelo,” I whimper, eyes squeezing shut as he bottoms out inside me, grinding his hips, letting me feel every thick inch.

“Say it,” he growls, thrusting deep, “say you’re mine.”

“You—” I gasp, mind going hazy with the drag of his cock, the brutal rhythm. “I’m yours.”

“That’s right,” he snarls, pace hardening, “You’re mine. I’ll erase every fucking man from your mind, your body, your soul. I’ll burn every piece of clothing you have until all you wear is what I give you. You’ll belong to me in every way.”

A broken moan tears from my throat, my legs shaking as the coil in my belly winds tighter, pleasure licking up my spine, heat blooming in every nerve.

I’m close. So close.

And then he stops.

He stills inside me, buried to the hilt, throbbing, the denial so sharp it rips a sob from my lips.

“No,” he says, voice low, wicked. “You don’t get to come.”

“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 and hate him for this.

Hate how he makes me beg.

Love how 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?”