Page 125 of Legally Yours

“I love you,” I whispered again.

With a groan, he yanked me back down, forcing me to take him as far as I could, again and again. I gasped, but allowed him to seize my hips while we watched each other, completely rapt. I winced again, and he slowed his movements.

“I knew you were sore,” he murmured. He moved again, this time with less force.

“A little,” I said, but rolled my hips. I sucked in a breath. “It hurts, but in a good way.”

“I guess I wore you out last night.”

“Never,” I purred, and took another kiss.

“I can’t,” he breathed into my mouth, as his movements began to pick up. His hands clenched, seeking better purchase in the flesh of my ass. He groaned again, almost as if in pain himself. “God, I can’t stop, Skylar.”

“Don’t.” I pulled his lip with my teeth and urged him on, pushing down to meet him, thrust for thrust. The pain slowly receded, and very quickly all I could feel was blinding pleasure. “Oh God, Brandon, don’t. Don’t stop!”

“FUCK!” he cried.

We moved frantically, seeking that primal connection that can only be had when both lovers lose themselves completely. I don’t know exactly what happened next. I lost hold of his shoulders, closing my eyes so I could onlyfeelthe deep penetration. We shook and cried together, my body writhing atop his while he punished me from below. And at last, with final cries so guttural and complete that there was nothing left to give, we quivered and pulsed in each other’s arms.

It was only then that I fell over his shoulder and allowed him to pull me close. His chest still quivered slightly beneath my cheek, and our skin was slick with sweat. But he held me tightly, unwilling to let me go, unwilling to break the connection.

“Love,” he murmured into the tender place between my neck and shoulder.

It wasn’t a statement or a proclamation. Just a word that captured the moment.

“Love,” I repeated, my voice ragged and worn. “Yes.”

* * *

A slow clapbroke our sleepy silence from the other side of the room. Jerked out of our post-sex stupor, Brandon and I both scrambled off the lounge, tripping slightly over each other, and grabbed madly for clothes.

“Jesus!” I clutched Brandon’s shirt to my chest and tried to find the armholes without flashing the stranger. A stranger who also happened to be...female?

“Well, you certainly don’t waste time, do you? Love, was it?”

The woman standing in the kitchen entrance was dressed immaculately in a pale cream suit and a camel-colored coat too perfect not to be cashmere. Her nearly black tresses were swept back from her angular face into a neat chignon, revealing tasteful pearl and diamond droplet earrings that matched the glinting ring on her finger. She was stunning. She was also a woman I had seen before, outside Brandon’s office only a few months ago. The one in fur who called him “darling.”

I froze.

“What the fuck?” Brandon roared once he had tugged on his shorts and t-shirt.

“It was a nice show, Bran,” she said casually, tracing one elegant finger up the doorframe. “Although I can’t say it’s what I originally intended for that chaise. It’s a one of a kind, you know.”

“Miranda, what thefuckare you doing here?” Brandon asked, this time keeping his voice barely below shouting level. His accent, however, couldn’t be hidden at all.

“You haven’t been answering my calls.” The woman stepped fully into the kitchen and trailed a finger over the marble countertop like she was testing for dust. “And you blew off our last three appointments with the lawyers, including our meeting this morning. I know you’re having a little fun right now, but I really do need those tickets we discussed. Mother is expecting you at the Cape next week for her birthday, you know. Are you still planning to go?”

“What the hell is going on?” I exploded behind Brandon, having since ducked behind the kitchen island to shield my bare legs. “Who are you, and what are you doing in Brandon’s house?”

I glared at the woman, who twisted her perfectly glossed lips into a smirk.

“Ooh, aren’t we familiar? Do you want to tell her, Bran, or should I?”

I glanced at Brandon, who seemed unable to speak.

“I’m his wife, sweetie,” the woman—Miranda—said, dusting her hands off on one another as if she had exposed them to some germ on the immaculate countertop. Her dark-brown eyes had all the warmth of a glacier. “This is my house. That’s my lovely furniture you’ve been defiling. And that’s my husband you were just fucking.”

Thirty-Seven