Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin (Love, Lies & Legacy #1)

Prologue

Sophie

Rain hammers the glass roof of the poolhouse, and it follows me inside.

It runs from my hair in cold streams and slips beneath the collar of my dress while I shove the glass door closed behind me.

The storm has swallowed everything beyond the pool house, turning the night into shifting shadows broken apart by flashes of lightning.

Water lashes the windows. The swimming pool glows beyond the glass, casting pale blue reflections across the dark room and onto the wet floor beneath my heels.

I came out here to escape the dinner party, the noise of the main house pressing too close, the small talk wearing thin against my nerves.

I did not expect the storm to trap me, and I definitely did not expect him to follow.

But I heard the door to the main house bang open across the lawn ten minutes ago.

I saw a shadow break into a run through the downpour, and something in my chest had already known who it would be before he ever reached the glass.

Behind me, the door clicks shut, and I know without turning that Julian has followed me in from the main house.

I feel him before I hear him. The air changes, thickens, presses against my spine like a hand.

I keep my eyes on the storm, my heart slamming against my ribs in tune with the rain, and I wait.

He doesn’t speak. Julian is not a man of many words on most occasions. But he is a man of action.

Within moments, he comes from behind me, his fingers find the curve of my shoulder first, tracing along my collarbone, following the thin strap of my dress until it slips, weightless, down my arm.

I let my head tip back, offering him my throat, and his mouth is there instantly, warm against skin gone cold from the air-conditioned poolhouse.

He drags his lips up the column of my neck, pausing at the sensitive spot beneath my ear, and I feel the low vibration of a groan against my skin.

I turn in his arms, and the sight of him steals whatever breath I have left.

His shirt clings to his chest, soaked through from the dash across the lawn, and I can see every line of muscle beneath the fabric, every hard inch of flesh, that I have spent weeks imagining underneath my palms. I reach for the buttons, working them loose one by one, my fingers clumsy with want, and he watches me the entire time, dark eyes tracking the movement of my hands like he is memorizing this exact moment.

The shirt falls open, and I push it off his shoulders, my palms sliding over wet skin, over the ridges of muscle that flex beneath my touch.

I lean in and press my mouth to his sternum, tasting rain and salt, dragging my tongue lower until I feel his stomach contract beneath my lips.

His hand fists in my wet hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring himself to me as I explore.

His hands roam lower, tracing the waistband of his own pants as though inviting me to finish what I started, and I shiver despite the humid warmth around us.

I reach for his belt, working the buckle loose with fingers that shake more than I would like to admit, and he watches me the way a man watches something he intends to savor slowly.

When the leather finally gives, I slide my hand inside, palming the hard length of him through thin fabric, and his breath catches, his hips pressing forward into my touch.

I move past his briefs to his bare, pulsating flesh and stroke him once, twice—feeling him grow harder beneath my palm, and the low sound that escapes him goes straight between my thighs.

He catches my wrist before I can continue, lifting it above my head and pinning it there against the cool glass, using his body to cage me in.

His mouth finds my collarbone again, biting gently before soothing the sting with his tongue, working a slow path downward.

I squirm against the glass, aching for more contact than he is giving me, but he takes his time, mapping every inch of exposed skin like he intends to remember it forever.

His free hand skims down my ribs, along the dip of my waist, tracing the curve of my hip before drifting back up to cup my breast through the fabric of my dress.

He rolls his thumb over the peak until it hardens beneath the wet material, and the friction alone is enough to make my hips roll forward against nothing, seeking a pressure he refuses to give me yet.

He presses one more open-mouthed kiss to the swell of my breast, dragging his teeth lightly over the fabric, and I let out a sound I did not know I was capable of making.

He hauls me up by the waist before I can catch my breath, lifting me until my legs wrap around him on instinct, until my back meets the cool glass with the storm raging inches away.

He grinds against me, and even through the little amount of fabric between us, I can feel exactly how much he wants this, how hard he already is, and the sound that leaves me is embarrassingly needy.

His hand slides beneath the hem of my slit pushing the dress up over my hips, and cool air kisses my bare stomach before his palm replaces it, warm and rough.

He traces the edge of my panties, dipping one finger beneath the fabric just enough to make me gasp, to make my hips buck forward seeking more.

He pulls back enough to strip the wet dress up over my head entirely, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking, his eyes never leaving my body.

He studies me like he has all the time in the world, like the storm outside is not hammering the glass, like nothing exists beyond this room and my skin under his gaze.

My nipples pebble beneath the thin layer of lace of my bra, and he notices, dragging his thumb over one through the fabric until I arch into his hand.

He reaches behind me, and the clasp of my bra gives way in one smooth pull.

It falls with ease and his mouth is on me before it even hits the floor, lips closing around one hardened peak while his fingers tease the other, rolling and pinching until my nails bite into his shoulders.

I grind against the ridge of his erection, chasing friction, and he lets me, groaning against my skin as I move.

He carries me a few steps to the wide lounge chair beside the pool, laying me down against the cushions, the humid air settling over my bare skin like a second layer.

He hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties and drags the lace down my legs slowly, kissing a trail down my calf, my ankle, before tossing them aside entirely and settling himself between my knees.

He kneels at the end of the chair, dragging his palms up the inside of my thighs, pushing them wider, and pauses there for a moment just to look.

Even through the haze of want I feel his gaze like a physical thing, tracing every inch of me laid bare beneath him, and the anticipation of what he is about to do makes my hips lift off the cushion of their own accord.

He presses a slow kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other, working his way inward at a pace designed to torment, his breath ghosting warm over skin already slick with wanting him.

He pauses just shy of where I want him most, dragging his lips along the crease of my thigh instead, and the anticipation alone has a needy sound slipping free from my throat before he has even properly begun.

The first stroke of his tongue against me sends my head tipping back against the cushion.

He takes his time, licking slow, deliberate circles around my clit before dipping lower, tasting me fully, his hands gripping my hips to keep me from writhing away.

I fist my fingers into his damp hair, holding him exactly where I need him, and he lets out a low sound of approval against my skin that vibrates straight through me.

His tongue flattens against me, drawing long, unhurried strokes from entrance to clit, and every pass leaves me shakier than the last. He alternates between soft, teasing flicks and firmer pressure, reading the way my thighs tremble around his head, adjusting until he finds the exact rhythm that has my back bowing off the cushions.

Every time I get close, he eases back just slightly, drawing the moment out, and the torment of it has my fingers tightening in his hair, silently begging him not to stop again.

He slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them until he finds the spot that makes my thighs shake, and he does not let up, does not slow, building a rhythm with his fingers and his tongue that has my whole body coiling tight.

My hips rock forward to meet every stroke, desperate for more, and the low sound of approval he makes against my skin only pushes me higher, faster than I expect.

The rain pounds harder against the glass, and I swear I can feel the storm inside me too, building, cresting, until it breaks all at once and I come apart against his mouth, my spine arching off the cushion, my cry swallowed by the thunder outside.

He does not stop until I am shaking, until my thighs have gone slack beneath his palms. Before I can fully recover, he flips me onto my stomach, guiding me up onto my knees at the edge of the lounge chair.

His palm slides along my spine, pressing me down until my chest meets the cushion and my hips tilt back toward him.

He kneads the curve of my backside with both hands, unhurried, before dragging two fingers through my wet pussy folds again, testing how ready I still am.

I push back into his touch, desperate for the fullness only he can give me, and the low chuckle rumbling out of him at my impatience only makes the wait feel longer.

He rises over me then, and I glance back in time to watch him shove his soaked trousers the rest of the way down his hips, freeing himself, his long cock, thick and hard and ready.

I reach between my own legs, wrapping my fingers around him instead, stroking him slowly from this angle, feeling him throb against my palm.

He lets me guide him to my entrance, notching himself there, teasing the head of his cock along my folds until I am pushing back, chasing him with my hips.

He sinks into me from behind in one long, deliberate slide, and the stretch of him has my fingers curling into the cushion beneath me.

He stills for a heartbeat, one hand splayed flat against my lower back, before he begins to move, slow and deep at first, each thrust dragging out the fullness of him before driving back in.

I meet him stroke for stroke, my hips rocking to take him deeper, and the lounge chair creaks beneath the rhythm we build together.

His free hand travels up my spine, gathering the length of my damp hair into his fist, and he uses the hold to tip my head back just enough to change the angle between us.

Every drag of him inside me sends sparks up through my chest, and the sound of the rain against the glass blurs with the sound of our bodies meeting, faster now, less restrained than before.

He leans forward, pressing his chest to my back, and I feel his heartbeat hammering against my spine, matching the frantic rhythm of his hips.

He reaches around, finding my clit with two fingers, circling in time with his thrusts, and the added pressure has my whole body pulling tight again, faster this time, hungrier.

He picks up his pace, his hips slapping against mine, the sound mixing with the fading rain outside, and when I’m ready to cum again, I cry out into the cushion, my pussy walls clenching around him hard enough to draw a broken groan from his chest.

He does not stop moving even as I come down from the peak, his pace gentling into something slower, deeper, less about speed and more about the feel of every inch of him inside me.

His hand slides from my hip around to my stomach, pressing flat there as though he wants to feel himself moving inside me from the outside too, and the possessive weight of his palm has heat pooling low in my belly all over again.

He pulls out entirely for one torturous moment, and before I can protest the emptiness, he turns me onto my back again, hooking both my knees over his forearms and folding me open beneath him.

He sinks back into me from this new angle, deeper than before, and the sound that leaves my throat is somewhere between a moan and a plea.

He watches my face the whole time, reading every flicker of pleasure crossing my features, adjusting his rhythm to chase each one.

My third orgasm builds slower, wider, spreading from my core outward until my entire body hums with it, and when it finally releases, I grip the cushions above my head and simply let it take me, trusting him to hold the rest of me together. My moans are as loud as the thunder.

He follows only seconds later, his own rhythm turning erratic, deep, and I feel him pulse inside me as he stills his body, and empties himself with a final, guttural sound against my throat.

I feel his warm seed fill every inch of my walls.

He collapses over me, his weight a welcome pressure, both of us breathing hard, chests heaving in the aftermath.

The rain continues to fall outside the glass, softer now, and I trace idle patterns along his damp back as our heartbeats slow together, tangled and spent on the poolhouse cushions, the storm outside nothing compared to the one we just made.

He lifts his head eventually, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his gaze soft in a way that makes my chest tighten.

I pull him back down against me, unwilling to let the moment end just yet, and we lie there together, skin against skin, listening to the last of the storm fade into a gentle patter against the glass.

Neither of us moves to reach for the clothes scattered across the poolhouse floor.

His fingers trace slow lines along my spine, absent, unhurried, and I feel the last of the tension leave his body beneath my palm where it rests over his heart.

Steam rises faintly off our skin in the cool air, and through the glass ceiling the clouds have begun to thin, letting the first gray light of evening filter down over us.

I press my lips to his chest, tasting salt and rain one more time, as I settle deeper into the cushions.

I’m in no rush at all to let this moment end.