The Legacy (Off-Campus Book 5)

Night 1

We don’t die.

The airplane touches down safely in Jacksonville to relieved sighs and a few awkward claps and whistles. The crew apologize profusely at the door as we are deplaned and escorted by gate staff to a holding area where we’re corralled and bribed with free snacks and coffee. A lady in a blazer doesn’t laugh when I ask for a beer instead.

“Who do we want for Jamie?” Sabrina says, after texting my mom to check in. Both Grandma and the kid are fine.

The wife, on the other hand…

“Huh?” I eye her in confusion.

“For our will. We need a custody plan for Jamie.” She starts rummaging around in her purse. “I think your mom would be the best guardian, yeah?”

“Here, darlin’. Have some cookies.” I grab three bags of mini Oreos from the basket on the chair across from us and toss them in her lap. “You’re still feeling the adrenaline. It’ll pass.”

Sabrina looks up from her bag and fixes me with a death stare. “You’re trying to shut me up with cookies? We almost died in a fiery plane crash, and we don’t have anything that lays out what happens to our daughter if we both die.”

“I assumed she’d become a circus nomad until she finds herself making turquoise jewelry in the desert.”

“Gee, John, I’m glad you think this is funny.”

Shit. She called me John. Now I know it’s serious.

“It’s not funny,” I assure her. “But this conversation is maybe a little morbid, don’t you think?”

“If I can please have everyone’s attention.” A tall, authoritative-looking representative from the airline in a pantsuit stands in the middle of our holding area. “The maintenance crew has determined there was a minor electrical failure on the aircraft which necessitated the early landing.”

“Early.” Sabrina scoffs at the euphemism.

“It appears the in-flight entertainment system shorted out.”

A loud gasp sounds from the end of our row, courtesy of Marcia. “You did this to us by pressing all those buttons! You froze the screen,” she accuses her husband, pointing one red-painted talon at him.

The rotund man glares at her.

“I can assure you,” the airline rep says smoothly, “that the failure occurred in the wiring itself and not as a result of any passenger touching the screen.”

She then proceeds to tell us our plane is grounded and they’re flying in a new one to get us to St. Maarten, where Sabrina and I are hopping a ferry to St. Barth’s.

“How long will that take?” someone asks.

The rep is noncommittal about a timeframe, which gets groans and arguments from the cranky passengers. Sighing, I start texting to give notice we’re not making our scheduled departure. First my mom, then Dean, whose house we’re staying at.

“Give me a pen,” Sabrina says, nudging me.

“Huh?”

“A pen. I need a pen.”

I fish one out of my carry-on, and she snatches it out of my hand. Sabrina, now obsessed with the idea of our untimely deaths, uses the delay to furiously scribble down a will on the back of the flight confirmation we printed off before leaving the house. I’d much rather throw an arm around her, pull her close, and sit there eavesdropping on our fellow passengers, but Sabrina’s wholly focused on the task at hand.

“Jamie goes to Mama Tucker?” she prompts. “Garrett and Hannah as backups?”

“I’m good with that.”

“All right. That one was easy. What about our finances? You want to leave instructions to sell the bars, or have someone else run them until Jamie comes of age? Fitz maybe? He’d probably like that.” She chews on the cap of the pen. “Do you want to leave any monetary gifts to anyone or just give it all to Jamie?”

“I think the most important question is—who do you trust to erase our browser history?”

“What?” Sabrina cocks her head at me, bent over her lap while she writes.

“We can’t let my mom do it, and I think Jamie might still be a little young to use the laptops.”

Sabrina’s nostrils flare. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Nope,” I say innocently. “Just trying to contribute to our death wishes.”

She doesn’t have to speak to tell me to fuck off. Her brown eyes scream daggers. I hide a grin and open one of the cookie bags.

By the time we touch down in St. Maarten, Sabrina’s pissed at me because I don’t have strong feelings about how I’d like to be buried or who gets my college Xbox game collection. On the private ferry to St. Barth’s, she just stares out at the dark water as if she’s fantasizing about pushing me overboard. We’re both exhausted and sweaty and fully regretting this whole ordeal—until the boat lets us off at our dock and we walk the sandy path up a hill to the house lit in amber against the night sky.

“Are you kidding me?” Coming through the front door, Sabrina drops her bags and does a full spin, staring up at the high ceiling and exposed beams. She takes in the marble floors and enormous breadth of house. “This place is unbelievable.”

“Dean’s family is hideously rich. You know that.”

“I thought I did, but this is obscene,” she says, skipping ahead of me. “They have a private dock. And a private beach. And—oh my God, there’s food!”

I find her in the kitchen, popping open a bottle of Acqua Panna spring water while shoving fruit in her mouth. On the white marble counter, Dean’s housekeeping staff had left out a serving tray of cut pineapple, melon, and papaya, along with water and a bottle of Dom Perignon. I’d had my fill of champagne on the plane, so I set the bottle aside. There’s also a typed piece of paper lying on top of a thin binder.

As Sabrina bites into a piece of melon, I pick up the sheet and read it aloud. “‘Welcome to Villa le Blanc, Sabrina and Tucker! This binder has everything you’ll need to know for your stay, and you’ll find all necessary keys in the cabinet above the wine fridge. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask our housekeeper Isa, or property manager Claudette. Congratulations to the newlyweds! Love, Lori and Peter.’”

Jeez, Dean’s parents are super-hosts. The binder is a treasure trove of information. Alarm codes. A map of the sprawling property. Phone numbers for a private chef, local restaurants, tour companies. Contact info for Isa, who apparently brings fresh fruit and newspapers every morning. Instructions on how to have groceries delivered to the villa. How to drive the boat. The ATVs and other beach toys. It’s like a mini resort. Goddamn Dean living the life of luxury over here.

We do a quick walk of the first floor, which overlooks the beach out front and is surrounded by palm trees in the back. Sabrina slides open the glass doors to the pool deck to welcome in the cool ocean breeze, white curtains billowing around her.

“You hear that?” she says with a brilliant smile.

I do. I hear the ocean. Waves running up on shore. Distant insects chirping. The soothing near-silence, unbroken by a screaming child or cartoons on TV.

Our earlier trauma dissolves in the night air, all anger and irritability subsiding by the time we shut off the outdoor shower of the master suite and slip naked beneath expensive sheets.

“Do you still regret coming?” I ask, drawing her warm body closer.

She lays her head on my chest, her short fingernails absently stroking the ridges of my abs. “Near-fatal catastrophe aside? No, I’m glad we’re here. This place is incredible.”

I think the dual showerhead was the tipping point that made the trip worth it for her.

“Thanks for being a good sport,” she says by way of an apology.

“No sweat.” I know the woman I married. She can be intense, but that’s ultimately what I love about her.

“I really am looking forward to spending some quality time together.” Sabrina’s fingertips skim up my chest toward my face, gently tracing the line of my jaw.

“Just you, me, and this ass.” I grab a handful and give it a squeeze, to which she jabs me in the ribs.

“You’re such a guy.”

“Ha, like you don’t want it as bad as I do.”

Her quiet laughter tickles my nipple. “True.”

And even though we’re both exhausted and mentally drained from today’s ordeal, that’s no excuse for wasting this opportunity. So I tilt her chin up to kiss me, combing my hand through her hair.

It really is the little things I miss about her. The way her hair smells. How soft her skin is at the nape of her neck. I hike her leg up over my hip as I turn on my side. It’s almost like I haven’t touched her at all in months. The curves of her body so familiar and yet I’ve missed her. She reaches between us and strokes my erection while I pay special attention to her breasts, sucking on the beaded tips until she’s moaning uncontrollably, her fist tight around the aching length of me.

“Get up here and ride my dick,” I say hoarsely, pulling her to straddle me.

I grip her hips as she settles on top of me and slowly sinks down. Fuck, I love watching her bounce on my cock. This incredible woman. My wife. I palm her tits as she rocks back and forth, using me to hit the spot that makes her legs shake and her teeth dig into her bottom lip. Her long, dark hair falls around her face while she breathes heavy and determined.

“Get yourself close, baby,” I whisper. “Let me see you come.”

The dirty request causes her nails to dig into my skin where her palms are planted on my chest. The sting sends a bolt of heat to my balls, which draw up tight to my body. Damn, I’m getting close myself. Too close.

I clench my ass cheeks and bite my lip to ward off the climax. Not yet. Not until Sabrina loses control first.

When her pace slows, I wrap my arm around her waist and flip us over to bury myself deeper inside her. I push her knee up to open her wider as I thrust, leaning in to taste the bead of sweat collecting across her collarbone. Dragging my tongue down her chest to suck on one hard nipple while Sabrina claws at my back.

“Harder,” she begs. “Harder.”

I lever myself over her body, groaning when I feel her squeezing me and hear her sweet moans of her orgasm. Grasping at fistfuls of the pillow, she writhes beneath me, drawing every ounce of pleasure she can wring out. I rise on my knees, angle her hips up, and watch her pussy slide back and forth on my shaft until my muscles clench and I come inside her, panting.

“You’re good to go again, right?” Sabrina teases as I collapse on top of her.

“Darlin’, I can do this all night.”

“Holding you to that.” She pulls me down to kiss me. Pushes my sweaty hair off my forehead. “We might need another shower,” she says ruefully.

Yeah, we’re both pretty sweaty again. Probably from the humidity rolling in from the open bathroom door that leads to the outside shower. Or maybe it was the hot, primal sex.

“C’mon, let’s take another shower under the stars,” I say, tugging her out of bed.

Much, much later, when we’re back in bed and falling asleep, Sabrina murmurs, “Hell of a honeymoon story to tell, huh?”

“Nah,” I answer in a sleepy voice. “I don’t think we should tell people about me eating you out in Dean’s shower.”

She lightly smacks my stomach.

No, I know what she means. “Tomorrow will be better,” I promise her. “Couldn’t get much worse, right?”