“How so?”
She leaned against the stone balustrade, watching the sea turn from slate to sapphire. The scent of jasmine and salt clung to the air.
He laughed, a real, unguarded sound. And as he rolled out of bed to find the coffee, Gianna pulled the sheet up to her chin and watched him go.
His voice was a low rumble, thick with sleep. She didn’t turn around. x art gianna morning tryst
“I was painting you in my head,” he murmured. “The light on your shoulder. The way your hair fell across the pillow.”
He cupped her face. “This is better.”
Later, much later, they lay in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. He was drawing lazy circles on her stomach. She was staring at the ceiling, a small, satisfied smile on her face. “How so
She smiled, a secret, slow curve of her lips. She heard the sheets rustle, the soft pad of his feet on the cool floor. Then his hands were on her shoulders, sliding down her arms, wrapping around her from behind. His chest was warm against her back. His lips found the spot just below her ear.
The villa was silent except for the distant crash of the Mediterranean against the rocks below. A lizard skittered across the terracotta tiles of the balcony.
She traced the scar near his eyebrow. “Make me breakfast first.” And as he rolled out of bed to
Gianna turned her head, looking at him. The artist. The morning light. The promise in his dark eyes.
He lifted her then, her legs wrapping around his waist, and carried her back toward the tangled sheets. The sun climbed higher, spilling across the bed as he lowered her down.
He kissed her. It wasn’t hungry like last night. It was deep and slow, like the tide coming in. His thumb traced her collarbone. Her fingers threaded through his hair. The world was just this: skin on skin, the sound of the sea, and a morning that felt like it belonged only to them.
There were no words for a while. Just soft gasps, the whisper of his name on her lips, the way her back arched as he kissed a path down her stomach. He learned her all over again—the hitch in her breath when he touched her ribs, the way she pulled him closer when he teased.
Turning her head on the pillow, she studied his profile. Strong jaw, dark lashes against his cheeks, a small scar near his eyebrow he’d gotten surfing in Portugal. This was their third… meeting? Tryst? She didn’t like labels. She liked the way his hands felt on her hip bones, like he was anchoring himself to something real.
