“You’re cruel, you know.”
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.
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. x art gianna morning tryst
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.
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. “You’re cruel, you know
“I was painting you in my head,” he murmured. “The light on your shoulder. The way your hair fell across the pillow.”
“Stay,” he said. It wasn’t a question. She heard the sheets rustle, the soft pad
His voice was a low rumble, thick with sleep. She didn’t turn around.
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.
She didn’t move. Not yet. She just listened to the slow, even breathing of the man beside her—the artist who had talked to her for three hours last night about the way light broke against a wave. He had called her his “morning muse.”