He cupped her face. “This is better.”
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.”
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. x art gianna morning tryst
“Not even close.” He turned her around. In the stark, honest light of 7 AM, there was nowhere to hide. No soft lamp light, no candle glow. Just her. Freckles she usually covered with concealer. The small scar on her knee. The sleepy, vulnerable look in her eyes that she never let anyone see.
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. He cupped her face
“Stay,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
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. She just listened to the slow, even breathing
His voice was a low rumble, thick with sleep. She didn’t turn around.
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.