Chapter 20
Mikayla
I woke slowly, the room still dim, my body warm and loose in that hazy space between sleep and memory. For a second, I didn’t move. I just breathed.
Then I felt two things at once.
His gaze. And how sore my body was.
I turned my head and found him on his side beside me, propped on one elbow, watching me like he’d been there a while. His expression was quiet. Thoughtful. Almost guarded.
“What time is it?” I murmured, my voice rough with sleep.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes tracked my face like he was committing it to memory, like he was trying to solve something that wouldn’t give him an easy answer.
“Too early to be up,” he said softly.
“Urrgghh, I feel so sore,” I murmured, shifting slightly as the weight of my own body settled back into my bones. Even that small movement made me wince.
Gianni’s attention snapped to me immediately. “Sore?” he repeated, one dark brow lifting as his gaze swept over me, slow and knowing. “That sounds like it could be my fault.”
I shot him a look. “You think?”
A corner of his mouth tipped up, unapologetic. He leaned closer, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him. “I warned you,” he said quietly. “You didn’t listen.”
I huffed a weak laugh. “You warned me after round 3.” I shifted again, testing the ache. “I feel it everywhere.”
His eyes darkened at that. “Everywhere,” he echoed, voice lower now. “Does it hurt… or does it remind you what we did?”
My pulse jumped. I swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was. “Both,” I admitted.
His hand brushed my thigh—not gripping or moving higher—just enough to make my breath catch. “Good,” he murmured. “I’d hate for you to forget.”
I rolled my eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He leaned in, his mouth near my ear. “You have no idea,” he said softly. “But if you’re sore, we can take it slow.”
I turned my head, meeting his gaze. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
A low laugh rumbled out of him. “No,” he agreed. “It really doesn’t.”
And the way he looked at me then—like the ache between my legs was just beginning—I knew being sore wasn’t going to save me at all.
His hand brushed my arm, slow and absent-minded. “I was thinking before… before you woke.”
“When you were watching me like a stalker?” I asked, trying to lighten the moment.
He huffed a quiet laugh, then sobered again. “You make it hard not to.”
The words settled between us, making me feel wanted, adored. Just the fact that he was watching me as I slept spoke volumes. I studied his face—there were no signs of the crease between his brows and the way his jaw tightened.
“What were you thinking?” I asked, suddenly interested to know.
He hesitated. Long enough for my chest to tighten.
Is this where he told me last night was a mistake?
His eyes locked onto mine. “I’m not sure what this is between us.”
I swallowed, but it felt useless—like I was trying to pull air into my lungs and finding nothing there, like my own breath had turned solid in my throat. My fingers curled into the sheets between us. “Why does it have to be anything?”
“It doesn’t,” he agreed quietly.
The silence stretched, thick and loaded, until it felt like the air itself was holding its breath. Then his hand slid to my waist, grounding, sure.
“I don’t want to overthink this,” he said, his voice lower now. “I just want you. Right here. Like this.”
My pulse jumped. I shifted closer without thinking, drawn to the heat of him, the weight of his attention. His gaze darkened instantly, the softness giving way to something familiar and dangerous.
“Then stop thinking,” I whispered.
We’d been together three times last night, and the reality of it still felt unreal. Everything had happened so fast—too fast to fully understand—but I didn’t want to pull it apart yet. I didn’t want to look too closely, in case it turned into something heavier than I was ready to face.
For now, it was enough to lie there and feel the quiet between us. Enough to let the moment be what it was, without asking it to mean more.
I stared at the ceiling, listening to his breathing beside me, trying to make sense of how my body still felt so full. Not just sore or warm, but… seen. Like something inside me had been touched that no one had ever bothered to reach before.
I’d never thought of myself as the girl men lost their heads over. I’d spent most of my life shrinking—learning how to take up less space, how to be quieter, easier, prettier in ways that didn’t draw too much attention. Pretty, but not too pretty. Confident, but not enough to invite disappointment.
And then there was Gianni.
The way he’d wanted me last night—like restraint was a fight he kept losing, like my body was something he couldn’t get enough of—still made my chest feel tight. It didn’t match the story I’d always told myself. The one where I was second choice. Temporary. Easy to leave.
I didn’t know what to do with the way he’d touched me like I was something rare.
Part of me waited for the other shoe to drop. For morning light to strip the moment bare and leave me feeling foolish for believing it meant anything. I’d learned not to trust too easily. Wanting something didn’t make it safe.
But another part of me—quieter, braver—felt light. Happy in a way I wasn’t used to. Desired. Wanted without question or apology.
I turned my head slightly and watched him sleep, the hard lines of him softened in rest. Whatever this was, it had already cracked something open in me.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted to close it again.