Chapter 25 Mikayla
Mikayla
I still hadn’t come down from my high, my thighs trembling, my heart racing, when he stood and plunged his cock inside me with one hard thrust. He held it there for the longest time, unmoving, his eyes on mine in the glass, as though to make sure I was watching him unravel in real time.
The window turned him into something sharper—his eyes unreadable, his jaw set, every line of him pulled tight with restraint.
My breath slowed, then stuttered. I couldn’t look away. The reflection held us there, trapped in that narrow space between action and surrender. His gaze never left me. Not my face. Not my body. Me.
It made something raw twist inside my chest.
I felt thirsty in a way that had nothing to do with my mouth. Hungry in a way that made my skin ache. Like there was a missing piece inside me, and my body already knew he was the only one who could fill it.
His hands came to my hips—sudden, firm, claiming. Fingers spread wide, grounding me, locking me in place. The contact sent a jolt through me so sharp my knees almost buckled. I exhaled hard, my palms flattening against the glass.
He leaned in just enough that I could feel his heat. Still, he didn’t kiss me or speak. He only watched.
In the reflection, his eyes burned—dark, feral, stripped of every civil mask. He looked like a man holding himself back by force alone. Like if he loosened his grip for even a second, something violent and unstoppable would tear free.
And God help me, I wanted it.
I wanted the part of him he was trying not to be. Wanted the way his hands told me exactly what he intended without saying a word. Wanted the certainty in his grip, the promise in his stillness.
I swallowed, my pulse hammering high in my throat.
He didn’t need to touch me again.
The way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—was already enough to undo me.
I tried to say his name around the panties in my mouth, but all I managed was a garbled moan. My breathing was uneven, my legs quaking, threatening to give way.
“Yes, baby?”
His voice was a deep, low throttle that pierced my chest, lighting me up with desire, hunger, and a desperate sense of being wanted.
And then he started too move.
He fucked me ruthlessly against the glass. Each thrust pushed me against the glass, until my body was flat against it, and I felt like I was climbing the wall.
He pushed in and out, hard and rough, taking me to the edge again, and just as I reached the peak and was about to climax, he reached up and removed the panties from my mouth and I came with a ferocious roar, screaming out his name to the dark valley and everything beyond it.
“The chef would’ve heard that,” I whispered, horror crawling up my spine.
Gianni didn’t look bothered in the slightest. He moved with calm purpose, using my discarded underwear to clean the mess from my thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, without hesitation, he folded them and slipped them into his pocket.
I stared at him, stunned. Because who does that?
“He left after the last course,” Gianni said easily. He grinned, and for a second, he looked younger. Lighter. Almost boyish. “You really think I’d let another man hear you scream for me like that?”
The words hit deep, sinking into the most guarded corners of my soul.
They wrapped around something inside me.
Settled me. Grounded me. And instead of fear, warmth spread through my chest—slow and unfamiliar.
I realized then how much it mattered that he’d made sure we were alone.
That he’d thought about it, and planned it well. That he’d wanted me without witnesses.
For the first time, I understood what it meant to be wanted—not tolerated, not chosen by default or taken as a debt, but claimed.
Gianni took my hand and walked me to the bathroom so I could clean up. He watched me step inside, his gaze lingering like he wasn’t quite ready to let me go, then turned away when his phone rang. “I’ll join you in a minute,” he said.
The door closed behind me, and the quiet rushed in.
I cleaned myself up as best I could with what little was available. It felt strange and careful, like I was trying to erase evidence of something that had already changed me. I’d already bled all over Gianni’s car before—I didn’t want to leave his come there, too.
When I finished, I washed my face and pressed a paper towel against my skin. Then I looked up.
The girl in the mirror didn’t look like me.
My eyes were too bright. My lips curved at the edges, smiling. My skin glowed, flushed and alive, like it hadn’t felt in years.
I was happy.
The realization stunned me.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this light, this settled in my body. But the feeling didn’t come alone. Something darker sat just beneath it, tugging at the back of my mind, refusing to be ignored.
Because what did this mean?
For me, and for Gianni.
Mikayla Gregory, you are thoroughly fucked, a small voice whispered.
I huffed under my breath. I was just thoroughly fucked, I told it back. That doesn’t mean anything. Don’t turn this into something it’s not.
Then what is it? the voice pressed. Because men don’t look at you like that for no reason. And you don’t feel like this for no reason.
I stared at my reflection again, the truth tightening in my chest.
You’re in trouble, the voice said softly. Because you don’t just want him.
I swallowed.
You’re already falling.
And no matter how hard I tried to argue with myself, I couldn’t find a single reason to believe it wasn’t true.