Chapter 44 Mikayla
Mikayla
Gianni stood a few feet away, close enough that I could feel the weight of him in the room, far enough that I still had my space. It felt as though he didn’t trust himself with proximity. Like he was afraid one wrong move would undo whatever fragile honesty he’d finally decided to offer.
The house was quiet in that heavy, post-storm way—after words had already been said, after truths had scraped too close to the heart.
I could still feel the echo of the anger between us, our grief, the sharp edges of a relationship that died before it had a chance to live.
And he… he was a man who had just inherited too much and lost even more.
This wasn’t the Gianni who commanded rooms. This was the one stripped down to his very soul.
His jaw worked once, tension pulling tight across his face, and when he finally spoke, his voice wasn’t cruel or controlled. It was raw.
“I need you to know you were never on the table, Mikayla. Not for a second. Not even when I was stupid enough to pretend you were.”
Something tight and painful twisted in my chest.
I hated how much it mattered.
The world had taught me not to trust men who said beautiful things. But he was not beautiful in this moment. He was wrecked and honest and standing there with nothing left to bargain with.
I knew now that after everything that had happened, Provence was his. The estate, the land, the legacy—every inch of it was now owned by Gianni.
And yet… he was here.
In my home.
In my space.
Looking at me like I mattered more than any deed or signature ever could.
He’d been watching me. Tracking me. Slipping through my life like a shadow I couldn’t shake. That should have terrified me. Maybe it did, a little. But now he was standing in front of me, fighting for me instead of for the property everyone said he wanted.
A man driven only by greed wouldn’t do this.
Wouldn’t be here, trying to protect a woman who had nothing left to offer but her bruised heart and her wrecked past.
Gianni was here because whatever this was between us had weight. It had history and heat and something dangerously special.
And for the first time in my life, I let myself believe that maybe I wasn’t just another asset to be won.
Maybe we weren’t past saving.
Maybe this wreckage could still be turned into something that didn’t hurt so much to look at.
So I did the only thing that made sense.
I reached for him.
Something in me unclenched so fast it almost hurt, like a knot finally giving way after being pulled too tight for too long.
I kissed him.
It was my choice. With the kind of certainty that said this was mine to give and no one else’s to take. It felt like claiming my life back with my own mouth.
He made a low sound in his throat and his hands came to my waist, pulling me in at last—like a man who had been starving but refused to reach for food until he knew it was being offered.
There was restraint in the way he kissed me back, a tight, controlled intensity that felt almost violent in how much it held back.
His mouth moved against mine, slow with concentration, as if he were relearning every line of me all over again.
I tugged at his shirt. “Off.”
He stilled for a heartbeat. “Mikayla—”
“I want this,” I said, breath coming quick. “Will you deny me?”
His eyes flashed. “I’m trying not to take too much.”
A sharp smile curved my mouth. “Take what I give you.”
There was no hesitation left in him. The shirt came off and disappeared somewhere behind him. My hands went to his skin, warm and solid, marked in places. I traced his chest and felt the way his breath hitched, just a fraction, before he pulled it back under control.
“Bedroom,” he said, his voice rough around the edges.
“You know where it is,” I replied, and pushed him back a step.
His mouth twitched into that almost-smile, the one that never quite committed. Then something in his expression shifted, softened. He looked at me like he could not quite believe I was choosing him after everything we had been through.
I took his hand and led him down the hallway.
He followed.
In my bedroom, I turned to face him and slipped my top over my head. His gaze dropped, dark and intent, but he didn’t rush me. He stayed where he was, waiting, like the moment itself mattered.
Consent. Control. The line between him and Archie carved itself clean through the air.
I stepped closer and pressed his hand to my waist.
“Touch me,” I said.
He inhaled, sharp and slow, before his hands finally moved. They were firm and careful at the same time, palms resting on my hips, thumbs tracing steady, deliberate paths that made warmth bloom under my skin.
I kissed him again, deeper now, and he backed me toward the bed like he had been fighting the urge to do exactly that. When my knees brushed the mattress, I pulled back just enough to look at him.
He looked like a man who understood exactly what he was being trusted with.
When he came close again, I caught his face in my hands and made him look at me.
“Slow,” I said. “Show me what you feel…here.”
My hand flew to his heart, fluttering against his skin.
His eyes were steady, bright with something fierce and feral. “I’m all in, Mikayla.”
“Then stay,” I whispered.
And he did.
He kissed his way down my throat, his mouth tracing over my collarbone until he found the place where my pulse fluttered too fast. He lingered there, lips warm, hands steady on my skin, and it felt like he was speaking to me without saying a word. Every touch said I see you. I feel you.
When his fingers finally slid between my legs, the reaction was instant. I sucked in a sharp breath, my hips lifting before I could stop myself, betraying me.
His gaze never left my face, like he was committing every reaction to memory—what made me tense, what made me soften, what made me fall apart.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured against my skin.
I laughed, breathless and shaky. “Don’t sound so proud.”
“I’m not proud,” he said darkly. “I’m starving.”
He kicked off his pants, then shoved his boxers down his legs, stepping out of them like he was shedding armor. A heartbeat later, he was standing there in front of me, bare and unapologetic, all heat and hard lines and dangerous confidence.
My breath caught before I could stop it.
I bit my lip, teeth sinking into the soft skin like my body needed somewhere to put the sudden rush of want that flared low and deep inside me. It spread slow and hot, curling through my stomach, sliding down my spine, leaving me weak in places I didn’t want to admit were already aching for him.
I didn’t give him permission to do this to me.
To look like that.
To stand there and make my pulse stumble and my thoughts go hazy.
But he did it anyway.
And I stood there, undone, staring at him like he was something I was already losing—even while he was right in front of me.
Gianni’s head was between my legs, his mouth resting against my pussy.
His tongue flicked delicately at my nub, then descended until he coated the length of my pussy.
He licked and sucked and thrust his tongue like a man starved, until I crashed and burned against his mouth with a loud, howling orgasm that ripped out of me as though my soul had been devoured.
He moved up my body slowly, spreading himself over me. His mouth glistened with the proof of my orgasm as he entered me. He eased in further, inch by inch, until there was no space left between us. Then he leaned in, forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing hard.
And he started to move.
Slow at first—deep, steady strokes that slid through me with maddening precision, finding that place that made my breath hitch and my toes curl. I locked my legs around his waist, dragging him closer, desperate for more pressure, more heat, more of him filling every inch of space between us.
“Look at me,” he said, rough, urgent.
I did.
Something broke loose in him. He drove into me harder, deeper, and the release crashed over me all at once—hot, overwhelming, ripping a cry from my throat. My back arched, hands clutching at him like I needed to anchor myself to something solid.
He came with a strained sound, hips faltering as he buried himself inside me, holding me tight, like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.
When it was over, he fell beside me and pulled me into his arms, his breathing uneven, his skin still warm against mine. The room settled into quiet, broken only by the sound of us catching our breath.
He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.
“This is what you do to me,” he whispered. “You wreck all my plans.”
I tucked my face into his neck and let the words sink in, down into all the places that were still trembling.