X Art Gianna Morning Tryst Link

“How so?”

The villa was silent except for the distant crash of the Mediterranean against the rocks below. A lizard skittered across the terracotta tiles of the balcony.

“I was painting you in my head,” he murmured. “The light on your shoulder. The way your hair fell across the pillow.”

He kissed her. It wasn’t hungry like last night. It was deep and slow, like the tide coming in. His thumb traced her collarbone. Her fingers threaded through his hair. The world was just this: skin on skin, the sound of the sea, and a morning that felt like it belonged only to them. x art gianna morning tryst

Gianna turned her head, looking at him. The artist. The morning light. The promise in his dark eyes.

She traced the scar near his eyebrow. “Make me breakfast first.”

He laughed, a real, unguarded sound. And as he rolled out of bed to find the coffee, Gianna pulled the sheet up to her chin and watched him go. “How so

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.”

“Stay,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

She leaned against the stone balustrade, watching the sea turn from slate to sapphire. The scent of jasmine and salt clung to the air. “The light on your shoulder

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.

His voice was a low rumble, thick with sleep. She didn’t turn around.

“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.