Page 67 of Hunting Gianna
The air between us goes soft, syrupy, sticky with unsaid things. He reaches over, grabbing another bite of chicken with his fingers, and shoves it into his mouth. I can’t take my eyes off his hands, the way they flex, the veins, the scar on his middle finger that never healed straight. I want those hands everywhere, always.
I set my plate down, legs tucked under me, and tilt my head. “Okay, nutbar, I’ll quit. Then what? You gonna make me a little housewife? Apron, pearls, fresh pie cooling on the sill?”
He chews, then swallows, the motion of his throat oddly hypnotic. “Yes. You want pearls, I’ll find you the biggest one. Diamonds? Done. Just don’t go telling me to buy you a fucking electric car. I know the shit batteries in those things because of the corners Kairo cuts with R&D.”
I reach out, grab his wrist, pull his hand onto my lap and hold it there. His skin is warm, pulse steady.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be your little housewife. I’ll bake cookies and scream at you from the porch when you don’t mow the lawn.”
He snorts. “You’ll burn the cookies and forget to put on pants.”
“I’ll wear your shirts and nothing else,” I say, eyes locked on his.
He doesn’t respond, just stares at me like I’m the only thing in the room. His pupils go wide, and he’s breathing harder, like he’s already picturing it. The sexual tension is so thick it’s practically a third entity, sitting there at the end of the bed, salivating.
I let my hand slide up his arm, fingers tracing the line of his bicep, up to the tattoo that snakes around his shoulder. I press my thumb into the flesh there, testing his strength, and he flexes in response.
“You’d get bored,” he says, voice gone low. “You need chaos.”
I lean in, close enough that I can feel his breath on my cheek. “I have you for that.”
He grabs me, sudden and rough, pulling me across the bed until I’m half in his lap. I squeak, then smack his chest, but I don’t move away. I wouldn’t even if he asked.
“Fuck, you’re trouble,” he says, but he’s smiling. Like he’s proud of me. Like he’s proud of us.
We eat the rest of the food together, stealing bites from each other’s plates, licking sauce off fingers, trading insults and dirty jokes. He tells me a story about the time he and his cousin got caught shoplifting beer as teenagers, and I can see the kid he used to be, hungry and mean and desperate for approval. I tell him about the woman on the cruise who got so drunk she slept through an entire port, then woke up convinced she’d been kidnapped by pirates.
He laughs, really laughs, and the sound makes something inside me loosen, like a knot I didn’t know was there finally coming undone.
By the time we’re done eating, we’re both so full we can barely move. I toss the plates onto the nightstand and collapse back, arms flung over my head. Knox stretches out next to me, one hand coming to rest on my stomach, fingers splaying out, thumb tracing lazy circles over the thin cotton of the shirt.
“We should probably shower before bed,” he says, but neither of us moves.
“We should probably do a lot of things,” I mumble, eyelids heavy.
He’s already half asleep, mouth relaxed, breathing slow and deep. I shift closer, nuzzling into his side. His arm comes up, wraps around my waist, pulls me tight against him. Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces—jagged, imperfect, but somehow just right.
I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, vibrating through my ribs. I match my breathing to his, slow and even, letting it lull me toward sleep.
The room is quiet except for the sound of our hearts, the soft hush of fabric against skin. The world outside could end and I wouldn’t care.
For once, I don’t have to think about survival. I don’t have to wonder if tomorrow will be worse than today, or if I’ll ever be enough. I don’t have to do anything but lie here, safe in the arms of the man who ruined me, the man who made me whole.
Tomorrow, we’ll probably fight. Tomorrow, I might hate him again. But tonight, I am his, and he is mine, and that’s all that matters.
I drift off with his hand on my stomach and the scent of him in my hair, the taste of chicken still on my tongue.
Somewhere, in the inky dark between sleep and waking, I hear him whisper, “I love you, little bird.”
I don’t answer.
I just squeeze his hand, and hope he knows that’s enough.
Chapter Twenty
Knox
Thenextmorning,thedecision is made. I make a few calls, get the boys to start moving some of my shit to her apartment and we pack whatever we have lying around and start heading to her car.
