Page 11 of Hunting Gianna

Her eyes are closed before I’ve even shut the door.

I wasn’t lying. I did need to check the generator. But I also need her to sleep because resisting her right now is tempting fate in ways she’s not ready to tempt.

Once I’m done, I’m going to finish carving a token for my little bird.

Hours later, I watch from the doorway, her body still, her breath moving in a slow, deep rhythm that works into me and breaks me down. She lies on the bed, chest rising and falling in drugged, helpless sleep. A step forward and then another. Closer. Closer. The tension grows tight and electric, a pulse in every inch of me, a pulse that drives me until I am right there, finally letting myself reach down, pull the blanket back, watch her lay beneath me, the shirt riding up her thighs.

So soft, I hardly want to break her.

My pulse is a violent, impossible promise. Her pulse is a sweet and silent relief. She doesn’t know how hard it hits me. She doesn’t know how perfectly she trains me to want to be gentle. To be anything but what I am. Anything the world says I am. Her submission without trying. Her careless and beautiful vulnerability.

I could shake the bed, scream, roar, tear myself into fragments, and she’d still be like this, still this pristine, untouched thing that I have every intention of destroying.

Every breath, every drugged and dreamless breath, they run through me like a language I can’t speak but finally understand. It drives me to take more than I can handle.

Her leg shifts in sleep, the faintest motion, the slightest suggestion of consent as her knees fall open, and it brings me closer, the need so strong that it’s an illness, a sickness, a disease. But only for her.

The blanket is on the floor. My restraint is gone. She is right here, under me, trusting and unaware, the smoothness of her forehead free of any worry or fear. That’s what I love the most. That’s what I want to have. She’s the wildest animal of them all, trusting the wrong things, me most of all, and it only drives me closer, harder, fuller.

Her eyes shift under their lids. It gives me the tight feeling in my chest, the promise of it, the full fucking thrill of our first time being so quiet. So… gentle.

My hand brushes the soft curve of her thigh, up and up and up, the shirt coming with it, and I breathe her in, filling my lungs with the luxury of her, the luxury I’ll never have enough of. She is already mine but I take her again. I will take her always. She doesn’t see. Doesn’t know. Doesn’t move.

There is no air but hers. There is no breath that isn’t an invasion of privacy in my body.

This is suffocating and I drown in it. Drown and surface. Drown and drink the length of her skin, my lips slow as I drag them down her body, too slow, slow and delicate, desperate enough that I’m sure she’ll wake, slow enough that she doesn’t.

A soft, unconscious moan escapes her. A noise she doesn’t know she makes. A noise that runs a million miles through me and cuts a jagged path until I am exactly where I want to be, until it’s enough to hold me in place and enough to move me.

A careful drag of my hand, of my body, then another, then more.More, more. My mouth, my tongue, my self-control, all of it tasting, holding, taking. Her nipple, tight between my lips as I suck and lick, drawing it into my mouth.

And yet, even as her bare pussy is on display, I don’t touch. I want to, oh God, do I ever, but I don’t. I toy with her tits, her nipples, running my hands between her thighs, but stopping short of the prize.

Because somewhere, somehow I realize…

Her pussy isn’t the prize.

She is.

And even as that thought shocks me, I grab my cock out of my sweats and come all over those perfectly perky tits.

It’ll be enough.

Until she wakes and smiles at me with that perfectly beautiful mouth that I need worshipping my cock.

“Sleep well, little bird.” I whisper, pulling my pants back up and tucking myself in. “Tomorrow, I make you mine.”

Chapter Five

Gianna

Iwakeslow.Disoriented.Naked beneath the heavy, soft weight of a blanket. Everything hurts, especially my fucking pride. My mind tries to make sense of where I am, but I don’t have time to process as I look around. The world tilts when I see a worn shirt stretched across my skin. Who the hell? What the fuck? Rain. Thunder. Falling. Shivering. Unaware. Collapsing. Fragments start to form, shards too scattered to piece together.

The slow pulse of memory pushes through my skull, through my muscles. My body aches and burns and pulses along with the rhythm of it. My nipples feel raw under the thin fabric of this stranger's shirt. My skin tight, my thoughts tangled. How did Ieven get here? My mind is a bad dream, but I know I need to get the fuck up, and my body won’t let me.

My limbs feel swollen, heavy and tired, dragging me down. My breath comes slow and thick as I pull myself into a sitting position. Damp strands of hair cling to my cheek, the back matted from how I slept. I'm aware of every ache, every confusion. It’s too hot, too tight, and I feel it all. Especially the way my mind and body won’t get with the program, like I've run a marathon and haven’t had time to recover.

Looking around, I spot my phone. I stretch for it, fingers trembling against the screen. It lights up and unlocks. No service, because of course not. Low battery. Fuck. I turn it off to preserve what little it has. The room seems to spin around me. The effort drains me more than I care to admit, but it’s proof I’m alive. Barely. My eyes fall shut as I grasp for any sense.

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