Page 63 of Hunting Gianna

“Yeah, I am,” I say. “But it sounds good.”

We stay like that, my hand wrapped around hers, her other hand gripping the bird so tight I worry she’ll crush it.

I look at her, really look.Mine.

But for the first time, I think:Maybe I’m hers, too.

She doesn’t let go of the bird until I pry it gently from her hand. I set it on the table next to her, a totem for her to reach for if she needs it. Her skin’s cold and clammy, so I wrap my fingers around her ankle, feeling the trembling in her calf.

She looks at me, frowning. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer. Just dig my thumb into the arch of her foot, slow, deliberate, right at the spot where the muscle knots. I’ve never done this for anyone before. My hands are more used to breaking things than fixing them. But I remember the way my mother used to press her fingers into my father’s ruined hands after a fight, the way he’d go soft and quiet under her touch.

I want to see if Gianna will do the same.

Her eyes go wide when I start. She jerks her foot back, but I hold it, not hard, just enough to say: stay. I work my thumbs along the ridge of bone, up through the tendons, kneading out the tension one inch at a time.

She tries to fight it. “Seriously, what is this?”

I shush her, the same way I’d shush a child, and keep going. I do her other foot, too, slower this time, tracing circles with my knuckles. Slowly, I lean forward, brushing my lips over her skin. Her breathing changes. It gets heavier, almost ragged, like she’s about to cry or scream. I knead up to her ankle, her calf, the long line of muscle that’s still spattered with dirt from the woods.

She shifts on the couch, clearly uncomfortable with this kind of attention. She’s used to being handled rough, thrown and fucked and bruised. But this—this is different. This is mine, too.

“Lie back,” I say, soft but with the kind of authority she knows not to question.

She hesitates, then lets herself fall into the couch, head lolling on the cushion. The blanket slips further, exposing the curve of her thigh, the fading bruises barely visible now. I want to mouth each one, taste the proof that she belongs to me, but I make myself wait.

Instead, I slide my hands up, one on each leg, kneading the knots out of her calves, her quads. She twitches when I hit a sensitive spot behind her knee, but doesn’t tell me to stop.

The longer I do this, the more she melts. I can see it in her face—the way the lines go slack, the way her eyes drift closed. Her lips part and she makes these little noises, half moan, half sigh.

I could keep going forever. I want to. I want to spend hours mapping every inch of her, learning the way her body responds to every pressure point, every touch.

My hands reach her thighs. I squeeze, gentle at first, then harder, letting my fingers sink into the soft flesh. She bites her lip, trying to stifle a whimper.

“You like that,” I say, not a question.

She opens one eye, lazy, almost drunk. “It’s weird.”

“Why?”

“I’m not used to you being nice.”

I grin. “This isn’t nice. This is me taking what I want, just slow.”

She laughs, a real one this time, but it gets caught in her throat when I dig my thumbs into the line where her thigh meets her hip. She’s ticklish there, but she doesn’t pull away.

I keep going, slow, methodical, up and down, never breaking contact. Her skin gets warmer under my hands, color returning to her cheeks.

She’s breathing faster now, chest rising and falling in rhythm with the pressure of my touch.

I could fuck her right here, pin her down and make her come until she cries, but I don’t. Not yet. This is about patience, about making her want it so bad she begs.

I keep my voice low. “You trust me?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I do.”

I move up, fingers skimming under the edge of her shirt, tracing circles on her hipbone. She’s wearing nothing underneath, just bare skin, hot and smooth. I take my time, working slow up to her ribs, back down to her knee, then up again, every pass a little closer, a little deeper.

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