Chapter 8: Midday Feast
The glass door slid shut with a soft click, sealing Gianna and her other world outside. Isabella stood alone in the vast, sun-drenched bedroom, the imprint of the window pane still cool against her back. The room felt suddenly hollow, the silence oppressive compared to the noise of their bodies and the sea.
She listened to the low, indistinct murmur of Gianna’s voice on the terrace. It was a tone she knew, though she’d seldom been its target—clipped, authoritative, utterly devoid of warmth. The Donna speaking, not the woman who had just tasted her skin.
A slow burn kindled in Isabella’s chest, part shame, part anger. Shame at being left here, naked and trembling. Anger at the man who had made her feel small for so long, and at the world that kept pulling Gianna away. She strode to the bed, not bothering with clothes, and yanked the crisp linen sheet free, wrapping it around her body like a shield. It smelled of them—sex, salt, Gianna’s bergamot perfume.
She pushed through the terrace door, the sun hitting her like a physical blow. Gianna stood at the stone balustrade, phone to her ear, her back rigid. “…deal with it, Enzo. I don’t care how. The shipment is in Marseille by Friday or heads will roll. Yours first.” She ended the call without a goodbye, her hand tightening on the phone until her knuckles were white.
She didn’t turn immediately. She stared out at the sea, a profile carved from marble. The transformation was chilling.
Isabella leaned against the doorframe, the warm stone rough through the sheet. “Trouble?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
Gianna turned. The cold mask fractured, just for a second, as her eyes traveled over Isabella wrapped in the sheet, her curly hair a wild halo against the white. The anger in her gaze softened, replaced by a flicker of something like regret.
“Just business,” Gianna said, the words a dismissal. She tossed the phone onto a nearby wrought-iron table. It clattered against the glass top, a sharp, intrusive sound. “It never stops.”
“It stopped for a while,” Isabella said, pushing off from the doorframe and walking toward her. The lavender brushed her ankles, releasing its drowsy scent.
Gianna watched her approach, her green eyes dark. “It did.” She reached out, catching a corner of the sheet where it draped over Isabella’s shoulder. Her fingers rubbed the fabric. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Isabella meant it. The apology felt wrong. It made her the fragile one again, the one who needed protecting from the ugly real world. She was tired of being fragile. “It’s who you are.”
Gianna’s jaw tightened. “It’s not all of who I am.”
“I know.”
The silence stretched, filled by the hypnotic crash of waves far below. The sun was directly overhead now, a fierce, bleaching light. Isabella felt its heat seep into her bones, a counterpoint to the chill left by Gianna’s departure. An impulse, raw and defiant, took hold.
She turned and walked to a wide, cushioned lounger positioned to catch the full sun. Without looking back at Gianna, she let the sheet drop. It pooled at her feet like a fallen cloud. The air, scented with lavender and sea spray, touched every part of her.
She lay back on the lounger, the canvas warm against her skin. She closed her eyes against the blinding blue sky, letting the sun paint her eyelids red. Her hand drifted down her own body, over the slope of her breast, the flat plane of her stomach. She was moving slowly, almost idly, but her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She could feel Gianna watching her. The weight of that gaze was heavier than the sun.
Her fingers found the heat between her legs. She was still slick from before, swollen, sensitized. She traced a slow circle, a sigh escaping her lips. This was hers. This pleasure, this body. Not her husband’s. Not a secret to be hoarded. She arched her back, her other hand coming up to cup her own breast, thumb skating over the nipple. She let a low moan drift out on the salt-kissed breeze.
The shadow fell over her before she heard a footstep. It blocked the sun, a sudden, cool darkness. Isabella opened her eyes.
Gianna stood there, silhouetted against the sky. Her expression was unreadable, but her chest rose and fell with a deep, controlled rhythm. Her gaze was fixed on Isabella’s hand, on the slow, deliberate movement there.
“Don’t stop,” Gianna said, her voice a graveled command.
Isabella didn’t. She kept her eyes locked on Gianna’s, her fingers moving with more purpose now, dipping slightly inside herself, then spreading her own wetness. She was putting on a show, a claiming of her own, and the power of it was dizzying.
Gianna dropped to her knees beside the lounger. The movement was swift, predatory. She grabbed Isabella’s wrist, not roughly, but firmly, and pulled her hand away. She looked at the glistening fingers, then brought them to her own mouth, sucking them clean with a dark, deliberate intensity that made Isabella’s stomach clench.
Then she pushed Isabella’s thighs apart, her hands holding them open. There was no preamble, no gentle seeking. Gianna lowered her head and licked a hard, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Isabella cried out, her back bowing off the lounger. It was too much, too direct, a shock after her own gentle exploration. Gianna didn’t ease up. She feasted. Her tongue was relentless, fucking into her with short, firm strokes before circling that aching, sensitive peak. She used her lips, her teeth in gentle nips, her entire face. The obscene, wet sounds were louder than the sea.
“Fuck, Gianna,” Isabella gasped, her hands tangling in the dark silk of Gianna’s hair, not to guide but to hold on.
Gianna pulled back for a second, her chin glistening. “You taste like revenge,” she growled, her breath hot. “And you’re all mine.” Then she dived back in, one hand coming up to press firmly on Isabella’s lower belly, pinning her to the spot as her tongue lashed and probed.
The orgasm built fast, a tsunami cresting with terrifying force. It wasn’t the slow, sweet unraveling from before. This was a punishment and a reward, a claiming and a surrender. Isabella came with a ragged scream, her body convulsing under Gianna’s relentless mouth. Gianna rode it out, drinking her in, until Isabella was limp, twitching with oversensitivity.
Only then did Gianna rise, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked feral, triumphant. She unbuttoned her own linen pants, shoving them down her hips along with her underwear. She was already wet, her own need evident.
“My turn,” she panted, her voice thick. She straddled Isabella’s thighs, not aligning their bodies, but sitting back on her heels. She reached down, her fingers finding her own clit. She stared down at Isabella as she touched herself, her movements brisk and efficient. “Watch me.”
Isabella watched, mesmerized. The sight of Gianna, powerful and exposed, working herself to a frenzy above her, was more potent than any touch. Gianna’s breath hitched, her hips rocking into her own hand. Her other hand gripped Isabella’s thigh, nails digging in.
“You did this,” Gianna gritted out, her rhythm faltering. “You, in my bed… in my sun… fuck…” Her head fell back, a string of filthy, desperate curses tumbling from her lips as she came, her body stiffening before collapsing forward, braced on her hands over Isabella.
They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, sweat mingling on their skin. The world came back—the crash of waves, the buzz of a distant boat, the scent of sex and lavender.
Gianna finally rolled off, lying on her back on the sun-warmed stone terrace beside the lounger. She flung an arm over her eyes.
Isabella turned her head to look at her. “What happens now?” she whispered.
Gianna didn’t move her arm. “Now,” she said, her voice raspy but clear, “I take you to lunch. We drink too much wine. And later, I fuck you in my bed again. Properly. Slowly.” She finally moved her arm, turning her head to look at Isabella. The cold boss was gone, burned away by the sun and the sweat. “And the next time the phone rings, I let it go to voicemail.”
Isabella reached out, her fingers finding Gianna’s on the hot stone. She laced their hands together. It felt like a promise, or the beginning of one.
From inside the villa, the phone on the table began to ring again. The same sharp, insistent tone.
Gianna didn’t move. She just stared up at the endless blue sky, gripping Isabella’s hand tighter.
“It can wait,” she said, to the sky, to the sea, to Isabella.
And for the first time, Isabella believed it might.