Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 98: Stomach Wants Food

June POV

Who would’ve thought that Justin—Justin, of all people—could be romantic?

I mean, sure, I always knew he was hot. Dangerous. Mysterious. And yeah, maybe a little unhinged. But romantic? That wasn’t even on the list. Yet here he was, in my kitchen, barefoot in sweatpants and a stupidly cute apron that said "Kiss the Cook," making dinner like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And fuck me if it wasn’t working.

He was hot, mysterious, could make anyone’s knees buckle with just a look, but this? This domestic, apron-wearing, garlic-sautéing version of him?

Fuck.

If he wanted, he could destroy me in the sweetest way possible.

He was moving around my kitchen like he owned the place, sleeves rolled up, hoodie now discarded, exposing those sin-worthy forearms that should be illegal. He had this casual confidence, like this wasn’t his first time doing this... like he hadn’t just pinned me to my own counter and kissed the sanity out of me.

Then he did something else that almost melted my ovaries.

He turned with a wooden spoon in his hand, scooped a bit of sauce from the pan, and walked up to me, standing between my legs again, the same spot where things had nearly escalated five minutes ago.

"Open," he said, holding out the spoon like a freaking romantic movie lead.

I did, because what else do you do when your maybe-kind-of-boyfriend looks at you like that?

He fed me the sauce, eyes on my mouth the whole time.

"Tastes good?" he asked, voice dipping low.

I nodded, barely able to think past the way his thumb grazed the corner of my lips to wipe off a drop. And then he leaned in, brushed a kiss across my lips—barely there, just a ghost of pressure—and stepped away like he hadn’t just lit my whole body on fire.

Rinse and repeat.

He did it again with the pasta.

A taste, a kiss.

Then the sauce again.

A taste, a longer kiss.

By the time he handed me a forkful of whatever meat he’d just prepared, I was shaking with something I refused to call need because that would make me vulnerable and I already gave him enough power by letting him cook in my damn kitchen.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Justin. Dangerous. Broken. Complex.

But also the guy giving me tiny tastes of dinner like a flirt and kissing me after every bite like I was some sort of reward.

God help me—I was falling for the unlikeliest man in the unlikeliest way.

"Don’t look at me like that," he said without turning.

"Like what?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"Like I just did something cute."

I grinned. "You did."

He gave me a look over his shoulder that was all smirk and dark eyes. "If I kiss you again, you’ll be dessert before dinner. Sit still."

Jesus. Christ.

I might not survive the meal.

The way he slipped into the perfect boyfriend role so effortlessly was both impressive and—let’s be honest—a little terrifying.

He was wearing my apron, barefoot in my kitchen, sautéing vegetables like some culinary god, lips curling up every time I caught him sneaking glances at me perched on the counter like some lovesick idiot. Like... who was this man?

And why the hell hadn’t I dated him sooner?

Scratch that. Why hadn’t I jumped him sooner?

He’d already outdone every boyfriend I’d ever had, and it was only day one. Day. Freaking. One. Of being "real."

The way he took care of me in the afternoon. The way he massaged my legs and held me like I was fragile and made food like it was his love language. It felt so... safe. But also wild, unpredictable, and kind of dangerous—in the exact way that made my heart do backflips.

Still, I couldn’t stop the thought from sneaking in: Has he ever done this before?

I mean, you don’t just become this good unless you’ve been somebody’s boyfriend before. Maybe multiple somebodies.

And that thought?

That thought didn’t sit well with me.

Not because I expected to be the only girl he’s ever dated—I wasn’t delusional—but because there was something painfully intimate about this side of Justin. Something I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone else to have seen before me.

I wanted to believe that this softness, this effort, this damn apron moment was mine. That it hadn’t belonged to some girl before me.

Jealousy was such a stupid emotion, but fuck if it didn’t crawl up my spine like a hot itch.

Still, watching him—completely focused, so in his element—I knew one thing for certain:

God, I hoped he could hold on to this version of himself.

The version that cooked dinner and made me moan with just a taste.

The version that made my heart skip for reasons that had nothing to do with lust.

Because if he could—if he could stay like this—maybe this thing between us wouldn’t just work.

Maybe it would become the kind of story that starts with chaos and ends with something worth writing books about.

****

After he finished cooking—like, actually finished, not halfway distracted like earlier—he turned off the stove, covered the lid like some kind of chef’s kiss finale, and then... oh lord.

He turned to me with that look.

You know the one. The "I’ve waited long enough, and now I’m going to devour you" look.

His steps were slow but deliberate, and my breath hitched the moment he got close. He slipped between my legs again, like he belonged there (and honestly, he kinda did), his hands bracing on either side of me, planted firmly on the counter. Effectively locking me in.

I should have been annoyed at how easily he always managed to trap me, but instead I felt heat pulse between my thighs. This man. This complicated, maddening man.

"So..." he murmured, leaning in, his voice low and rough, brushing my cheek with his breath, "where did we leave off?"

His lips hovered, barely touching mine. Just enough to send my entire nervous system into chaos.

"Right..." I breathed, hands instinctively curling around the collar of his shirt, "around the part where you made me forget my own name."

He chuckled—deep and husky—before tilting his head, brushing the tip of his nose against mine. "Then we better pick up from there."

And when his lips finally crashed into mine, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was hungry.

Like the man had cooked a whole meal but decided I was the main course after all.

His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming, tasting, owning. I moaned into him, legs tightening around his waist like they had a mind of their own. His fingers slid up my sides, under the shirt I was wearing—under the hoodie—and I arched into his touch without a single ounce of shame.

Because when Justin kissed me like that, when he touched me like he was starved and I was the only thing on the menu, I forgot everything.

The conditions. The questions. The mental tornado we both carried.

Right now, there was only this.

Only him.

Only us.

I don’t even know how it happened.

One second, we were kissing like our lives depended on it—his mouth owning mine, hands cupping my jaw like I was something fragile and burning at the same time. And the next? I blinked, felt the cool air graze my skin, and—

What. The. Hell.

My t-shirt was gone. My hoodie was unzipped. I was sitting on the counter in just my bra, his palms roaming the newly exposed skin like he’d earned this access.

"Damn," I muttered, more to myself than him, cheeks flushed but... okay, not stopping him either. I mean, I could have stopped him. If I wanted to. But did I? Nope.

He pulled back just a little, eyes dragging over my chest with a reverence that sent a ridiculous thrill shooting through me.

"Didn’t hear you complaining," he said, voice low, rough, dangerous in all the right ways.

"That’s because I didn’t have time to complain," I shot back breathlessly, though my arms snuck around his neck again and my legs tightened around his waist like a reflex.

He smirked. Oh, that infuriating, maddening smirk that made me want to slap him and kiss him at the same damn time.

"Well," he said, brushing his lips just below my ear, "take all the time you need now, sweetheart."

God help me—I didn’t want time. I wanted him.

He leaned in again, slower this time. His lips dragged over my jaw, then down the length of my neck — open-mouthed kisses, each one laced with heat and promise. His breath was warm, his stubble scratching gently across my skin as his hands roamed lower, bolder now, confidently investing in the one thing my body was already offering up: my tits.

"Fuck," I gasped, already writhing beneath him, my thighs pressing together uselessly, my core aching like I hadn’t been touched in years. I’m moaning like a goddamn whore.

He didn’t stop — not even close. In fact, the corner of his mouth curved up against my skin, satisfied and knowing, like he liked hearing me lose composure over him.

Because here’s the truth: it’s a whole other fucking experience when you’re doing it with a guy you actually, really, really like.

And fuck... I really, really like Justin.

It was different with him. I’d had heat before—lust, passion, whatever. But this? This was the kind of intimacy that made your brain short-circuit because it wasn’t just physical. I liked Justin. Liked him way too much. And that made every touch, every kiss, every teasing brush of his fingers so much more intense.

He slid the cups of my bra down with a kind of reverence that made my lungs forget how to work — one slow tug that bared me completely, my breasts spilling out and practically begging for attention. He didn’t leave them wanting.

His mouth claimed one instantly — lips wrapping around my nipple, tongue flicking and swirling, sucking in rhythmic pulls while his hand claimed the other. His thumb brushed over it again and again, until it was stiff and throbbing under his touch. Then his fingers came into play — squeezing, rolling, pinching gently. The way he multitasked had no business being that hot.

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