Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 99: Kitchen Romance (ii)

June POV:

Every nerve ending screamed. My back arched off the counter like my body was trying to chase his mouth. My head fell back, a moan slipping past my lips so loud it bordered on sinful.

He slid my bra down, exposing me to the cool air and his hungry gaze. My breath caught. He didn’t waste a second—his mouth covered one breast, tongue and lips working with a focused hunger, while his hand paid attention to the other, fingers curling and teasing, thumbing over my nipple like he knew exactly what it did to me.

"Justin..." I whispered—more of a plea than anything else.

He responded with a slow tug of his mouth, pulling at my nipple just enough to make my toes curl.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t falter.

He switched sides, because apparently my boobs had to take turns, and no one was allowed to feel left out. My nipple was captured in his mouth again, only this time he gave it a gentle tug with his tongue while his hand teased the other side — squeezing, circling, twisting.

I saw stars.

Literal. Fucking. Stars.

"Oh my God," I moaned, hips rolling up into his body, hands clawing at his shoulders. "I think I’m gonna die—"

Then it happened.

A deep, growling betrayal.

My stomach rumbled.

Loud.

Like a freaking monster waking up in a cave.

And everything — everything — stopped.

Justin pulled back, eyes wide in amusement as he glanced down at me, still half-naked and breathless, with my tits out and my legs tangled around him like some needy sex demon. His lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed, and he looked like he was one nipple-suck away from ruining my soul.

But instead...

He smirked. "Your stomach just cockblocked me."

I stared up at him, absolutely horrified. "No it didn’t. Ignore it. I don’t need food. I need you. Keep going."

But he was already shaking his head like some responsible, frustrating, too-sexy-for-his-own-good man. He tugged my bra back up — which felt like a war crime — and kissed my forehead.

"You need to eat first."

"Fucking great," I muttered, flopping back dramatically onto the counter like I’d been fatally wounded. My entire body was buzzing, on edge, soaked. My clit was screaming. My nipples were throbbing. My soul was halfway to Nirvana. And this man... this sadist... wanted me to eat.

I was too far gone to form actual words, so I just groaned and threw a pillow over my face like it could shield me from the reality of being cockblocked by my own digestive system.

Justin laughed. Laughed.

He leaned down, gave me a quick kiss on the lips — just enough to tease, to remind me what I wasn’t getting yet — and stood.

I peeked out from between my fingers.

He was already at the cooker, his broad back turned, shirt wrinkled from our counter assault, sleeves pushed up as he started to plate food like we hadn’t just been on the verge of a religious experience.

"Stupid stomach," I grumbled under my breath.

But even as I said it, I couldn’t help the stupid grin that tugged at the corners of my mouth. Because yeah, I was horny as hell, and yeah, I wanted him to absolutely wreck me — but I also loved this. Him. The way he took his time. The way he laughed at me. The way he didn’t just want to fuck me; he wanted to take care of me.

Which, somehow, made me want him even more.

My stomach growled again, this time almost smug, like it knew it had won.

I flipped it off.

"Just so you know," I called out to him, voice still breathless. "You owe me a nipple encore after this."

He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "Baby, I plan to pay you back with interest."

Justin POV;

I’ve always wanted to cook for my girlfriend while she sat on the kitchen counter, stealing bites, teasing me, maybe wearing one of my shirts and smiling like she belonged here.

I just never thought I’d actually get the chance.

Hell, I’ve never even gotten close enough to a girl to know what kind of food she liked—let alone be around long enough to make her breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Most of them were distractions. Flings. Nothing past the high. Fuck them and forget them. That was the pattern. That was what worked.

But June... she wasn’t just breaking the pattern.

She was wrecking the whole damn system.

June was my first. In more ways than I could admit without sounding pathetic.

After I finished cooking, I couldn’t help walking back to her—drawn in like gravity. Fuck, she tasted like fine wine, something aged and dangerous and addicting. And her boobs—hell, I was obsessed. Those perfect peaks teased me like they had a damn mission. I don’t know how far I would’ve gone if it weren’t for her stomach pulling the ultimate cockblock.

Growl.

She’d gone completely limp in my arms, and then that sound echoed through the room like a damn siren. She looked embarrassed. I looked amused.

So yeah—I pulled back. Even if she was giving me those eyes. The "why the hell are you stopping now" eyes. But I had to feed her. Girl needed energy if she was going to keep surviving me.

I left her on the counter, chest still bare, hair wild, lips kiss-swollen, and in just her sweatpants. I should’ve taken those off too, honestly. But... next time.

She fixed her bra back up, glaring at me like I’d just robbed her of a winning lottery ticket, but she didn’t bother putting on her hoodie or shirt again. And god—she was so fucking hot like that. Messy and half-dressed and entirely mine.

Decent enough to eat beside. Dangerous enough to make me want to skip dinner entirely.

So, I started serving the food, pretending I wasn’t burning with want. Because she’d said yes to me. And now I had to prove I could be the kind of guy she deserved—even if it killed me to take things slow.

But still, I caught myself glancing at her every other second.

And yeah—she caught me looking.

And she smiled.

She didn’t move from the counter. Just sat there swinging her legs like the half-dressed, smug little brat she was. Hair messy, bra back on but barely, eyes heavy-lidded with mischief. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying to get me to toss the plate and devour her instead.

But nah—not this time.

I grabbed a fork, scooped a bit of the food, and walked over to her. "Open," I said.

She raised an eyebrow, but opened her mouth anyway. The moment her lips closed around the fork, her eyes fluttered slightly—fuck, it was not fair how erotic she could make something as innocent as eating look.

"Mmm," she said, chewing. "Not bad, Chef Psycho."

I rolled my eyes. "Careful. Insult the chef again and you’ll be eating cereal for dinner."

She grinned. "I like cereal."

I smirked, scooped another bite, and fed it to her. This time, I didn’t pull the fork away immediately—kept it there just a moment longer than necessary, watching her lips, watching her tongue sneak out and lick a bit of sauce that escaped. Gods help me.

"You’re enjoying this too much," she teased.

"You’re sitting half-naked on my counter," I said, setting the fork down. "You think I’m not suffering?"

She shrugged innocently, then licked a bit of sauce from her thumb, slowly. Deliberately. Like she didn’t want me to survive the night.

"I could put a shirt on," she offered, the absolute liar.

I stepped between her legs, hands settling on her thighs. "Don’t you dare."

She let out a laugh, low and breathy. I picked up another bite and held it up again.

"You’re hand-feeding me now?" she asked with a smirk.

"I told you I always wanted to cook for my girlfriend," I said, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Might as well do it right."

That shut her up.

She looked at me—really looked—like she was trying to decide if I was real. If this was real. And I understood. Hell, I was asking myself the same thing.

She opened her mouth again, and I fed her in silence this time. No teasing. Just her, me, and the quiet intimacy of something we hadn’t allowed ourselves to feel before.

"Don’t fall in love with me, Chef Psycho," she whispered, licking her lips.

"Too late," I muttered under my breath.

But I don’t think she heard me.

Or maybe... she did.

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