Chapter 4
4
Present day…
T he smell of bacon pulled me from my sleep, curling into my senses, coaxing me awake before I was ready. Which was strange, because I knew for a fact I hadn’t gone grocery shopping. My fridge was damn near empty except for a few sad condiments and a bottle of wine I’d been meaning to finish.
I stretched beneath the sheets, rolling onto my back, the warmth of the covers doing little to stop the sudden awareness crawling over my skin. I was alone in my bed, but I wasn’t alone in my space.
The distant sizzle of bacon, the rhythmic scrape of a spatula against a pan, the murmur of Sade’s voice floating from my speakers—someone was in my kitchen.
Amir. He’d been here for only a couple of days, avoiding doing anything to break the rules I set, and yet somehow, it felt like he was everywhere at all times. His presence pressed into my heart like he belonged there, and he probably did, but neither of us allowed it to become a reality. Me, because I was afraid he would hurt me, and him, probably because I wasn’t exactly his type.
Sighing, I pushed back the covers, slid on my glasses, and made my way toward the doorway, my sleep tee slipping against my skin, my shorts barely brushing the tops of my thighs. I should have thrown on something else, but this was my damn house. If he was making himself comfortable, I wasn’t about to change for him.
Except—maybe I should have.
Because the second I stepped into the hallway, the scent of rich maple syrup, buttery pancakes, and sizzling bacon wrapped around me like a slow seduction. Then I turned the corner, and my breath hitched.
He stood at the stove, shirtless, broad back flexing as he flipped a pancake onto a plate. Low-hanging gray sweats, a gold chain resting on his chest, beard still slightly unkempt from sleep. The morning light filtered through the windows, catching on the deep brown of his skin, highlighting the ridges of muscle in his back, the cut of his arms, the dip where his sweatpants sat too low on his hips.
I was fucked, but not the way I wanted to be.
My nipples tightened against my shirt, my thighs pressed together, my stomach dipped low and needy. This man had no business looking so damn good in my kitchen, smelling like he belonged there.
I cleared my throat.
His head tilted slightly at the sound, just enough for me to catch the slow, lazy smirk pulling at his lips.
"Morning, sunshine," he said, voice thick from sleep.
I wrapped my arms around myself, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to look too affected. "You cooked?"
"Mmhmm," he murmured, flipping another pancake. "Go ahead and sit. Coffee’s hot."
I blinked, glancing at the plate he’d already set out for me. The table was actually set. The food looked perfect. I hesitated, feeling that twist of guilt in my chest.
"I should’ve gone grocery shopping," I muttered, stepping into the kitchen. "I’ve just been?—"
He turned, cutting me off gently. "Busy. I know. That’s why I did it. Ain’t a big deal."
I frowned, biting the inside of my cheek. "Still. You didn’t have to do all this."
He stepped closer, placing the last pancake on the plate before me. His fingers brushed mine, warm and steady. "I wanted to. I’m grateful, Amaya. For you. For letting me stay here, for real."
I looked down at the plate, then back up at him, something soft and unexpected blooming in my chest.
"Okay," I whispered, voice barely audible.
"Now sit. Eat. Let me do this for you."
So I did.
I sank onto the stool at the counter, still eyeing him as I picked up my fork. He sat across from me, finally pouring himself some coffee.
"You know our moms would be smug as hell if they saw this right now," I said, trying to keep the mood light.
Amir chuckled. "Beverly probably already knows. My mom too. They’ve been plotting since we were what—ten?"
I laughed softly, but it barely covered the way my stomach fluttered. A memory rose from the back of my mind—faded but vivid enough to still pull at me. I’d overheard my mom once, telling his that we were going to make them family one day. Back then, I’d rolled my eyes. But now, with him sitting across from me, barefoot and shirtless in my kitchen, that memory pressed in close.
I looked down quickly, biting my lip, trying to focus on my plate.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice softer now.
I blinked, forcing a small smile. "Nothing. Just hungry."
He didn’t push. Just nodded slowly and turned his attention back to his plate.
The pancake was warm, buttery, the syrup rich and thick, melting across my tongue in a way that made me moan low in my throat. I took another slow bite, savoring the sweetness, my body sinking into the warmth of the moment.
"Damn, Amaya," he muttered. "At least let me take you out to dinner first."
My eyes snapped open to find him watching me, smirk in full effect, dark gaze heavy on my lips.
I pointed my fork at him. "Shut up."
He chuckled, sipping his coffee, and for a moment, it felt like old times.
But there was something else in the air now—something thick and unspoken.
That night, we’d sat on the couch watching The Photograph, the glow from the TV casting soft shadows across his face. I hadn’t thought anything of it when I suggested the movie, but then that scene happened—the storm raging outside, Mae riding Michael slow, deep, eyes locked as their bodies moved in sync.
I felt it then. The weight of Amir’s presence beside me. The clench of my thighs, the way my breath shallowed, the way my nipples pebbled against my camisole.
I wondered if he was thinking about it too. If he imagined me like that, sinking down onto him, slow and deep, taking my time.
But when the credits rolled, he got up. No reaction. No tension. Just a simple, "I’m going to bed."
I had never been more frustrated in my life.
That night, I slipped my hand beneath the sheets, my fingers finding the slick heat between my thighs. I was already drenched just from thinking about him.
The first slide of my fingers over my clit made my whole body jerk, my breath stuttering as I spread myself wider, my other hand gripping the sheets.
I was so wet, the sound of my slickness loud in the quiet of my room, obscene and needy.
I imagined him watching me, those dark brown eyes hooded with lust, his lips parted as he took in the mess I was making of myself.
His voice, low and thick, whispering, "Damn, baby. Look at you. So messy for me. Let me taste it. Let me ruin you."
I came hard, my body arching off the bed, my fingers plunging deep inside of my pussy as my hips rocked, fucking myself through the waves of pleasure that crashed over me.
My breath caught, legs trembling, thighs slick, my pussy clenching around the emptiness that only he could fill.
But it wasn’t enough.
I needed him and that realization fucked me up.
The next morning, I acted like nothing happened. And maybe I would’ve kept it together, if not for the way Amir looked at me. Like he knew. Like he had heard me. Like he had laid awake all night, fist wrapped around his dick, listening to me fall apart without him.