Chapter 2
Later that evening, the safe house smelled incredible.
I walked into the kitchen and stopped short.
Layla was standing at the stove, wearing a simple apron tied around her waist over a soft tank top and shorts.
Her hair was up in a messy bun, a few strands falling around her face, and she was humming quietly as she stirred something on the stove.
The apron hugged her curves, and the way it accentuated her waist and hips made her look both incredibly domestic and undeniably sexy.
She glanced over her shoulder when she heard me, giving me a shy but warm smile. “Hey. I thought I’d make dinner. Nothing fancy, just pasta and sauce. Figured we should start acting like a normal married couple… you know, in case anyone’s watching.”
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her move around the kitchen. She looked so natural — barefoot, apron on, cooking for us. Like she belonged here. Like she was really my wife.
“Smells good,” I said, my voice a little rougher than I intended. I walked over and stopped behind her, close enough that my chest brushed her back as I reached around to grab a glass from the cabinet. “You look good too, Layla.”
She blushed, stirring the sauce a little faster. “It’s just an apron…”
I stayed right there, my hand resting lightly on her hip as I watched her cook. The domestic scene felt too real. Too tempting. I could smell her shampoo mixed with the garlic and herbs from the stove.
She leaned back slightly into me, almost unconsciously, as she tasted the sauce. “Do you want to try it?”
I took the spoon from her, tasting it while keeping one hand on her waist. “Perfect,” I murmured, my lips close to her ear.
Layla shivered slightly but kept stirring, her voice soft. “We’re doing okay so far…right?”
I squeezed her hip gently. “We’re doing better than okay, sweetheart.”
The tension in the small kitchen was thick. She looked so fucking domestic and sexy at the same time — my shy little stepsister playing the role of my wife, cooking dinner for us in our safe house like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And I was already thinking about what would happen after dinner.
We sat down at the small kitchen table with plates of pasta. The domestic scene felt almost too perfect — Layla across from me, the apron still tied around her waist, a candle she’d found in one of the drawers flickering between us. She looked shy but happy as she twirled her fork in the pasta.
“This is nice,” she said softly, glancing up at me. “Feels… normal.”
I watched her for a moment, then reached across the table and brushed my thumb over her lower lip, wiping away a small bit of sauce. I brought my thumb to my mouth and licked it off slowly, holding her gaze.
“It does,” I said, my voice lower. “You look good like this, Layla. Cooking for your husband. Wearing that little apron.”
Her cheeks flushed instantly. She was still shy, but I saw the way her thighs pressed together under the table. I got bolder, sliding my foot along her calf under the table as we ate.
“You’re blushing,” I murmured, smirking. “Does it turn you on when I call myself your husband?”
Layla bit her lip, nodding slightly. “A little,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
I leaned back in my chair, watching her eat, my foot still teasing her leg. “Good. Because we’re going to have to sell this. And I like the way you look when you’re playing my wife.”
The rest of dinner was charged with that new energy.
I kept finding excuses to touch her — feeding her a bite from my fork, brushing her hair back when it fell in her face, letting my hand rest on her thigh under the table.
Every touch was bolder than the last, and Layla responded with shy little smiles and soft breaths, her shyness only making it hotter.
By the time we finished eating, the air between us was thick. She stood up to clear the plates, and I pulled her into my lap for a moment, my hand sliding up her thigh under the apron.
“You’re doing such a good job pretending to be mine, sweetheart,” I murmured against her ear. “But we both know it’s not all pretend, is it?”
Layla shivered in my lap, her hand resting on my chest.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not.”