Page 81 of Beautiful Sin
“It’s fancy ramen!” I blurted, still not turning around, as if keeping my back to him might somehow render me invisible. “With eggs and ham and stuff. Not just the twenty-five-cent kind.”
As if the quality of my ramen was the issue here. As if he gave two shits about my culinary innovations with instant noodles when I was literally wearing his clothes without permission.
I heard him move closer, each step making the golden warmth in my chest pulse stronger. Then I felt it—the heat of his body directly behind mine, not quite touching but close enough that the air between us seemed charged with electricity.
“I wasn’t talking about the ramen.” His voice dropped lower, sending vibrations straight down my spine. His hands came to rest on the counter on either side of me, effectively caging me in without actually touching me. “Though that does look… interesting.”
I was trapped between Jaxson’s body and the kitchen counter, my brain rapidly cycling through flight-or-fight responses before landing on a third, much more inconvenient option: horny paralysis. My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it, blood rushing in my ears like I’d stuck my head under Niagara Falls.
“I can explain the shirt,” I said, my voice higher than usual, words coming out faster than Nico’s gaming reflexes. “I was just—it was right there—and my clothes were all—and I didn’t think you’d mind—which I now realize was incredibly stupid of me—but I’ll wash it—dry clean it—whatever expensive fabric care ritual it requires?—”
“Lan.” My name on his lips stopped my verbal diarrhea mid-flow. “Breathe.”
I inhaled shakily, suddenly aware I’d been talking without oxygen. The warmth in my chest wasn’t just internal panic—it was that strange heat that always flared when Jaxson was near, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
“I don’t mind,” he said, his voice closer now, directly beside my ear. I could feel his breath against my neck, raisinggoosebumps across my skin. “Though I am curious what inspired this particular… fashion choice.”
Fuck. How exactly do I explain that I’d been sniffing his shirts like some lovesick pervert? That I’d fallen asleep in his bed because his scent made something in my chest settle like nothing else could? That’d I’d kept wearing the shirt because taking it off felt like breaking a connection I desperately wanted to maintain?
“I spilled something on my shirt,” I lied, with all the conviction of Nico claiming he hadn’t eaten the last cookie. “And yours was… closer than mine.”
“Closer,” he repeated, and I could hear the smile in his voice even without seeing his face. “My closet was closer than yours?”
“It’s a walk-in closet!” I protested, finally turning to face him, which was a tactical error of catastrophic proportions.
Jaxson in his work clothes was a sight that should come with a warning label. The tailored suit jacket emphasized his broad shoulders, the crisp white shirt contrasted with his tanned skin, and his loosened tie suggested a dishevelment that somehow only made him more attractive. His amber-hazel eyes were dark, pupils dilated, tracking my movements with predatory intensity.
“A walk-in closet,” he repeated, his gaze dropping deliberately to where his shirt slipped off my shoulder. “That somehow resulted in you wearing this.”
The way he looked at me—like I was something precious and desired—made my stomach flip like an Olympic gymnast with a death wish. That strange warmth in my chest intensified, spreading through my limbs like liquid sunshine.
“I was going to change before anyone got home,” I said, clutching the wooden spoon like it might save me from drowning in this sea of my own bad decisions. “But then I got hungry, and the ramen was right there, and one thing led to another…”
“One thing led to another,” he echoed, lips curving into a smile that made my knees weak. “And now you’re cooking in the kitchen, wearing my shirt, looking very… domestic.”
The word hung between us, loaded with implications that made my pulse skyrocket. I swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. “I’m not—I mean, it’s not like I’m playing house or something. I was just hungry.”
His smile widened, turning slightly predatory in a way that should have scared me but instead sent heat pooling low in my belly. “Playing house,” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue like he was tasting them. “Is that what this is?”
“No!” I protested, feeling my face heat to approximately the temperature of the sun. “It’s just ramen!”
“In my shirt.”
“In your shirt,” I conceded, waving the spoon for emphasis and accidentally flinging droplets of broth across the counter. “Which I will clean and return and never touch again, I swear.”
“That would be a shame,” Jaxson murmured, reaching out to adjust the collar of the shirt, his fingers deliberately brushing against my collarbone in the process. The contact sent electricity shooting through me, the golden warmth in my chest flaring brighter. “It looks better on you.”
My brain short-circuited completely at the compliment, unable to process that Jaxson—perfect, responsible, gorgeous Jaxson—thought anything looked better on me than him. “I—you—what—that’s not—I mean?—”
Eloquence had clearly decided to take a vacation to a galaxy far, far away.
His lips curved into a smile that could only be described as devastating. “You know,” he said, voice dropping lower, “if we were playing house, there would be certain… traditions to observe.”
“Traditions?” I repeated stupidly, my brain cells waving little white flags of surrender.
“Mmm.” His fingers moved from the shirt collar to my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “For instance, when someone comes home after a long day of work, there’s usually a greeting.”
My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was surprised they didn’t crack. “A greeting,” I echoed, voice embarrassingly breathless.
