Under My Sister's Roof

The Kitchen

The next morning I stayed in bed longer than usual, listening.

The house had its own particular quiet in the early hours, a thin, careful silence that still carried the residue of the night before. I lay on my side facing the door, sheets kicked down to my waist, and tracked every small sound that reached me through the walls.

Vanessa’s alarm went off at the usual time, sharp, digital, and brief. Drawers opened in the master bedroom. Water ran in the master bathroom, then stopped. Their voices moved back and forth in low morning tones for a few minutes, the cadence of two people who had shared a bed and a life long enough that most of the words were unnecessary. Then the front door closed with its familiar soft thud, followed by the sound of her car starting and leaving the driveway. The engine faded until there was nothing left of it.

I waited through another stretch of quiet, ears tuned for any remaining movement downstairs. A floorboard. The study door. Footsteps. When none came, I assumed Liam had either left early or was already closed inside the study with the door shut.

I still did not go down immediately.

I gave it another twenty minutes until the silence in the house felt complete, until the air itself seemed to settle and the only thing left was the faint tick of the cooling pipes and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Only then did I push the covers back and stand.

The nightclothes I chose were deliberate this time.

A thin white crop top that stopped just under my breasts, soft enough that the outlines of my nipples showed clearly against the fabric the moment the cool air touched them, and a pair of tiny black sleep shorts that rode high on my ass and barely covered anything when I moved. No bra. No underwear. The kind of outfit that left almost nothing to the imagination if someone looked for more than a second. I stood in front of the mirror, turned slightly, and watched the way the shorts clung to the curve of my hips and the bottom of my cheeks. A slow, private smile pulled at my mouth.

I was finished pretending I didn’t want him to see.

I had spent the last two days upstairs telling myself space was the mature choice, that the interview rejection was reason enough to withdraw. But the truth sat heavier and hotter than any disappointment about a job. I wanted his eyes on me. I wanted the moment he realized looking was no longer safe.

I opened my door carefully and listened again. Nothing. I walked down the hallway barefoot and descended the stairs, the cool air kissing the bare skin of my stomach and the undersides of my breasts. Each step made the shorts shift higher. By the time I reached the bottom I could feel the fabric drawn tight between my thighs.

The kitchen was still and sunlit. Morning light poured through the wide windows and laid itself across the island and the polished floor in long, clean rectangles. I opened a high cabinet for a glass, stretching up onto my toes, back arched, the crop top riding even higher until the undersides of my breasts were fully exposed and the shorts pulled tight between my thighs. I stayed like that longer than necessary, reaching, knowing exactly how I looked from behind, the long line of my spine, the deep curve of my lower back, the way the tiny shorts had crept up to leave the lower half of my ass bare.

That was when I heard his footsteps.

I didn’t drop down immediately.

Liam appeared in the doorway and stopped dead.

For a long second there was only silence. I could feel his eyes on me, on the arched line of my back, the bare strip of waist, the way the tiny shorts had ridden up to show the lower curve of my ass, the side view of my breast where the crop top had lifted. Heat gathered under my skin. I finally lowered onto flat feet and turned, glass in hand, making no effort to tug anything down.

His gaze dropped, dragged slowly over my chest, the hard points of my nipples clearly visible through the thin white fabric, the smooth bare skin of my stomach, the indecently short shorts. Heat flared open and raw across his face before he forced it under control. His throat worked. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“I went to your room,” he said. His voice came out rougher than usual. “Door was open. Bed empty. Heard something down here.”

“Just getting a glass.” I kept my tone light, almost sweet, and set the glass on the counter. “I thought the house was empty.”

“Vanessa’s gone. I pushed my first meeting.” He stayed in the doorway like the threshold was the only thing keeping him safe. His eyes kept slipping, down to my breasts, lower, then jerking back up with visible effort. “You’ve been scarce.”

“I know.” I leaned both palms on the island behind me, a posture that pushed my chest forward. The crop top stretched tighter across my nipples. “That’s on me.”

He didn’t move closer. The air between us felt thick, charged, almost heavy enough to touch. I watched the struggle on his face and felt a dark, pleased thrill uncoil in my stomach. He had seen everything. He was still seeing it. And he was fighting himself so hard that a faint sheen of sweat had already appeared at his temple.

“I’m sorry about the last couple of days,” I said, softer. “Skipping dinner. Staying upstairs. I needed space after the interview and handled it badly.”

“Vanessa thought it was only the rejection.”

“I let her think that.” I shifted my weight, one hip cocked, knowing exactly how the movement made the shorts ride higher until the soft inner curve of one cheek was fully visible. “There isn’t a crisis. No spiral. Just a few quiet days. That’s the whole story.”

His eyes dropped again, traitorous, hungry, for a full second longer than he meant to. When he dragged them back up, his expression was tight, the line of his mouth hard.

“You don’t have to disappear to take space,” he said. “It makes her worry more.”

“I know. That’s why I’m apologizing.”

“Accepted.”

An awkward silence stretched. He looked like he wanted to turn around and leave. Instead he forced himself toward the coffee maker, giving me a wide berth. I watched the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his trousers had started to tent in front, thick, unmistakable, growing heavier the longer he stayed in the same room as me. The fabric strained over the heavy shape of him, and every time his gaze flickered back to my body the bulge thickened further.

I decided not to make it easy for him.

I moved to the same side of the kitchen, reaching past him for the coffee filters on the higher shelf even though I didn’t need them. My body brushed his. My bare midriff and the soft underside of my breast dragged slowly across his arm as I stretched. The thin fabric of the crop top did nothing to mute the contact; my nipple grazed the hard muscle of his bicep and stayed there a fraction longer than accident would have allowed. I kept my eyes on his face the entire time, lids lowered, mouth slightly parted, letting him see exactly how deliberate the contact was.

He went completely still.

I did it again on the way back down, chest dragging along his bicep, nipple grazing him through the thin fabric, eyes locked on his. A low, almost inaudible sound left his throat. The bulge in his trousers jumped visibly, the outline of his cock now thick and full, pressing hard against the front of his pants.

“Janine.” My name came out strained, rough enough that it scraped.

“Hmm?”

He stepped back hard, putting clear space between us, one hand braced on the counter like he needed the support. Sweat had beaded along his hairline and at the base of his throat. His cock was fully hard now, thick and obvious against the front of his trousers, the shape of it impossible to hide. The head of it strained upward, a dark flush visible even through the fabric.

“Just… pass,” he said, voice rough. “Please.”

I smiled, slow and knowing, and finally stepped around him without touching this time. The victory sat warm and electric under my skin, spreading low in my belly and between my legs.

He didn’t stay. He abandoned the coffee entirely, muttered something about needing to get to the site early, and left the kitchen with controlled, too-careful steps. I heard the study door, then the front door a few minutes later. The house went quiet.

I stood alone at the island, pulse throbbing between my legs, and let the full thrill of it wash through me.

He had looked.

He had gotten hard.

He had sweated and flinched and fled because of what I was wearing and the way I had deliberately brushed my tits against him.

I pressed my thighs together and felt how wet I already was, slick and warm, the tiny shorts damp where they pressed against me. The memory of his eyes dragging over my body, the way his cock had thickened in real time, the strained sound he made when my nipple dragged across his arm, all of it replayed in high definition. I could still feel the heat of his arm under my breast, the rigid tension in his body when I touched him a second time.

I didn’t go upstairs immediately. I stayed in the kitchen a little longer, sipping cold water, replaying every second of his loss of control. The way his throat had worked when he first saw me stretched up on my toes. The muscle jumping in his jaw. The heavy, unmistakable shape of him straining against his trousers. The almost broken sound of my name.

I smiled to myself like a woman who had just confirmed something very important.

He wanted me.

He was fighting it.

And I was done making it easy for him to win that fight.