Drive me Wild, Rival(BL) Chapter 49: Dangerously Domestic

Nico

"And this is my kitchen," Alaric muttered through a tired yawn as he led farther into the penthouse.

The kitchen looked exactly the way I imagined Alaric De Villier’s kitchen would look.

Elegant. Expensive. Painfully organized.

Dark marble countertops stretched beneath warm golden lighting while sleek black cabinets lined the walls with almost obsessive neatness.

The massive kitchen island at the center looked untouched, like nobody had properly cooked there in weeks. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Monaco’s skyline, allowing pale afternoon sunlight to spill softly across the polished surfaces while the silver appliances glead beneath the light.

The entire room looked beautiful in a cold, intimidating sort of way.

It barely looked lived in at all.

Alaric pointed lazily toward one of the drawers beside the counter.

"The utensils are there," he explained sleepily before motioning toward another cabinet. "The plates are over there, and the spices should be sowhere on the left side."

I barely listened to anything he was saying.

Instead, I found myself staring at him quietly.

His blond hair was ssy from sleep, strands falling carelessly into his eyes while the oversized black shirt hanging loosely against his fra exposed part of his collarbone every ti he moved. He looked exhausted, irritated, and half-awake, but sohow that only made him more distracting.

Honestly, his sleepy face was far more interesting than whatever instructions he was trying to give .

A faint smile almost pulled at my mouth before I looked away.

I was just glad to see him again.

Glad to stand inside his ho while he wandered around beside looking sleepy and comfortable like this was normal.

And strangely enough, that realization tightened sothing inside my chest.

Not painfully.

The feeling was warm and pleasant.

For a brief mont, I simply watched him while that strange warmth settled deeper inside , and I realized this had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to fuck him anymore.

This was different.

It felt quieter than lust but sohow far more dangerous. Like seeing soone after missing them longer than you wanted to admit. Like the simple act of standing beside them suddenly becoming enough to make your chest feel too tight.

I hated it imdiately.

There was no way in hell I was allowing myself to fall into sothing like that with Alaric De Villier.

Or with anyone.

Feelings complicated everything, and my life was already ssy enough without adding emotional attachnt into it.

So I shoved the thought aside before it could settle any deeper.

Once Alaric finished showing around the kitchen, he stretched his arms lazily above his head before turning toward the entrance.

"Aren’t you going to ask what I’m about to make for you?" I asked while unpacking the groceries onto the counter.

He barely looked back at .

"I do not care," he replied with another yawn. "Just do not burn down my kitchen. I am going back to sleep, so do whatever you want."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"You are seriously going back to sleep while I cook for you?"

"Yes."

"That is unbelievably rude."

Alaric shrugged carelessly before starting to walk away.

"You invited yourself into my penthouse. I never asked you to cook for ."

Then he disappeared down the hallway before I could answer him properly.

I chuckled quietly to myself while opening one of Alaric’s cabinets in search of an apron.

Surprisingly, he actually owned one, although I should not have been shocked considering how obsessively organized everything inside this penthouse looked.

Of course the apron was black.

Everything inside this place looked expensive, polished, and painfully perfect, almost like nobody truly lived here long enough to make a ss of it.

I slipped the apron over my clothes before walking toward the sink to wash my hands properly.

Warm water ran across my skin while soft afternoon sunlight spilled through the massive windows behind , reflecting against the marble countertops and sleek silver appliances.

The kitchen was silent except for the sound of running water and the distant noise of Monaco sowhere far below the penthouse.

For a brief mont, the entire room felt strangely peaceful.

Then I shook the thought away and focused on unpacking the groceries across the kitchen island instead.

Since Alaric clearly had not gone grocery shopping in weeks, I bought almost everything myself on the way here. Fresh herbs, garlic, butter, cream, parsan cheese, cherry tomatoes, lemons, mushrooms, spinach, potatoes, and fresh pasta from a small Italian store near the harbor that one of my engineers once recomnded to after a race weekend.

I decided to make creamy parsan pasta with garlic butter steak, roasted potatoes, and sautéed vegetables.

Sophia had told that it was one of his favorite al.

I started with the potatoes first because they would take the longest.

After rinsing them carefully beneath cold water, I chopped them into smaller pieces before tossing them into a bowl with olive oil, garlic, rosemary, paprika, black pepper, and sea salt. The scent of fresh rosemary imdiately rose into the air while I mixed everything together thoroughly with my hands before spreading the potatoes evenly across a tray.

Once they slid into the oven, warmth slowly began filling the kitchen.

Next ca the steak.

I seasoned both cuts generously with salt, cracked black pepper, garlic powder, and lted butter before leaving them aside to rest while I prepared everything else properly. I knew exactly how I wanted them cooked already.

Perfect dium rare.

Anything more than that deserved prison ti.

By then, almost twenty minutes had already passed.

I moved around the kitchen more comfortably afterward, boiling water for the pasta while chopping garlic, onions, spinach, mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes for the vegetables. Soft music from my phone played quietly in the background while the sll of garlic slowly began taking over the penthouse.

Honestly, cooking inside Alaric’s kitchen felt strangely dostic.

Dangerously dostic.

I ignored the thought imdiately.

Once the pasta water began boiling properly, I added the fresh pasta carefully before turning my attention toward the sauce. Butter lted smoothly inside the pan before I added the garlic and onions, stirring them slowly while the rich scent filled the kitchen almost instantly.

Then ca the cream.

Fresh parsan cheese.

Black pepper.

A little pasta water to loosen the sauce perfectly.

Steam curled upward beneath the warm kitchen lights while the sauce thickened into sothing smooth and rich. I tasted it once before nodding quietly to myself.

Good.

Very good, actually.

The steak ca last because I wanted it hot by the ti Alaric finally dragged himself back out of bed.

I heated another pan until it was almost smoking before placing the steaks down carefully. The sharp sizzling sound echoed imdiately through the quiet kitchen while butter lted rapidly around the at.

I tilted the pan slightly before spooning the lted butter repeatedly over the steaks, watching the surface turn beautifully golden brown beneath the heat. The sll alone was enough to make hungry again.

After flipping them one final ti, I allowed the at to rest properly before slicing carefully into one just enough to check the center.

Perfect.

Exactly the way I wanted it.

By the ti I finished plating the food neatly onto the dishes, the kitchen no longer looked cold and untouched like it had earlier.

Warmth filled the space now, softening the sharp edges of the marble and polished steel while the rich scent of garlic, butter, rosemary, and cream lingered heavily in the air.

And sohow, standing there inside Alaric’s penthouse while steam rose softly from the food I made for him, I caught myself wondering when exactly this stopped feeling like a stupid bet and started becoming sothing far more dangerous.