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“Yes, chef,” she calls back without even turning around. She’s in her own head right now, and there’s no penetrating her culinary precision when she’s this focused.

Bored and horny as fuck, I lurch from the damn chair and approach Angélica from behind to survey her work. Her spine goes rigid when she feels me draw close, but her hands never still as she continues to stir the golden liquid over the low flame. Warm bursts of vanilla and cinnamon fill the air, and I want to lap at the faint plumes of steam to catch a hint of the sweet flavor. I suppose she really did make me a dessert that tastes likeher. As I’ve been lucky enough to devour her nectar from the source, I wonder how this confection will compare.

Raising her arm, she lets the caramel-colored sauce drizzle from the wooden stirring spoon in thick, luscious ribbons. Without warning, I’m assaulted with images of her naked body painted in that golden sauce, all sticky and warm and decadent. I would run my tongue over every divot and curve of her body and lick her until she was clean and writhing for more. Maybe I would pour some between her folds and let it pool at her pretty little holes before using it as lube to slide my cock into the one I haven’t claimed yet while fucking my fingers into the other.

“Chef?”

My fantasy shatters like a sugar dome, and I look up to see Angélica staring at me expectantly. “Yes?” I demand, my voice hoarse with the effort it takes to conceal my thundering heart.

“Time, chef?”

“Fuck,” I breathe with a quick look at my watch. I completely lost track of time. “Five minutes.” She has two, but I add a few more for me to pull myself the fuck together.

While I was distracted, she already gathered her plate and laid it out on the black quartz counter. When she starts plating, she bends at the waist to assemble her elements with the utmost precision. And goddamnit, it’s like she’stryingto torment me by waving that perfect, round ass in the air and begging me to fuck it. I would sell my fucking soul for the chance. Knowing my vicious angel, she would demand even more.

She picks up a paring knife and splits her softened figs down the middle until the ripe fruit bursts open. I picture pressing that small blade into the delicate flesh of her tits and watching her skin turn red and warm beneath my hands. She stuffs the figs with dollops of her creamy caramel sauce, and I think about what a good girl she was letting me fill her so full before she ran away with my cream still warm and dripping from her cunt. She tops the whole plate with fresh grated cinnamon, and I consider teaching her cinnamon’s many other uses. I wonder if she could stare up at me so brave and composed with cinnamon oil searing the delicate skin of her clit.

As discreetly as possible, I slide my hand into my pocket and adjust my raging hard-on. My piercings are digging into my zipper, making the head of my cock even more sensitive. With a few hard strokes, I’d cream my fucking pants. I’m going to have to escape to my office and fuck my goddamn hand the minute this pretty little torment is out of my kitchen. And I’ll shoot my load at the image of her cum-streaked and bloody in a bed ofscorched feathers like I have every single day since the night she fell into my arms.

Angélica Flores is an affliction that I would slice open a vein to escape if only I could survive the amount of blood I’d have to lose before her imprint was scourged from my mind and body. As it is, I’ll just have to make sure she bleeds right along with me.

When the time is up, her damn plating is perfect, her apron is nearly spotless, and her station is as clean as the moment she walked into the kitchen. She’s meticulous and determined—both excellent qualities for a chef, so I’ll have to find something else to critique her for. I can’t allow her into my kitchen. There’s no scenario in which either of us would survive the hell of her working beneath me. Not a single moment would past without me thinking about fucking her or torturing her or goddamn filling her.

The only way she’s leaving this kitchen today is ruined—as ruined as I was the moment she fell into my life and scorched my whole fucking world to the ground.

I circle the counter so that I’m standing on the other side of her, an admittedly beautiful dessert between us. I want to hate the damn thing, but she did well, and I can’t in good conscience insult her artistry. “You plate well,” I comment, keeping my compliments austere. “Where did you train?”

Angélica’s back straightens like she’s preparing for battle. “Professionally? No culinary institute you’d recognize. But growing up in my grandmother’s kitchen taught me that good cooking is about more than just food—every dish should have a piece of your heart as well.” Her expression softens at some distant memory before she brushes it away, slams her hands on her hips, and stares up at me with fire in her golden-brown eyes.

“Picking my own ingredients from the surrounding farms in our small village in Colombia taught me everything I needed to knowabout flavor. Being an eighteen year old immigrant in a new country with no family taught me more than anyone should ever know about resilience. Entering the culinary industry as a woman of color taught me everything I needed to know about strength and precision—if your plate is perfect and your station is clean, people have to look beyond their own prejudices to find something to critique.”

I don’t typically find myself speechless, but I can do little more than stare at her in surprise as she shoots little daggers of contempt back at me. She’s self-taught, much like me. It’s a disadvantage that’s earned me countless jabs and cruelties from my classically trained peers. And it’s an unexpected edge that has allowed me to become one of the most highly-acclaimed young chefs in the country. I’ve found that it’s significantly easier to think outside the box when you haven’t been caged in with industry-standard techniques to begin with.

The stubborn girl takes my silence for judgment and rushes to fortify her defense even more. “I might not have gone to some fancy, French culinary school or flitted around from one famous Parisian restaurant to another, but I have experience, I know what I’m doing, and I can hold my own againstanychef in this kitchen.”

A sinister smile tugs at my lips. I believe I’ve just been challenged. “Any chef?” I drawl with an arched brow. “What about me?” I lean forward and put my hands on the counter so she can size me up—and I can see that she does, her eyes instinctively roaming over my body and taking in how much bigger I am than her. And when her teeth press against her bottom lip, I would almost say shelikesthe way my large form makes her look so small and powerless.

She clears her throat before answering, “Only if you’re brave enough to face me.”

Goddamnit, even though it’s a terrible fucking idea, and we’ll probably stab each other with a chef’s knife eventually, I want to keep her.

“Let’s see if you can put your money where your mouth is, chef.” I need to wrap this up—my cock is making itself more difficult to ignore with every minute I have to look at my angel’s pretty lips and think about fucking them. “What have you prepared for me?”

She instantly slides into a professional stance with her hands behind her back, any lingering heat in her eyes hidden. “It’s my take on brevas con arequipe—a traditional Colombian dessert made with figs and dulce de leche. Given the short time limit, I embodied the flavors more than the standard technique. I’ve paired the creamy caramel stuffed figs with a savory, queso fresco ice cream and a chili and cinnamon biscuit crumble.”

I’ve never liked desserts. They’re too sweet and single-noted, and that’s one of many reason why I usually never give a fuck about the final courses of my ever-changing, ten course menu. But this combination of sweet and savory elements has me just as surprised as the chef who created them. “I’m intrigued,” I respond while picking up the spoon beside the plate, again careful to keep my praise minimal.

Not wanting to wreck her artistry, I scrape a small amount of cream and crumble onto the spoon before sliding it beneath one of the figs and slipping the whole fruit into my mouth. She blinks up at me as I work my lips and teeth around the too-large bite, ripples of caramel gushing from the center of the fig and spilling down my chin. I brush my thumb over the sticky sauce before it can drip onto my black shirt. When I’ve swallowed the last of it, I bring my thumb to my lips and suck it clean of the sweet and bitter taste of barely burned sugar.

“How is it?” she asks, glancing up from behind her dark lashes after nearly a minute has dragged on in silence with nocomment or critique from me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around how much I loved it. Ihatethat I loved it.

“Why don’t you have a taste?” I ask, scooping up the other fig and putting it to her parted lips.

I’m pushing the bounds of what’s professionally acceptable right now, but she’s not pulling away from me, and that’s all I care about. She hesitates a moment before opening her mouth for me and allowing me to force my spoon past her lips. The fig is far too big for her, and it hangs from her open mouth while she tries to chew her way through part of it. And she’s a gorgeous fucking mess as she does with caramel and cream sticking to her lips. A drop slips from her tongue and falls onto her apron.

Myapron, to be exact. I’ll have to get it washed before wearing it in the kitchen again. Since the damage has already been done, there’s no reason why I can’t wrap that warm apron around my cock and mix her scent with mine after she leaves.

“Well, chef? How is it?” I ask, repeating her question to drag my attention away from how much I’d like to replace her tongue with mine as she flicks it over her sticky lips.