Page 14 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Eleven

ANGéLICA

T here’s a strange, bitter taste in my mouth when consciousness slowly starts to creep in.

Did I forget to brush my teeth before going to bed?

Dinner at the restaurant must have been more brutal than usual because I don’t even remember how I got home last night.

The apartment is strangely quiet, no banging around in the kitchen or loud music playing down the hall.

Did I sleep late? Rolling on my side, I reach for my phone only to fall off and greet the floor with my fucking face. Que carajo ?

I’m not in my bed. Not in my apartment. Not even in fucking South Side.

And a sudden pain in my ass reminds me of another pain in the ass that’s responsible for it.

Dragging myself off the floor, I glance around the large room that’s usually kept so private.

Greyson doesn’t like anyone prying into his personal life, and his office is off-limits, apart from the two times I’ve been unfortunate enough to visit it.

I was only a few hours into my first day in Grey’s kitchen when I realized Collette had sent me to Greyson’s office to fuck with me.

None of the other chefs could believe I’d been brave enough to go in.

Of course, I didn’t know any better at the time, but it earned me a reputation for being fearless in the kitchen.

The notoriety has been to blame for far more enemies than friends, Collette playing queen amongst the former.

I don’t know what I did to make her hate me before she even knew me, but she’s made it her mission to rain a little extra hell on my life.

The puta can go choke on a cyanide popsicle.

Greyson’s office is the exact opposite of his pristine kitchen—disorganized, cluttered, homey in its own way.

It’s the hideaway of a creative genius, and it looks exactly how you’d expect the workspace of a great master like Beethoven or Michelangelo to look.

There are lists everywhere, all of them filled with ingredients and recipes.

Sketches of contrasting textures, colors.

A few larger renderings of a restaurant that looks vastly different from Grey’s, the name board above the French-style black and white awnings left blank.

My cheeks flush when I approach the desk, memories of last night flooding in and lancing my core with slick heat.

I drag my fingers over the smooth wood, remembering how it felt to be bent over it with Greyson’s firm palm against my skin.

My mind hasn’t felt that calm in months, each slap of his hand clearing away all the built-up tension and stress.

I’m comfortable enough with my body to know that I need a different stimulus than most when it comes to managing the anxiety that creeps into my brain when I’m overwhelmed.

Most people crave something soothing—I prefer to fucking burn until the bad thoughts are clawing to get the hell out from under my skin. It’s easy when I prefer torture more than my demons do.

I’ve been dying for a little taste of torment, and Greyson realized it even before I did.

Cooking has consumed my life to the point that I don’t have a life outside of Grey’s kitchen.

I haven’t dated or gone to clubs or self-medicated with pain in months.

Not since Halloween. I can’t even remember the last time I came.

Mierda , my last memorable orgasm was when a masked man cut and fucked me with a knife.

If that doesn’t scream personal issues, I don’t know what does.

The delicious memory of last night and Halloween combined sends a rush of arousal soaking my panties all over again.

My core aches with need, longing to be filled.

I wanted Greyson to touch me when he bent me over, when he tugged my panties against my swollen clit, when he slapped me in the perfect spot to make my pussy tremble, when he slid his fingers through my cum and forced them into my mouth.

I wanted him so much it hurt—and not in the exquisite way his spanking did.

This pain was a dull, throbbing emptiness that mocked the sweet punishment of his hand searing my skin.

And when I rubbed against him and felt the hardness of his erection pressing into my sore ass, I knew he wanted it just as much as I did.

Subconsciously, I feel my fingers drift down between my thighs to stroke my center the way I wanted him to.

My own touch is too light over my jeans, too detached and familiar compared to the unhinged ravaging I crave right now.

With a furtive glance around the room, I unbutton my pants and shimmy them down to my thighs, exactly the way they were last night when Greyson spanked me.

I whimper when my fingers slide underneath my sticky panties and sink between my slippery folds.

Fuck. I’m so wet my fingers can barely get any traction on the swollen nub of my clit.

Moaning, I reach down and bend myself over Greyson’s desk, my soaked fingers leaving streaks of cum across the smooth, wooden surface.

A smug smile of satisfaction tugs at my lips at the thought of leaving something for him to find later.

This time, I sink two fingers straight into my soaked cunt, groaning when my greedy hole clenches tight and begs for more. I need more.

My other hand claws at my shirt, tearing at the top two buttons so I can drag my nails over my tits.

The subtle sting sends my heart racing. And when I drift beneath the white lace of my bra and squeeze my hardened nipple between my fingers, a spurt of pure pleasure shoots through my core.

This is what I need, what I’ve been starving for week after fucking week.

Pleasure and pain layered together like sweetness and acid to create the perfect balance.

I cry out softly as I picture what Greyson’s hands felt like as he spanked me, how he knew just where to hit, how he applied just the right amount of force to send my nerves tingling.

It’s like he was already intimately familiar with my body and knew exactly what to do to make me bend to him.

It seems a chef of Greyson’s precision is even more threatening outside the kitchen.

Wriggling my hips, I thrust against the desk until I find the perfect spot on the corner to stimulate my clit while I continue to shove my fingers inside me.

My whimpers grow louder, stifling the wet sound of my palm smacking against my pussy with every plunge.

Fóllame , I’m so close I can feel the first ripples of pleasure unfurling in my core.

I squeeze my nipple harder, my sharpened nails grazing the tender skin just enough to set me right on the edge.

And without meaning to, I think of him—the way his blue eyes are even brighter when he’s angry, the sound of his voice dropping low and deep every time he scolds me on some minor flaw in the kitchen, the impressive bulge of his erection pressing into my ass.

I picture it’s his cock thrusting inside me instead of my fingers, the steel thickness of him filling me up like no man ever has. “Greyson,” I moan as I start to tumble over.

“Oh good, you’re finally awake.”

A scream tears from my throat as my orgasm fizzles away.

I just barely manage not to fall on my face a second time today as I right myself and try to yank my clothes back into place.

Greyson watches me scramble for dignity without a hint of shame in his eyes.

In fact, I’d say he looks pretty fucking pleased to have caught me humping his goddamn desk.

“Ever heard of knocking?” I gasp, my heart thundering in my chest. I look down to see that half my bra and nearly all of my tit are on full display.

Greyson laughs as he crosses his arms and looks me up and down. “It’s nothing I didn’t already see last night.”

I screech in annoyance as I fix my bra and try to tuck my half-buttoned shirt into my open jeans to provide some semblance of composure.

I can’t hide the flare of heat in my cheeks—if there’s one thing I’m not , it’s a goddamn exhibitionist, and being caught like this is the sort of trauma that should be reserved only for nightmares.

Not real life in Greyson’s fucking office.

“Correction,” he revises, his gaze heavy on my tits, “ now it’s nothing I didn’t see last night. The nip slip was an unexpected bonus.” The cabrón has the audacity to wink, and I swear one of these days I’ll cut those damn pretty eyes out of his skull.

“I hate you,” I spit, quickly fastening the buttons on my jeans so the peep show can officially be over.

He looks at me thoughtfully as he reaches up to rub his thumb over his bottom lip. “Yes, you’ve said that. Several times, in fact.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say my hatred disappoints him. And isn’t that the grandest of double standards when he’s hated me since the moment we met in this very room.

“Happy to see your sense of hearing is at full capacity even if your sense of decency is sorely underdeveloped.”

“Decency?” he scoffs. “Angel, you’re the one rubbing your pussy against my desk, so who really needs a lesson in manners here?”

I swallow hard, my thoughts scattered and lost like sugar sprinkled in a pile of salt.

That’s the second time he’s called me that.

Angel . I’ve heard it before, of course.

Even my father would call me Angél sometimes when he was feeling particularly indulgent.

But that name has only ever made my pussy flutter once before—when I was blindfolded and bleeding—as it fell from the lips of a demon.

And something tells me Greyson is more dangerous than anything Hell and Heaven combined could create.

“Guess your lesson last night wasn’t very effective then,” I retort, feeling the tension in the room crackle the moment the goading words leave my mouth.

Greyson advances on me as I make a run for the door, his strong hands catching me by the hips. Usually this kind of casual touch sends me panicking, but there’s enough violence in his hold that I don’t feel triggered—like he knows just how to handle me without breaking me with gentleness.

“Careful, Angélica,” he snarls. “I can think of much better ways to punish you than bending you back over that fucking desk.”

“Oh really?” I ask, the danger so thick in the air I can taste it. “Why don’t you try it and see?”

His grip turns even harsher, his fingers digging into my skin, and for a moment, I think he might give me exactly what I need. But instead, he releases me and shoves his hands into his pockets. “No,” he answers simply, an emotion I can’t decipher flickering in his eyes.

“Why not?” I challenge, more than willing to gouge a few holes in whatever flimsy excuse he uses in his defense.

He smirks down at me. “You’d like it too much.”

Oh, the arrogant hijo de puta did not . I’m raging, but letting him know that will only inflate his enormous ego. So instead, I mask my irritation with a seductive smile, close the distance between us, stand on my tiptoes, and press my lips right against his ear.

“Pussy,” I whisper right before turning and stalking out of the room.