Page 19 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Fifteen

ANGéLICA

I don’t know if I should be surprised when I see Greyson waiting for me in the kitchen bright and early, but it’s definitely not disappointment sending my heart into stampede and a cyclone of butterflies fluttering in my pussy.

As much as I want to be wary of whatever this volatile attraction is between us, I’ve never been as comfortable as I was with Greyson last night.

Usually sex comes with its own minefield of triggers that I have to either tiptoe around or do my best to ignore.

And ignoring them altogether brings an emotional and mental crash that takes days to escape if I’m lucky—and a week or two if I’m not.

Hell, the last time I had sex, I took a fucking six month break from physical contact of any kind.

That’s how much my head likes to sabotage my body.

I’m a slave to the nettling little traumas that like to pop up anytime I think I’ve got my life halfway figured out.

And I’m not sure if I’ll ever be completely free from them.

But last night, my thoughts turned off, and my body had a rare moment of control.

Being with Greyson was instinct—pure, animalistic nature overriding everything else.

And something about his touch disarms me to the point that I can actually just exist for a moment without all the weight of my past holding me down.

Maybe this is what being normal feels like.

“Good morning, Chef Flores,” Greyson greets when I walk past him to put my bag and spare clothes—because you never fucking know with him—in the locker room. He’s keeping things professional. That makes the situation easier, as much as I love it when he slips and calls me angel.

“Chef.” I try and fail to keep the flush from my face when I remember how his huge, pierced cock filled me so well. And from the sly glint in his eyes, he’s reminiscing about the exact same thing.

“I’m here early as requested.” He looks like he just rolled out of bed, his dark hair sticking up in random places and making him look younger, less severe than usual.

He’s dressed in full black as usual, but his shirt is looser, stark tattoos snaking up both his arms and twisted across the small patches of his neck and chest that I can see.

I choke down the arousal clogging my throat and try to keep my voice steady. “One thing down. Let’s see if you can keep it up, chef.”

“Some of your demands were more vengeful than others.” He shoves his hands in his pockets to keep them away from me as his eyes rove over my body.

I’m dressed in jeans, but I swapped out my standard white button-up for a black v-neck that accentuates my tits pretty damn well.

“You stole my color,” he remarks when he notices the change.

“Yeah, I decided it suited me,” I answer with a smirk. “I think I’ll be stealing your apron today, too.”

“And you say I’m the cruel one.” His words are a sigh as he walks to the locker room and brings back his black apron, holding it out mournfully. “Any other requests?”

“Not at the moment, but I’ll let you know if I think of something.” I slip on the apron and double wrap the ties around my waist, shivering when the scent of citrus and clove envelopes me. “So what are we practicing today?”

“A very important skill that one of the greatest chefs in Paris taught me.” He steps around me and tears one of the larger knives from the magnetic wooden strip along the wall holding blades of various sizes. “Chopping.”

“Chopping?” I scoff. “You can’t be serious. I’ve known how to handle a knife since I was ten years old.”

His bright blue eyes flash to mine. “Then you’ve spent more than a decade doing it wrong.”

“I said to teach me something useful, Greyson. I don’t want to play around with knives for an hour.”

A predatory smile pulls at his lips, and I get the distinct impression that he’s picturing something far removed from cooking.

“I can guarantee you won’t be playing with them.

I’ll make sure you’re sweating and your hands are shaking by the time you’re done.

” He strokes his thumb over his bottom lip as he stares me down, and a shiver trickles down my spine.

“But what’s the point?” I stammer, suddenly heated for no reason.

“Chef Matis insisted you could always gauge the skill of a chef from the precision of their cuts before you ever tasted their food. Like you, my flavors were always good, but my technique was rudimentary. Self-taught chefs aren’t spending hours in the kitchen drilling the same procedures over and over until they get them perfect.

The lack of discipline shows. So I’ll be giving you a little taste of the torment he gave me. ”

“This is ridiculous,” I sigh as I hold out my hand for the knife.

“I once spent an entire week chopping onions. I’ve never cried so much in my life.” He flips the knife so that the blade rests between his fingers and offers me the handle. “Might be a good experiment for you, actually.”

I consider pressing down and nicking him just a little as I pull the knife away. “Still trying to make me cry, chef?”

The smile he shoots me has arousal pooling between my thighs. “Always.”

“Sadist,” I huff under my breath. I pull out a cutting board and throw it across the counter. “So what are we chopping?”

Greyson disappears into the pantry and comes back with an armful of different fresh ingredients. “We’re doing spicy red curry as a main tonight. I thought you could handle the chili prep this morning.”

I groan. “Naturally, you pick the only thing that burns when you cut into it.” We didn’t use a lot of heavy spice in Colombia, and it was something I never developed a taste for growing up.

I can handle a bit of heat now, but my hands have always been really sensitive to the capsaicin oil. This will be torture.

“Naturally.” He looks pleased with himself as he leans back against the counter and watches me.

“What kinds are there?” I ask, sifting through the selection of different-sized peppers beside a pile of onions, garlic, turmeric, and ginger.

“Byadgi chilies, bird’s eye chilies, and Bhut Jolokia chilies, also known as ghost peppers.”

Mierda, he’s trying to kill me. “Deseeded?” I ask, my tone pleading.

“Nonsense. No self-respecting chef would discard the most flavorful part of the chili.”

“Ugh, fine. Gloves then?” He just stares at me expectantly without saying a word. “You want me to chop up fifty different peppers with my bare fucking hands?” I gasp in outrage. It’s like he’s doing everything in his power to ensure my working conditions are as uncomfortable as hell .

“You gonna cry about it, angel?” he purrs. And fuck him for suddenly making me turned on and terrified at the same time.

“Don’t hold your damn breath,” I bite, picking up one of the milder peppers and slamming it against the cutting board, knife in hand. “Are you going to instruct me, or are you just going to sit there and look pretty?” I ask as I jab the pointy end of the knife in his direction.

“I think we both know which of those is my strength,” he drawls with a small leap onto the counter.

He kicks his feet up and down like he has too much pent-up energy, and given what we did on that exact counter last night, I can see why he’d feel bored watching me dice peppers instead of going at it again like I’m sure we both want to.

I guess it’s my own damn fault for being sensible and giving us boundaries.

“Begin,” he calls with a clap of his hands.

Might as well get this the fuck over with.

By the time I have a sizable pile of perfectly diced red chilies and finish the last one, my hands are burning, and my fingertips feel like they’ve been scorched with fire.

“I think I’m dying,” I groan, shaking my hands in the air like that will take away the fiery sting. It doesn’t. But I didn’t cry, so score one for me—he’ll have to try harder than that.

“You’re not dying,” he tuts. He brings over what looks to be a shallow bowl of milk or cream and sets it down in front of me before staring at me expectantly.

“I’m not fucking drinking that,” I snap, glancing at the contents in the bowl with suspicion. He probably wants me to bend down and lap at it like a dog—some sort of weird humiliation to get his dick harder than it already was when he watched me suffer with the chilies.

“It’s for your hands, so I suggest you don’t.” His expression is innocent as he arches a brow like I should have known better, but we both know him having a humiliation kink fucking tracks. “Soak your hands; it’ll stop the burn in about twenty minutes.”

My eyes dart to the clock across the room. We only have twenty-five minutes until the first round of chefs starts showing up. “Twenty minutes?” I ask with a wince, knowing we’ll be cutting it close.

“Unless you want to work all day with your hands burning, yes.”

Rolling my eyes, I plunge my hands into the bowl of milk, the cool liquid instantly soothing the heat trapped in my skin. “This is your fault, you know.” I shoot him a glare.

“I don’t know what you mean. You could have worn gloves.”

“You told me not to!”

“I didn’t say a thing,” he argues, satisfaction flashing in his bright eyes. “ You went without gloves because you wanted to impress me with what a big, brave girl you are.”

Goddamnit, he’s right. He didn’t actually tell me not to wear gloves.

He just let me assume that I shouldn’t. And the way he’s devouring me right now makes me feel like maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

“Did it work?” I feel the farthest thing from sexy with my hands in a bowl of milk, but it doesn’t look like he minds.

In fact, he’s eyeing me like he wants to tear off my clothes and put me over the counter again.

“What do you think?” His hand slides down to the huge bulge between his thighs, stroking it so I can see how hard he is for me.