Page 20 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Fuck me , his strong hand caressing his erection is so hot it should be illegal. Actually, since he’s doing it in a public space where food is served, it's probably a health code violation at the very least.

“How many piercings do you have?” I ask before I can stop myself .

He laughs, seeming to appreciate that my mind is very much in the gutter right now. He keeps moving his hand up and down over his cock and answers, “Seven.”

I’m shocked by how high the number is, especially given what a sensitive area it must be to pierce. But maybe he likes a little pain, too.

“You?” he asks, throwing my question back at me.

“I don’t know, actually.” I reach my wet fingers up to my ears, counting each hole that I stabbed into my skin when I was feeling bored or destructive.

“Thirteen.” Most of them sport small gold studs along with a few hoops and one double bar.

“Fourteen,” I tap the hole on the side of my nose, “but I don’t wear my ring at work.

” My fingers trail down my stomach. “And my belly button is fifteen.”

“You did them yourself?” he guesses, and I don’t know how he always seems to read me so well.

“Yeah, I don’t really trust anyone else to put a needle through me. That’s why I don’t have any tattoos.”

He nods his head thoughtfully. “Ever want to add anymore?”

My cheeks blush. “I’ve always wanted my nipples pierced, but I’m too much of a pussy to try that on my own.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” he answers with a laugh, but there’s a hint of sadism in his eyes.

“What about you?” I ask, turning it back on him. “Pierce your cock yourself?”

“No, I am more than happy to let someone else do the needlework.”

From what I can tell, that needlework is extensive. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“Too many to count. It would be easier to find how much bare skin is left.”

I shiver at the thought of him hovering above me, sexy strokes of ink covering every inch of his naked skin. “T-that must have hurt,” I mumble, my thighs starting to quiver with need. Maybe the no touching rule was a bad idea.

“I didn’t mind it, actually.” His eyes flick to the clock. “Time’s up, angel.”

“Thank God,” I sigh. I pull my hands out of the milk, relieved to find my fingers are back to normal. “That actually worked.”

“Of course it did.” He hands me a towel to dry my hands, his body so close I can scarcely think. “We have enough time for one more lesson.”

“Squeezing in every last bit of torture you can, Grey?” I tease, even though I feel my panties grow damp with anticipation. “What’s it going to be now?”

He leans back and studies me, his blue eyes heated and ravenous. “Peel the ginger.”

“Alright,” I agree with an eye roll. I’ve given up trying to figure out his ulterior motives. I quickly start to peel the sharp-smelling root, anxious to finish before people start spilling into the kitchen.

“Narrower on the shaft of it,” he instructs, “and remove all the ridges, but keep one thick on the end.” His use of the word shaft has me nervous, but I do as he asks, whittling the ginger into something that looks disturbingly phallic in shape.

“Cut a few notches into the middle.” Again, I obey, eager to get this over with.

When I’ve stripped it as much as I can, I hold it up for him to inspect. “Now what?”

He smiles, his lips twisting with sinister glee. “Now you pick a hole.”

“What do you mean?” I gulp, fairly certain I know exactly what he means. But I want explicit orders before I jump the gun like I did with the gloves .

“Pick whether that ginger is going in your pretty cunt or your pretty ass.”

Que carajo. “You agreed you wouldn’t touch me,” I remind him, subconsciously backing away to escape what he might do next.

“I’m not going to touch you. You’ll put the ginger in yourself.”

“And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because you want to be my good little slut,” he growls. “And because you’re curious to see what it would feel like inside your tight hole.”

Jesus Christ. “This is crazy.”

“You only have a couple minutes left. Better decide quickly.”

“Fine!” I shriek. “Fine. Tell me how to do it.” My cheeks are burning as I wait for him to instruct me on how to shove a piece of peeled ginger inside me.

“Pull down your jeans and panties and bend over the counter like you did for me last night.” Internally berating myself, I do as he says and fold my upper body over the black quartz.

“Put the ginger in your mouth and suck on it. Make sure you get it plenty wet because it’s the only lube you’re gonna get. ”

Parting my lips, I slide the ginger into my mouth, the citrusy tang sparking against my tongue. Just to fuck with him, I close my eyes, hollow out my cheeks, and suck the ginger down, making sure to moan loudly.

“I wouldn’t play around. Any minute, someone will walk in here and see you with your dripping wet cunt on display. I’m certainly enjoying the view.” Thoroughly chastised, I pull the ginger from my mouth with a pop and slide it down between my legs. “Where’s it going, angel?”

Putting food in my pussy doesn’t seem like a good idea, so I go for the only other option I have. “M-my ass.”

“Perfect.” I can hear the fucking smile in his voice. “Reach back with one hand and pull those gorgeous, plump cheeks apart.” I obey, equal parts embarrassment and arousal sending my heart into overdrive. “Good girl,” he hums. “Now slide it in.”

I try, but the pressure of the ginger invading my ass hurts just as much as you’d think it would. “I-I can’t.”

“Oh yes you can, angel. Bear down and push it in at the same time.” Holding my breath, I listen to his instructions, gasping when the peeled root slips past the tight ring of muscle and slides into my ass. “There you go. Such a pretty whore with your ass filled up. How does it feel?”

“It burns,” I answer with a wince. I clench my thighs together, but that only makes it worse.

“Just wait until it really kicks in,” he chuckles. “Better pull up your pants. Time’s up.”

“You expect me to work with this thing inside me?” There’s no way in hell I’ll last. The sting of the ginger in my ass is getting more intense by the second.

“Of course. I told you I wouldn’t be any nicer in the kitchen. Consider this your torture for the day.”

“I hate you,” I hiss while shucking my pants up over my ass and buttoning them.

“Don’t lie, angel. I’ll punish you the next time you do.”

“This is punishment.”

“No, Angélica—this is playtime . When I’m punishing you, you’ll know the fucking difference. Understand?”

Fuck he’s serious. “Yes, chef,” I respond on instinct.

“Good.”

I’m distracted from the temptation to tell him to fuck off when Liam runs into the kitchen with a panicked look on his face. It’s enough to make me forget the part he played in my humiliation last night. At least for now.

“Chef, Chicago PD just stormed the dining room,” Liam blurts, his words a breathless gasp .

“What do they want?” Greyson and I ask in unison, neither of us sounding particularly innocent. He and I exchange a charged glance, and I think I’m in for an interrogation even if I don’t end up in a police station today. Putting it to the side for now, Greyson turns his attention back to Liam.

“Something about a murder,” the young chef answers finally.

Fuck. They couldn’t have connected it to me. I’ve been too careful. Anxiety pins me in place, and I couldn’t run even if I wanted to.

Greyson isn’t looking at me; his darkened eyes are fixed solely on the chef who brought the news. There’s so much tension in his body, I fear he’d crack if I touched him. “Who are they here for, Liam?”

“They have an arrest warrant for you, chef.”

My eyes dart up to Greyson’s, but his expression is closed off—I can’t read a goddamn thing about what’s going on in his head right now. And honestly, I’m not sure if I should want to.

Greyson nods, accepting the startling information as though Liam merely said we’d have a late delivery today. “Keep things as quiet as you can, Liam. Tell them I’ll come without a fight. They don’t need to disturb the restaurant or my employees.”

“Yes, chef,” Liam affirms before hurrying back to the dining room.

When Greyson finally looks at me, he wears the expression of a man who’s already been condemned. What the fuck did he do, and how did I get myself tangled up in it?

“Flores, you’re in charge until I return,” he orders, his tone militant.

“That’s not how this kitchen works, chef. I’m just a commis. Henley should take over. Or Kendrick. They both have seniority.”

“It’s my fucking kitchen, and I decide how it works,” he hisses, anger bleeding into his tone. Or maybe it’s fear. “Keep things from going to shit, or there will be hell to pay when I get back.” Without another word, he strides into the dining room to face whatever fate awaits him.

Fuck . Now I get to spend my twelve hour shift wondering if a psychotic murderer just convinced me to shove a piece of ginger up my ass.