Page 25 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Nineteen

ANGéLICA

B efore long, the streets become a little too familiar. “Are we going to Grey’s?” I ask as we turn a corner that’s about a couple minutes away from my daily commute to work.

“Mmm, hmm,” he hums with a nod, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel like he’s driving on autopilot. His blue eyes flick over to me, and there’s a smirk on his face.

“Great, the restaurant I get to avoid one day out of the fucking week.” I swear, if he’s pre-gaming our date with another grueling lesson in culinary technique, I’m going to fucking kill him.

“You don’t enjoy spending every day in my kitchen?”

I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or not. Knowing him, he thinks being in his mere presence is an honor. “The kitchen, I don’t mind. I could definitely use a break from my boss, though.”

His free hand slaps down on my bare thigh with a loud smack .

“Remind me to spank you for that, later,” he bites back, and this time I know he’s being serious.

He keeps his vicious hands to himself as he parallel parks in his usual spot beside the restaurant.

When he reaches down to undo my seatbelt, his fingers graze my hips in a way that stirs the wet, throbbing need in my core.

Pressing my thighs together to ease the tension between them, I wait for the doors to slide open, suddenly very anxious to escape the confined space I’m sharing with Greyson before I do something stupid.

Like bend myself over his lap and tell him to spank away.

I’m so taut with repressed sexual energy that when the doors do start to lift I flinch away in surprise.

“You’re jumpy, angel,” Greyson laughs. “Is it something I said?” Self-preservation keeps me from turning to look at him. I know if I find those crystalline eyes down at me with their usual flecks of chaos, all bets are off.

“I’m just wondering what flavor of sadism you’re cooking up in that twisted head of yours,” I quip, sliding out of the car and appreciating the feel of solid ground beneath my feet.

“Does it really matter?” His voice sounds too close, and I turn to find him right at my back. “Whatever it is, you’ll eat it up like a good girl and beg me for more.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a puddle on the ground below my pussy right now, but I don’t look down and check.

I couldn’t if I tried. Greyson holds my gaze the way he holds my throat—brutal and inescapable—and I want nothing more than to lean into that destructive force and let it lull me into a state of complete surrender.

“Stop,” Greyson growls, stepping back rather than drawing closer.

“Stop what?” I don’t even recognize the sultry depth of my own voice.

“Stop looking at me like that before I rip off that cute little dress, bend you over the fucking hood, and tear into your slick cunt just like you want me to.”

Mierda . “I don’t want that.” Except I’ve never wanted anything more.

“Angélica,” he tuts with a tap of his finger on my lips, “what did I say about lying to me?”

I shrug. “I don’t remember.”

His hand whips out and fists my hair, twisting the curls until his knuckles graze my skull. I whimper at the burning sting of it. “Try again,” he hisses.

“You said you’d punish me.” The words come out like a challenge, and from the way his nostrils flare, I must have a death wish.

He’s on me in an instant, his strong body pressing me against the car, the metal warm and searing on my skin. “Did you like having that ginger shoved up your asshole?” The words are a snarl, and shivers break out along my spine.

“No. It hurt.”

The smile that stretches across his lips is nothing less than cruel. “Well, the next thing I slam into your tight little ass is really going to fucking hurt. So you better be on your best behavior, or you’re not getting any lube either.”

The line between threats and foreplay is so blurred between us, I’m not even sure which category that falls into. Either way, my panties are drenched, and I’m about ready to get on my knees and plead for him to fill one of my holes. Whether it hurts or not is a minor detail at this point.

“Such a fucking painslut,” he chuckles with a shake of his head. With a mean tug on my hair, he releases me. “One of these days, I’ll find something that scares you enough to keep you in line.”

“Good luck with that,” I answer, my smile sweet as crushed cherry pits.

Rolling his eyes, he slides his fingers between mine and tugs on my hand. “Come on, little nightmare. I’ve got the whole night to try.”

All I can think about is the fact that Gavin Greyson, the cruel, infuriating, brilliant, world-renowned executive chef, is holding my fucking hand. And without even thinking, I curl my fingers around his much larger ones and hold his hand right back.

He half-drags me through the dining room, the large space eerily quiet when it’s abandoned.

We go through the kitchen next, everything in the empty room spotless and pristine.

Thankfully, he didn’t go into a rage and send everyone home last night like he did both days before.

The thought reminds me that I’ve actually not had to suffer through a single clean up this week.

I’ve basically been on a once a week kitchen duty streak since I started.

No matter how perfect my culinary work is, Greyson has always found something worth punishing me over.

But this week, he deviated from his usual torments.

Not that I’m complaining. I prefer being punished with his hand and cock way more than wiping down after dinner service.

It leaves me wondering who actually cleaned the kitchen those two nights Greyson let me off easy.

There’s no fucking way he slaved away in the kitchen in my place.

“Who cleaned the kitchen when you let me go home early?” I’m brave enough to ask.

“What do you mean?” He turns the corner and passes the pantry he found Liam and me in yesterday.

“When you spanked me and let me sleep in your office and when you fucked me,” I reply, my cheeks flaring with heat.

He looks down at me, a furrow between his brows. “I told you I did.”

“Yeah, but who really did?” He stops so abruptly that I collide with him, and it feels like running into a steel fridge.

Using his harsh hold on my hand, he forces me into the supply closet door.

I have to arch my back to keep the metal handle from digging deep into my spine, and that means I’m pressing into him .

I don’t have to look down to know he’s hard; I can feel his cock trying to fuck my ribcage right now.

He snatches my other hand and locks his fingers around mine before stretching both my arms above my head.

It’s somehow aggressive and intimate at the same time.

In fact, that’s how I’d describe every moment he and I are alone.

“I don’t like lies, Angélica,” he rasps, his face inches from mine.

He rips my arms even higher, and the sudden tension in my ligaments has me crying out in pain.

“And I sure as fuck don’t tell them.” Another sharp tug has me balancing on my tiptoes; it feels like he’s a few seconds from dislocating my shoulders.

“Accuse me of lying again,” his fingers dig into mine until I think my bones might crack, “and I will hurt you in every way imaginable until you’re weeping for mercy.

There won’t be any lies between us. Ever. Do you understand?”

I swallow down the dread climbing up my throat. There are some truths I’ll never be able to tell him. Things I can’t trust with anyone. I can only hope he never asks. If he does—I’ll just have to be strong enough to withstand the consequences. “Yes, Greyson.”

“Good girl,” he sighs, relief filling his features.

He lets me slide down to my feet and regain my balance before tugging me along again.

The next time he stops, it’s in front of a small elevator in the very back of the restaurant.

He looks at me expectantly. “So what exactly does everyone think this elevator is for?”

I feel like I’m missing something. I glance at the elevator then look back at him in confusion.

“I don’t know, storage? I’ve honestly never thought about it.

Why, do you have some kinky Phantom of The Opera situation where you’re living in the restaurant pulling strings, sending death threats, and watching our every move? ”

He stares at me blankly.

“Oh my God, you live above the restaurant,” I gasp, wondering how I never realized it before now.

“It’s not like it’s a weird perversion,” he scoffs. He pulls a key card from his wallet and swipes it over the security panel on the elevator. “Almost all of the restaurants and cafes in Paris have apartments above them.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t Paris , Greyson. And Grey’s isn’t just some restaurant. This is the most exclusive restaurant in the city. I thought you’d want to fuck off to some secluded mansion in the country to escape all your adoring fans.”

“I’ve always lived in big cities,” he answers with a shrug. “It’s what I’m used to. Wide-open, empty spaces with no crowds make me uncomfortable.” He gets into the open elevator and waits for me to follow suit.

I hesitate a moment before getting in and watching the doors close on my only escape route.

I guess I’m trapped now. If I’m honest, Greyson has had me trapped for a while—it just suddenly feels very real now.

“ Dios mío ,” I shriek, suddenly realizing that all those late nights and early mornings I spent alone in the kitchen cleaning up and practicing, I wasn’t the only one in the restaurant.

“So all those times you made me stay late?—”

“I was upstairs jerking my cock to the view of you bent over scrubbing dishes each and every time,” he gloats.

“You’re vile,” I seethe, replaying everything I ever did while he was watching in secret. How much of an eyeful did he get?

“Mmm,” he hums. “Want me to prove it?”

The elevator dings at level two and the doors spring open. I stare at the panel, noticing that there’s a third floor. “What’s on three?” I ask, unable to stave off my curiosity.

“The torture chamber you were so interested it,” he deadpans.

I smirk up at him, fully prepared to tease him about his grotesque sense of humor. But when he stares down at me, the set of his jaw is serious, and I remember something that sends my heart thundering in my chest.

Greyson doesn’t lie.