Page 17 of Shades of Ruin

I’m surprised when she parts her lips, allowing me to slide two of my fingers past her teeth. “Taste yourself,” I order. My cock jolts when I feel her warm, wet tongue wrap around my fingers before her lips close and she sucks me deep into the back of her throat. A rumbling groan erupts in my chest, and I brace myself against the desk to keep from whipping out my cock and fucking her pretty mouth right now. Andfucking Christdo I want to, but I’ve allowed this to go too far already.

“That’s enough punishment for tonight,” I growl, the words rough and jagged as my heated blood rages formore. With a sharp tap of my other hand against her cheek, she releases my fingerscoated in her spit. Unable to resist, I lick them to see if she still tastes like I remember. I whimper when the lingering aroma of her cunt hits my tongue, and I realize my memory could never do it justice. I’m dying to slide my mouth down to her spread pussy and suck her dry before filling her the fuck back up like an overstuffed profiterole.

But I can’t let myself lose control like that. Not yet. The fact that I made it six months without touching her is a goddamn miracle, but now that I have, I’m only delaying the inevitable. Each day I’m near her, I feel a small fragment of my mask slip away. She’s uncovering the demon piece by piece, and when she finally realizes the truth—it may be the end of both of us.

“You can stand up,” I tell her, stepping back to give her some space. It’s a battle to keep my tone professional considering what I just did, and I’m completely ignoring the things Ithoughtabout doing afterward.

Without a word, she rights herself and awkwardly drags her jeans back up over her sore ass. The rough material must chafe her raw skin, and I wish I could help ease the sting, but that’s not what she needs. I gave her what I could—it’s the pain she wants from me, not the softer side that comes after. Even though it hurts to hold back from giving her the comfort she deserves. “Angélica?—”

“Are we done here?” she snaps, her dark hair whipping through the air as she turns to face me. Her white shirt is wrinkled and half-tucked into her pants, but there aren’t any tears in her eyes, no streaks of mascara running down her cheeks.

“No tears, then?” I ask, not that I’m surprised. It will take a lot more than a few slaps from my hand to break her.

“I told you there wouldn’t be.” Her golden-brown eyes flash with hatred—but that’s not quite right. It’s something verycloseto hatred, but it feels different. Fiercer. More volatile. Hotter than a burning flame. “Am I free to go?”

“I can drive you home.” I need to have a less than friendly chat with her bitch of a roommate anyway.

“I think you’ve done more than enough this evening,” she grits out of clenched teeth. “I’ll take the bus like I always do.” She sways on her feet as she says it, her body suddenly reminded that she’s had very little sleep the past few days.

“I’m not letting you go home alone in this state, Angélica. You can barely stand as it is.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sit your ass down,” I command, pointing to the couch at the other end of my office. “Being reckless and irresponsible is what got you into trouble today. Maybe you should try listening instead of fighting me for a change.”

Scowling, she stomps over to the couch and plops onto the cushions with a huff that turns into a wail when she remembers her ass is freshly spanked. I smile down at her in triumph as I stride toward her. “Lie down and get some rest. After you’re able to stand steady on your feet, I’ll let you go home however you want. But I’m not letting you walk the streets of Chicago alone at night when you’re sleep-deprived and sore.”

“The sore part isyourfault, you know,” she hisses.

“Yes, I know,” I answer with an unabashed smirk. “But you deserved it just the same.”

She rolls her eyes and lies back against the pillows. “Fine, I’ll shut my eyes for a few minutes.” She lifts her head up to glare at me. “But only if you leave. I don’t want you staring at my unconscious body like a creep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We both know I fucking would.

Chapter Eleven

ANGÉLICA

There’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 ofanotherpain 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 Collettehadsent me to Greyson’s office to fuckwith 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. Theputacan 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 thepoint that I don’thavea 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.

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