Page 25 of Shades of Ruin

I scoff at the fucking audacity. “Goodnight, Greyson.”

He holds out his hands to stop me again. “Okay, okay, tell me how to prove it.”

I consider what it would take for me to trust him. “You let me go home. You don’t argue or try to stop me. You show up an hour early tomorrow morning and teach me somethinguseful—and you keep your hands to yourself.”

“I can do that,” he promises, although I’m sure we can both hear the doubt in his voice.

Pushing my luck, I add, “And you can try to be a little nicer to me in the kitchen.”

His bright blue eyes shine with pure sadism. “Hard no. Besides, you like it when I hurt you, angel.”

I roll my eyes even as my pussy quivers. “Yeah, I figured that one would be a deal breaker.”

“So, do we have an agreement?” Greyson asks, holding out his hand to shake on it.

I leave him hanging and gather my things before heading for the door. “See you in the morning, chef.”

Chapter Fifteen

ANGÉLICA

Idon’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’show 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 somethingabout 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 meangel.

“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 ofsomething.” 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 beplayingwith 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.

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