Page 26 of Shades of Ruin

“I once spent an entire week chopping onions. I’ve never cried so much in my life.” He flips the knife so thatthe 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 upfiftydifferent 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, butwe 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. “Youwent without gloves because you wanted to impress me with what a big, brave girl you are.”

Goddamnit, he’s right. He didn’t actuallytellme 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.

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.

---