Shades of Red (Sharp Edges Duet #1)

3. Coq au Vin

Fuck, this time I’m late. I’m running as fast as I can to make the twelve minute walk to Dix in the five minutes that I have left. Not even the toned muscle that I’ve spent years perfecting through a mixture of cardio and strength training is enough to save me. I’m fucked. I’m going to walk into that kitchen to Chef Matis’ glare of disapproval and Aurélie’s infuriatingly smug smile on her cherry red lips.

It’s been a week since Aurélie had to save me with the pate feuilletée. She has yet to let the matter drop, and I’m about ready to strangle her.

Apart from the all too short weekend, it’s been five days of suffering in the kitchen beside the golden-haired girl, practicing techniques from various well-known regions of the culinary world. Braising methods from traditional South American cooking. Pickling procedures from Eastern Europe. Fish preparation from South East Asia. At the end of the day, we’re still expected to cook French food, but Chef Matis wants us to see how we can weave together different techniques and flavors to create an enhanced, more layered culinary experience.

I check the watch on my left wrist. Two minutes. I have five more blocks to go. Chef Matis is going to fucking flay me alive. Ignoring the fact that my Italian leather boots—the only expensive things that I own—are not meant for long distance running on cobblestone streets, I sprint.

I’m three minutes late when I make it through the front doors of Dix. I’m out of breath and sweat is clinging to my overgrown dark hair. Dropping off my backpack in the staff room, I quickly smooth back my hair and rush for the kitchen. As expected, Chef Matis looks as furious as a man of his even composure can be. He’s leaning against a table at the front of the room, his arms crossed, a tight frown on his lips, and the smallest hint of a furrow between his brows.

“Nine,” he says in a perfunctory greeting, his tone as cold as nitrogen oxide.

“Chef,” I answer with a respectful nod. I haven’t allowed myself to look for her yet, but I’m sure she’s absolutely ecstatic to see me being raked over the coals. She is sadistic like that.

“Between you and Ten, I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever be able to start our days on time. Is this how you plan to run a restaurant, Nine? Because I can’t say I’m impressed.”

“No, chef,” I answer, my tone respectful but unapologetic. I won’t offer excuses; I won’t tell him that unannounced road work had closed down half of the streets surrounding my shitty fourth floor apartment. My route was altered by nearly thirty minutes, and the reason I’m only three minutes late is because I leave early every single morning to ensure I’m always on time. Because I’m grateful for this opportunity and, unlike some people, I would never selfishly squander it.

I don’t offer an apology because that is the one thing my father taught me in his too-long life as an abusive piece of shit. Never apologize. That just gives people a soft spot to aim at when they’re on the attack. Don’t show weakness because there will always be someone willing to exploit it.

Chef Matis considers me thoughtfully for a moment before his frown softens an almost indistinguishable increment and the furrow between his brow fades. “To your station, Nine.”

“Yes, chef,” I reply, thankful that he doesn’t choose to castigate me anymore in front of my peers. I walk with my eyes lowered toward the back of the kitchen, ignoring all the stares that fall heavy against my skin. They can judge and scorn me all they want. I’m not here to please them. I stand in front of my station, confused when I find it empty and my beloved knives gone.

Same with her prep-station. I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know she’s there. I can smell her. Like cherries and vanilla. It should be cloying, like a cocktail that’s more sugar than alcohol, but for some reason it leaves me wanting to stick out my tongue and lick the air to see if it tastes like her. Somehow I know she’d be the sweetest little addiction I’d ever take a hit of. And that is the reason I’ll never get close enough to try.

“You know, some people don’t have the luxury of showing up whenever it suits them,” greets a tart, French-accented voice that I’ve come to know all too well.

I groan in frustration. I’m ready to use her soft skin for carving practice, and it’s only eight in the morning

“Shut up, Aurélie,” I snap back at the golden girl beside me. That’s what her name means, I discovered from a misguided google search. Golden. Her parents were pretentiously prophetic at her birth. I refuse to watch the morning sun glimmer in her hair as she throws it over her shoulder in annoyance. Another one of her infuriating habits along with biting her lip. I’m making a mental list of all the things she does to drive me crazy. It’s getting lengthy.

“Oh, so I’m Aurélie now? What happened to ‘this is a competition, and you’re nothing more than a number’?”

I laugh in response, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine. I said that to her last Friday when she managed to dig herself deep under my skin while criticizing my filet technique. “You know, for someone who hates me,” I pause to let my eyes slide over and capture her periwinkle blues, “you seem to hang on my every word.” She looks like she wants to scream, and the fury on her lovely face brings joy to my dark heart.

“Batard,” she bites back with the vicious heat of a ghost pepper.

“Not far off, actually,” I reply. “Although, for the sake of not appearing to be a complete stereotype, it was my loving mother who didn’t want to claim me rather than my father. Dear old dad stuck around, to the great disappointment of everyone involved.”

Aurélie stands there awkwardly, stunned into blissful silence for perhaps the first time. “Don’t throw around insults if you can’t deal with the possibility of them being accurate, goldie,” I dismiss before turning my attention back to Chef Matis. The damn girl destroys my concentration, and I’d love to go into at least one challenge actually knowing what the instructions are.

“You can go anywhere you want within the city limits,” Chef Matis continues with whatever he was saying that I missed while sparring with the beautiful, infuriating, French pain in my ass. “Although you’ll be provided with an unlimited budget, you and your partner will have to work together to source all ingredients needed for the dish at a reasonable expense.”

Fuck, did he just say partner? I glance over at Aurélie, panic written on my face. Her answering look of annoyed acceptance informs me that I haven’t had the good fortune of mishearing. The chefs will be paired up. I hope to God we get to choose our own, and I will be sprinting for the front.

“I see some looks of disappointment,” Chef Matis says, his eyes trained in our direction. “But keep in mind that being an excellent chef isn’t all about the food. You need to be able to communicate well with the people on your team in spite of your differences. And you need to be able to balance luxury with cost. This challenge will test you on both.”

Chef Matis looks away and addresses the whole kitchen once more. “The pair that is able to work together to present me with the best dish prepared at the lowest cost will be today’s victors.” The room bubbles with excitement at the mention of victory. “This isn’t going to be a popularity contest, and you won’t be choosing your own partners. You will be paired with the chef beside you in numerical order.”

Fuck. I clench my jaw, my hands balling into fists. Aurélie drives me insane when I merely have to work beside her. How am I supposed to make it through an entire challenge working with her? The teeth currently burrowing into her bottom lip tells me she’s anxiously considering the same thing.

“Your dish for today is—coq au vin.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. It has nothing to do with pastry, and I could make it in my damn sleep. This should be an easy win. Then I glance at the golden girl beside me and remember there will be nothing easy about today.

Chef Matis motions toward the exit. “Go hang up your whites and fetch your things. You will be provided with a company card for any expenses. Meet back here at noon to begin prepping. Enjoy your day out in the sun, chefs.” With that, Chef Matis exits the kitchen and leaves the rest of us to scramble like chickens with their heads cut off.

Less than four hours. That’s how long we have to gather ingredients for the perfect coq au vin. Aurélie eyes me warily as she follows me out of the kitchen to collect our things from the staff room. Other chefs talk excitedly with each other while she and I prepare for our task in silence. I take off my uniform and hang it on one of the hooks. I’m wearing a black v-neck and a pair of black skinny jeans.

I discreetly glance over my shoulder to watch Aurélie remove her chef’s whites. To my great surprise, she’s wearing a sleeveless red dress beneath it, the silky material swishing and flowing around her knees as she moves around the room. Mon Dieu, I love to see a girl in red. The shade of the dress is an exact match for the cherry color on her lips. The lips she’s chewing on right now. I stifle a moan and turn away before she catches me watching her with a growing hard-on in my pants. I sling my worn, leather backpack over my shoulders. She grabs her too-large handbag covered in a tacky logo that lets everyone know you wasted a fortune on it.

She shoots me a grim smile. “Let’s get this over with.”

“After you, goldie,” I respond, motioning for her to lead the way and trying not to follow the slight bounce of her ass as she walks out of the room.

“We can’t go to Le Bloc,” I argue, feeling as though I’ve been trying to whip egg whites in an oiled bowl with how much progress I’ve made with this damn French girl. The little brat needs a fucking spanking more than anything.

“Of course we should go to Le Bloc,” she shouts back. “That is where Soleil Blanc sources their meat from, so that is the best boucher to go to.”

I groan for the tenth time in the past ten minutes we’ve been arguing about where to even start. “Aurélie,” I say, trying to stay calm as I rub at the tension spots on my temples. “Just because Soleil Blanc is the most expensive restaurant in Paris does not mean we should be getting our meat from the same place they do. This challenge is about making the best dish for the best price. And we are not going to win by blowing our entire budget on overpriced meat marketed to spoiled Parisians like you.”

“Pardon?” she snaps, looking thoroughly offended.

“Don’t even try denying it, princess.”

“Do not call me that,” she grits out of her white teeth. Her sky blue eyes are stormier than I’ve ever seen them.

“And why not? Does the truth of it get under your pretty skin?” I ask, allowing my fingers to skate over the length of her naked arm, just barely touching her. She shivers beneath my touch in spite of the summer heat.

“It reminds me of my father.” Her face is an intentional composition of emotional blankness. It makes me want to ask more.

“And is that a bad thing?”

“Yes,” she answers shortly.

“Okay then, what should I call you?”

“I have a name, you know,” she retorts, sounding about as frustrated as I’ve felt since we left the restaurant. Good, she can appreciate the hell she puts me through.

“Hmm, not fun enough.” I pause, considering my options. “Goldie?” I counter.

“That sounds like the name of a dog,” she pouts, an adorable furrow between her brows.

“Well, you are a bitc?—”

“Do not even finish that,” she snaps.

“Fine,” I answer, my hands raised in surrender. “Golden girl?”

“Why the obsession with color?”

“I looked up your name.” Fuck, I should not have said that. That’s stalker shit. She gives me a judgy look like that’s exactly what she thinks too. “You know—a bit of recon. I need to know who my competition is.” She waits in silence as though giving me space to dig myself into a bigger hole. “Anyway, Aurélie means golden, and given the color of your hair, it just seems like an obvious choice.” I’m stumbling through my words and sound like a complete idiot. I want to drown myself in La Seine at the moment.

“Fine,” she answers after making me suffer through a long and uncomfortable silence. “I’ll allow golden girl, provided I never hear the word princess again. Deal?”

“Deal,” I agree, sticking out my pinky to seal the deal like I would do with my sister when we were kids.

“What are you doing?” she asks, looking down at my hand.

“Pinky promise.” She stares at me blankly. “Jesus, you’re so French. Here.” I grab her right hand and arrange her fingers so that they form a fist with only her pinky sticking up. Then I link my pinky around hers to make the promise official. “See? Pinky promise.”

“I feel violated,” she retorts, pulling back her hand and wiping it on her dress as though I’ve sullied her. Fuck, if only she knew how much I’d love to violate her, to take everything she has to give and make her beg for more.

But instead of telling her that, I get back to the task at hand. “We should go to the markets on Rue Montorgueil to look for produce. We’ll always get a better price on premium vegetables at one of the pop up stalls than we will at an established grocery.”

She lets out a long, remarkably French sigh. “Fine,” she concedes as though volunteering to be the first to meet the guillotine. “We can go to the markets.”

I smile. My golden girl is learning how to give in.

The streets are crowded, and there’s barely enough room to pass through the markets without bumping into people. It makes the summer air feel even hotter. Aurélie goes up to the first stall we see and starts palming the vegetables, prepared to purchase before we’ve gone through the stalls and compared prices. The prime spots for vendors are always at the beginning of the street, and they tend to mark up for it.

“These are lovely,” she says, handling a pair of plump cremini mushrooms. Overpriced creminis, I might add.

“Put them back,” I order.

“Why?” she asks, ignoring me as she picks up another.

“I said put them back.” The sternness in my voice makes her pause and look at me. Good, maybe she’ll actually start listening. “We are not going to get the first produce we put our hands all over.” I arch a brow of disapproval at her handfuls of mushrooms. “We need to scope out the rest of the market before we make a decision.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible.” She has a pout on her pretty red lips as she puts the produce back in the crate. And I’m fairly certain she’s resisting the urge to stamp her little feet as she follows me through the crowds.

I look around at the stalls, comparing sizes, colors, smells, mentally tallying the prices. In my periphery, I see Aurélie reach for a bundle of thin, stemmed carrots. “Do not touch that,” I warn.

“You’re not letting me do anything!” she huffs.

“I’m sorry; I thought you wanted to win this challenge?”

“And that requires me to stand here doing absolutely nothing while you boss me around like you’ve already been made sous?”

“Exactly,” I agree, shooting her a smile of perfectly constructed charm for the mere sake of driving her toward insanity.

Her blue eyes are like razor-edged knives as she glares at me. “I hope you choke to death on your own tongue.”

“But it would be so much more fun to choke you with my tongue, golden girl.” She gasps in outrage, and I don’t even feel bad.

I brush past her, finally finding what I’m looking for. Perfect creminis at nearly half the price as the ones in the first stall. Being thorough pays off. I stoop down to grab four, good-sized mushrooms. I feel Aurélie peeking over my shoulder, shocked that I’ve actually made a decision. And even more astonished when she sees the price.

“But—that’s nearly three euros less per kilo,” she exclaims, her large eyes even wider than usual.

I smirk. “Exactly,” I retort again, my tone smug.

Since I’ve picked the best stall, I allow her to help select root vegetables, pearl onions, and garlic. Just to be a dick, I don’t let her go anywhere near the mushrooms. We can source the fresh herbs from the small kitchen garden at Dix, same with the pantry items like flour and salt. We still need a bottle of C?te du Rh?ne, grass-fed butter, a whole chicken, bacon, and a bar of bitter chocolate.

“Wine or meat?” I ask, willing to let her have a little influence moving forward.

“Le Bloc?” she asks with a hopeful gleam in her blue eyes.

Fuck me, she doesn’t learn. “I take it back, your decision making privileges are revoked.” She sticks out her bottom lip and crosses her arms over her chest. “Fucking pout, and I’ll give you something to pout about, Aurélie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, like she can’t help tempting me.

“You see that pretty red dress you’re wearing?” I ask, pressing against her back as she walks in front of me. It’s crowded enough in the street that the brush of my hands over her hips could be considered an accident. But it’s not. I run my fingers gently over the material flowing down from her waist. It’s silky soft, but I bet her skin is even softer. I just want to bury myself in her skin and inhale her sweet cherry scent. A bead of sweat runs from her neck down the exposed indentation of her spine. I want to sweep my tongue along her bare back and lick the salt from her body.

“What about my dress?” she asks, disrupting me from my fantasies.

I press against her a little bit firmer, my hands on her hips gripping tightly enough that she knows my touches aren’t anything less than intentional. She looks over her shoulder in surprise, staring at me with an expression that isn’t exactly a fuck you. I’m not sure what she’s thinking at the moment, and instead of trying to figure it out, I tell her the twisted thoughts I can’t seem to get out of my head.

“Keep testing me, and I’ll take you into the back of one of these alleys, push you against the hard stone wall, lift up your dress, and spank you until your ass matches that pretty shade of red.”

She’s stunned into silence. I’m not even certain she’s breathing for the whole five seconds it takes for her to form a snarky reply, and then she blows with her usual temper. “Va te faire foutre!” She tries to shove me away from her with a sharp thrust of her hips. It’s a terrible move on her part because all she manages to do is rub the soft, barely covered curve of her ass into the growing erection in my pants.

“Would you like me to take that literally, my foul-mouthed little French girl?” I ask, letting her feel the hard imprint of my cock as she struggles against me. “Because I would be more than happy to acquiesce.”

“Espèce de connard,” she snaps. “Get off me. I do not consent to being manhandled in the middle of a public street.”

“Not a fan of an audience?” I ask with a laugh, releasing her and watching her storm off in front of me. She doesn’t get very far. The crowds keep her at an arm’s length. If I wanted to, I could reach for her right now and pull her against me. But I won’t. I’m gentleman enough not to force myself on a woman. Unless she wants me to.

“Do you even know where you’re going, Aurélie?” I ask, keeping a short distance away as I follow her lead. She doesn’t know where she’s going. She stamped past the street we were supposed to turn down five minutes ago. I’m close with a boucher in this area from when I worked at the bistro. Given my good relationship with Philipe, the owner, I should be able to get us enough of a discount to win the challenge.

When she turns down a street that is decidedly the opposite of where we need to be, I realize where she’s going. The little bitch is walking toward Le Bloc. We have less than two hours left, and she’s wasting my fucking time. I grab her wrist and pull her toward me.

“Alley. Now,” I growl, letting her stumble over her heels on the cobblestone as she tries to keep up with me.

“No, wait—” I don’t let her finish her plea before I drag her down the closest alleyway. It’s a tight fit between the two white stone buildings, but at least it’s deserted. Fully prepared to make good on my threat, I spin her around and push her face-first against the wall. I’m careful not to scrape her cheek against the stone as I grab her hair and pull her head up to look at me.

“What do you think you were doing, Aurélie? Were you being a good girl and listening to what I told you?” I lean down and let my lips brush her ear. “Or were you being a bad girl?” I whisper.

She moans. Moans. And damnit if I’m not tempted to fuck her right here in the alley like a cheap whore I picked up off a street corner. Ignoring the pulse of my cock, I pull tighter on her hair. “That question was not rhetorical. Answer me.”

“I was going to Le Bloc,” she answers, her voice a mixture of anger and fear. It’s heady and sweet.

“And did I specifically say we aren’t getting our meat from Le Bloc?”

“Yes,” she bites out. “But you aren’t in charge. We’re a team.” She tries to squirm free, but I press her tightly against the wall. If she struggles more, she’ll only hurt herself.

“Ah ah ah, every team needs a leader,” I retort. “And that would be me.” She scoffs, and I grab her jaw, so tempted to use my thumb to press her red lip into her teeth. “I need to win this challenge. I’m not like you. I’m not classically trained, and I don’t have daddy’s money. These kinds of opportunities don’t come up for me every day. And if I fuck this up, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to cook in a restaurant like Dix.”

I loosen my grip slightly, allowing her space to breathe. “Losing isn’t an option for me, so stop getting in my fucking way,” I order before releasing her.

I wait for her to get off the wall so we can quit wasting time and get back to our task, but she doesn’t. She stays there, her golden hair mussed, her heaving breasts pressed against the wall, her dress slightly askew with one of the thin red straps slipping down her shoulder. She looks ripe for ravaging. And judging from the heat in her bright blue eyes, she just might be.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice husky and rough as I stare down at her.

“Waiting,” she answers, her teeth digging into her lip as she stares right back at me.

“Waiting for what?” I ask, confusion setting in.

“For you to make good on your threat.”

Holy mother of God. There’s no way. Girls like this don’t exist outside of porn. And heaven. In spite of my singular tastes, I’ve never actually done this to someone before. And no one has ever fucking volunteered.

“You want me to,” I swallow hard, searching for the right response, “you want me to spank you?”

She nods, and the small gesture of agreement sends blood surging straight to my cock.

“Why?” I demand as I press closer, unable to resist running my hands over her body. She’s so warm; it’s a mixture of summer heat and something else entirely.

“Because I earned it,” she answers with a shrug. “You were right, I wasn’t being considerate of your position in this team or this restaurant. I won’t deny that things come easier to me, and I won’t stand in the way of you doing your best to succeed.” She looks up at me, her periwinkle eyes wide and remorseful. “I’m sorry.”

I consider her intently, looking for any body cues that she doesn’t want this. All I find is longing and need. Slowly, I nod my head. “Hold your dress up to your hips,” I command, my voice firm in spite of my nerves.

Her fingers tremble as she grasps the hem of her dress and lifts it up to her waist, revealing a pair of red lacy panties on her perfect plump ass. I groan, running my fingers over her warm, creamy skin. She’s perfect—the perfect blank canvas. All she needs is some color.

I don’t give her any warning. She’s already consented. Hell, she’s practically begged for it. Without giving myself a moment to overthink it, I raise my right hand and slam my palm against her ass. She gasps, but the sound isn’t pained; she sounds desperate and hungry. Not wanting to leave her aching, I spank her again, watching her other cheek blossom with a matching pinkness.

“Fuck, you pink up pretty,” I mutter, spanking her again and working myself into a rhythm. Her skin warms beneath my blows, and we’re both getting sweaty in the summer heat. “You’re doing so well, golden girl.” And I swear to God, she fucking purrs in response.

“Do you like the pain?” I ask as I continue to slap my palm against her skin. The pink is deepening now, going from rosé to a cherry wine.

She shakes her head in answer to my question, even as she moans with every spank. Even as she presses her ass back to meet every blow.

“Do you need it?” I revise, wondering if she has the same dark instinct buried deep within her body to feel the pain like I have the need to inflict it.

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice breathy and unhinged. She sounds as though she could come at any moment.

I slap her hard and fast, working her over until I get her exactly how I want her. She cries out once, a soft sob filling her throat, and I stop instantly. I leave her breathless and panting against the wall and step back to admire my work. It’s perfect, I decide. The perfect shade of red.

I kneel down behind her, not caring about whatever filth is on the ground of the alleyway. I caress her hot skin, loving the way her cherry colored panties blend in with the scorched flesh of her ass. Feeling her shiver beneath me, I slide the red lace down her ass and legs and let them pool at her ankles on the dirty floor.

“Can I taste you?” I ask, desperate to devour her like a man dying of hunger.

“Yes. Mon Dieu, yes,” she whimpers in response.

Needing no further invitation, I spread apart her folds with my thumbs and slide my tongue into her wet slit. My eyes flutter shut at the first delicious taste of her—she’s sweet and salty and rich, and I want to swallow every drop of her. I run my tongue from her entrance all the way up to her asshole, circling around the puckered hole. She squirms beneath me, but I swat at her ass as a warning to stay still.

“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” I moan against her skin between licks. “Like cherries ripened in the sun until they’re almost bursting.” She keens and spreads her legs wider, pushing further off the wall so that I can devour every inch of her. “That’s it, chérie, give it to me.” But it’s not enough. I need more.

I grab her by the hips and spin her around to face me, forcing her back against the wall. From this angle, it’s so much easier to eat her pretty pussy. With her dress still clutched at her waist leaving her bare, I spread open her outer lips with my thumbs, and dig in, licking and sucking at her clit. Aurélie cries out, her eyes closed in rapture as I drive her toward release.

Wanting her closer, I grasp her under the knee and throw her leg over my shoulder. Her eyes startle open at the loss of her balance. She tries to pull away, but I hold her tight against me with a firm hand on her thigh. “Put all your weight on me. I’ve got you,” I tell her, reaching for her other leg.

“Non,” she protests, still trying to evade my demand to have her as close as possible.

I reach back and slap her ass before grabbing both of her thighs. “Shut the fuck up and smother me with this sweet cunt, chérie.” Pushing her back firmly against the wall to support her upper body, I grab her other leg and hoist it over my shoulders so that she is sitting astride my head with her pussy directly against my mouth.

I swipe my tongue over her clit over and over, tracing circles that have her crying out for more. “Are you ready to come, Aurélie?” I ask, my words muffled by the wet folds of her pussy.

“Oui,” she sobs, her legs starting to tremble around my cheeks.

“Do you want to come on my tongue?” I gasp as the pitch of her cries rises higher.

“S’il te pla?t. Yes,” she begs, her French and English blending as she tries to stay focused.

“Then come,” I command, digging my fingers into her ass to hold her steady as I lash at her clit with my tongue. She comes louder than any girl I’ve ever been with, a scream on her lips as she soaks my mouth and chin with her arousal. I lick between her thighs until her moans die down, and she slinks down on me in complete exhaustion.

Gently, I unwrap her legs from my neck one at a time and set her on unsteady feet. My chin is still wet, and I run my thumb over my mouth to wipe away any excess before slipping it between my lips and sucking it clean. She watches me with fire in her eyes; I almost think she would rather have licked me clean herself.

Still kneeling, I pick up her panties from where they were abandoned on the floor and gesture for her to lift her foot. I slip her panties on and pull them up until they’re tucked tightly against her cunt. I’m well aware that they’re dirty and soaked, and the thought of her uncomfortably wearing them all day brings a bright smile to my face. I pull her dress from the firm clutches of her fingers and smooth it back down over her hips before standing to my feet.

Aurélie looks noticeably uneasy when I’m no longer beneath her but towering over her with a smug smile on my face and her cum on my lips. I search her wide eyes, looking for any sign that she regrets this. There’s a glimmer of something dark, but I can’t be sure what it is. Black is smudged beneath her eyes, her golden hair is damp with sweat, and her smeared lips look like she tried to bite right through them. I rub my knuckles over her left cheek; it’s marked from being pressed against the wall for so long. I stare down at her like I’ve just discovered a new addiction, and I want more.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” she says, the first words she’s spoken since she was begging to come. She doesn’t sound as sweet and desperate now.

“Like what?” I ask, feigning innocence with a shrug.

“Like I’m the first girl you’ve ever spanked and tongue-fucked in a back alley,” she snaps back with a hint of acidity.

“You are the first girl I’ve spanked and tongue-fucked in a back alley.” I leave out the fact that she’s the first in general, alley or not.

Something soft flickers in her cornflower eyes before she blinks it away. “Don’t worry, I won’t be your last.” She starts to pull away.

“Hey, where are you going?” I ask, capturing her wrist and trying to tug her back.

“We have a challenge to win, remember?” she retorts, her tone tart as yuzu as she tries to rip herself away again.

Actually, I did forget the challenge for about twenty blissful minutes. Minutes that we didn’t have to spare. Shit, this girl fucks with my concentration like nothing else. “Fine,” I answer, annoyance creeping into my voice. “Let’s go.” I push past her and move toward the sunlight streaming in at the entrance of the alley.

“Wait,” she calls out. I turn back to see her biting her lip as she fists at the material of her dress, her energy seeming anxious. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

I scoff. “Why would I publicly announce that I tongue-fucked the competition? You’re practically the enemy.”

Her expression falls, my words causing the intended sting. Although she has no reason to be hurt. I’m the one who just pleased her on my knees before she ran off and acted like she wanted to forget the whole thing.

“It’s just—no one can know. Promise me.” Her voice trembles, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say my golden girl is scared.

“Fine, I promise,” I bite back, rolling my eyes. “Want me to pinky swear?” She snorts, the sound haughty and bratty, and it makes me want to throw her against the wall again.

“I think I’ve had enough of your perverse Americanisms for one day, thank you.”