Shades of Red (Sharp Edges Duet #1)

4. Garbure

The rich scent of onions and garlic simmering in fat fills the steamed air in the kitchen. The atmosphere is calmer, quieter than usual. We aren’t all running around trying to get things prepped, cooked, and plated in time. We’re waiting patiently, stirring, taking the time to walk around the room and talk with other chefs as we taste their dishes and offer compliments or improvements. I’m sure our usual cutthroat mentalities will all be firmly in place by the next challenge, but it’s nice to feel like you’re surrounded by peers rather than adversaries for once.

This morning, Chef Matis tasked us with making a soup. It sounds simple, but it’s a dish that can take the entire day if done right. Soup is something that can be crafted from even the sparsest pantry, and it’s one of the first things I remember experimenting with in the kitchen. There were days when we barely had enough to pull together to make a meal. I would make a game of it with my sister—we would dig through the nearly empty cupboards and search the corners of the fridge to find things that could be thrown together to make something resembling dinner.

Through a little trial and error, I discovered that you could add picked through chicken bones and carrots or potatoes—or whatever vegetables we were lucky enough to have—to water and cook it long enough to make what we called soup. Sometimes there was even a spare can of peas to make it extra special. Soup is something that connects most culinary cultures in spite of region or economic class, and I think it’s a highly underrated dish.

My ham hocks and duck confit have been simmering with a handful of cloves, onions, garlic, celery, and fresh herbs for about six hours. I’ve come a long way from boiled water and scraps, and the smell wafting from the gas stove is euphoric. I’m sautéing my root vegetables in duck fat in one pan and boiling water to blanch cabbage in another pot as I try to remain focused and not look over at Aurélie’s station. With such a slow challenge, I’ve struggled to ignore her with the same determination that she’s remained oblivious to my presence for the whole day.

She’s been cold and distant since our indiscretion in the alley. We came in second place that day, just barely losing to One and Two because they decided to take a risk and nix the starch source in their recipe. Chef liked their flavors enough that he allowed it, and the omission meant their coq au vin was a lower cost than ours. When I suggested we grab a coffee afterward to celebrate our almost victory, she told me to fuck off before being picked up in a black Cadillac and leaving without a word of goodbye.

And she’s barely spoken a word to me since. I feel like she’s perpetually punishing me for giving her the punishment she asked for. I’ve thought back to that moment over and over, worried that I took it too far. Maybe I hit her too hard. Maybe I shouldn’t have stripped her cunt bare and feasted on her like an animal in the middle of a dirty alley. Maybe I should have held her afterward instead of throwing my focus directly into the challenge. Maybe I should have thanked her or apologized or asked her to be my girlfriend. I’ve got no fucking idea.

If I’m honest, I’m inexperienced with the protocol for post-spanking and orgasms, but Aurélie’s chilly attitude leaves me with the assumption that I’ve fucked it up in some capacity.

She looks strange today. Instead of her usual fresh-faced glow, her face is caked in makeup. Her lips are still a bright cherry red, but the cheeks that used to match have been painted a rosy color, and there’s no warm flush to her skin. It makes it harder to read her expression when her face is so covered. And I miss getting to see her blush when I taunt her in the kitchen.

She catches me staring, and instead of shying away, I challenge her. “You look different,” I say, careful to keep stirring my wooden spatula to prevent the leeks from getting too dark in the pan.

“Quoi?” she retorts, not even looking up from her pot. She’s chosen bouillabaisse, and the scent of seafood clashes with my garbure. Even our palates are out of sync at the moment.

“Your face,” I explain further. “You don’t look like you.”

She scoffs as she adds a squeeze of lemon to her steaming pot. “I hadn’t realized that three weeks was enough for you to become so well-acquainted with every facet of my face. I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or scared by your obvious obsession with me.”

“Three weeks was long enough for me to get pretty well acquainted with your cunt, chérie,” I bite back. Her head shoots up in panic, her wide eyes scouring the kitchen in case someone heard me mention how she came against a wall with my tongue in her pussy. The poor little thing is so scared that someone will know she stooped to grace my face with her spoiled French ass.

I kill the flames on my stove with a little more aggression than necessary and take my pan of vegetables off the burner. After checking the temp of my stock, I walk over to Aurélie’s station, invading her space because I know it will make her blood heat. “And if you continue to ignore me, you should be very scared of my obsession with you.” I cross my tattooed arms as I lean up against her stove. “Who knows what I’ll do.”

“Do not come into my station and threaten me, connard,” she seethes as she takes a step back, stirring spoon still in hand. The chances of her using it to beat me over the head when she gets frustrated enough are higher than the chances that she won’t.

I disregard that possibility as I take a step closer to her. “Why are you ignoring me?” I ask, sounding indifferent even as irritation at her bratty attitude threatens to consume me.

“I’m not,” she huffs. Another step back.

“Yes, you are,” I growl, closing the distance between us. Looking to make sure no one is watching, I smoothly slide my hands over her hips, rubbing my thumbs over the white material that has the audacity to keep her soft skin from my touch. “Why?”

“You’re a distraction,” she answers, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly. “We lost the challenge because we can’t focus when we’re together.”

“No, we lost because of a damn potato,” I grit out. She’s making excuses, and we both know it. I use my grip on her hips to draw her closer, pressing her against the firm erection in my pants, letting her feel what she does to me. If anyone is a fucking distraction it’s her with her swollen cherry lips and her wide, periwinkle eyes that would look so pretty filled with tears. If we weren’t in a kitchen full of people, I would put her on her knees and fuck that red mouth until they were.

“Grey, I can’t,” she whispers, her words a plea. Her hands land on mine, but she doesn’t push me away.

“Yes, you can,” I tempt, feeling a devil’s smile pull at my lips.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she sighs, and I can hear the resignation in her tone.

“But you’ll enjoy it.” Besides, a little workplace fuckery never killed anyone.

She bites down on her pretty lip, considering my offer. Then something wicked sparks in her blue eyes. “Win a challenge.”

That isn’t at all what I was expecting to come out of her mouth. “What?” I ask, wondering what the challenges have to do with the dark things stirring between us.

“Win a challenge,” she repeats, her lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Prove that you can succeed in spite of us being near each other. And I will consider letting you touch me again.”

The conniving bitch. She’s asking me to win a challenge to earn the privilege of touching her because she thinks it’s impossible. She’s cocky, and she’s underestimating me, and both will be her downfall. “Promise?” I ask, my voice full of false sweetness, like the weak, inexperienced boy she so clearly thinks I am.

“Yes,” she answers, her small hands gripping mine tighter. She thinks she has me in her grasp. It’s kind of adorable how wrong she is.

“Pinky promise?” I taunt, reminding her of the day I got to taste her cunt.

“Espèce d'imbécile d'Américain,” she groans in French as she pushes me away.

“Your broth is about to boil, golden girl,” I warn her, not even needing to look over. I can smell that she left the burner set on too high a temperature. “You shouldn’t let it get so hot. It might burn.” Without another glance, I go back to my station to focus on my garbure, which I’ve left at the perfect temp. I taste the rich stock mixture of ham and duck and herbs, and I can already tell it’s one of my best dishes. This one came from the heart, however dark and twisted it may be.

I’m going to cook my fucking cock off, and then I’ll shove all eight inches down Aurélie’s throat after I win.

I’ve never had humble pie, but from the disgusted look on Aurélie’s pretty face, it must taste terrible.

I won. It wasn’t even close. Chef Matis was impressed enough to say that he’d never experienced such a layered representation of flavors in a liquid based dish. Granted, the soup course is hardly a cornerstone in French cuisine, but I appreciated the praise.

Aurélie looks as though someone shit in her soufflé when I walk back to my station for the first time as a challenge winner. And I can’t wait to claim my reward. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” I ask, my tone smug.

“Bravo,” she replies tartly, starting to put away her things for the day.

“Ah, back to French I see. Is someone mad?” I goad.

“Non.”

“English in the kitchen, Aurélie,” I scold. “You don’t want me to have to tell Chef you’re being a bad girl, do you?”

Her eyes flash with heat as her cheeks redden enough that I can see it underneath all that makeup. She likes the degradation, and the thought brings a devious smile to my face. “Or maybe that’s exactly what you want me to do,” I say, reaching out to run my thumb over her lips. She shivers beneath my touch and looks up at me, her eyes shining with need like I’m the first man to make her feel fire with his touch. I’d like nothing more than to watch her burn.

“Hey, congrats!” comes a familiar and unwelcome voice from behind me. I feel a friendly pat land on my back, and I have to resist the urge to rip One’s fucking hand off. “Welcome to the victor’s circle, hermano.”

“Thanks, One,” I respond through gritted teeth, stepping away from my naughty little French girl to greet the intruder. Can’t he see we are having a moment?

“Hey, it’s Javi,” he corrects. “What’s Chef’s deal with the numbers, anyway? It’s like some weird, detached robot shit.”

I smile tightly. Communicating with people who are overly chatty is not my strong suit. Of course Aurélie doesn’t jump in to save me. She just watches me drown. “I think he’s trying to keep us distanced so we can all focus on the food rather than creating personal relationships with each other.” Like that fucking worked.

“Well, fuck that. This is Paris. We should be having fun and enjoying it.”

“Sure,” I answer shortly, eager to get back to my earlier conversation before we were interrupted.

“Some of us are going to L’Armurerie after we close up. Are you guys in?”

As soon as I open my mouth to say I have better fucking things to do than sit around and drink with a bunch of people who are trying to take my job, Aurélie beats me to an answer.

“Oui, avec plaisir. We would love to come,” she answers brightly like we weren’t just about to discuss the things I will do to her when I get her alone.

My eyes cut to hers, and she looks distinctly pleased to have found what she thinks is an escape from our bargain. She assumes that being around others will save her, but she’s wrong. If I want her, nothing can save her from me.

“Yeah,” I agree, very obviously wrapping my arm around her waist. “I’d love to come.” The emphasis on my last word is for her alone, and she squirms at the implication that she’ll be the one ensuring that I do. Preferably on her naughty fucking knees.

Antique muskets, portraits of Napoleon, and a number of French flags line the pale blue walls of L’Armurerie, the overtly French bar that seems to bring in more tourists than Parisian regulars. It’s got a theatrical vibe that I don’t necessarily enjoy with my alcohol, but they have authentic top shelf liquor, so I don’t complain too much as I order an old fashioned for myself and a cherry martini for Aurélie. She didn’t ask for it, but I take great pleasure in giving her the things I know she’ll enjoy even if she acts like she doesn’t want them.

“What’s this?” she asks when I hand her the red colored drink with a skewered cherry on the side. She eyes the drink suspiciously before looking up at me with a raised brow.

I scoff at the implied insult. As if I’d have any need of roofies to get her to give in to me. And if I wanted to poison her—which I’ve definitely considered a time or two—I wouldn’t do it in the middle of a fucking bar. “It’s a drink, Aurélie,” I explain in spite of its obviousness. “I thought it suited you. Cherry sweet but bitter at the same time.”

She scowls at the jab, but says nothing as I take her hand and lead her toward the low table and plush leather lounge chairs where the rest of our party is waiting. There are six of us—the ones who were single and didn’t have families to go home to. There is only one vacancy left at the table, and it’s an oversized chair that just barely functions as a loveseat with enough room for two. A smug smile tugs at my lips at the sour expression on Aurélie’s face when she realizes we’ll have to share it.

“Hey, there they are,” One, or Javi, calls when we reach the table, the drink in his hand already half-gone. “Is this okay?” he asks, gesturing to the loveseat. “If it’s not cool, we can pull another chair from one of the tables.” He looks around the crowded space. “I’m sure we could find one in the back.”

This time, it’s my turn to respond before Aurélie can get in a word of protest. “Oh no, it’s okay,” I answer with an easy smile, pulling her forward. “We share a station. We can manage this just fine, can’t we, golden girl?” I look down at her sweetly, and she looks about ready to slice off my hand that’s still holding hers. I slide into the plush seat and pull her down beside me. “Cozy, isn’t it?” I think she’s realizing that I’m going to make this a whole lot harder for her than it would have been to go home with me.

“So how did you guys end up at Dix?” Javi asks after we’ve gotten settled and gone through introductions. Gusteau is from northern France, Erich from Germany, Luukas is from Finland, and Javi himself is from Cuba. We’ve got quite the mix. And poor Aurélie is the only girl.

“I’ve lived in Paris for almost three years,” I start. “One of the girls at my previous restaurant was contacted by Dix about the opening for sous. She declined, but she offered up my name instead. I was lucky Chef Matis liked my boeuf bourguignon enough to offer me a shot,” I finish with a shrug.

“Bourguignon is a hard one,” Erich chimes in. “He auditioned me with crêpes. Simple procedure, but no room to fuck up.”

“Matelote,” Javi says with a small look of distaste as he mentions the seafood stew cooked in a wine broth. “Not my favorite, but I still brought the flavor.”

“Duck confit,” Luukas adds. “It was delicious.” He says it simply, like he’s just being honest rather than bragging.

“Lobster à l’Américaine,” Guesto announces, his accent thickly French.

“You lucky bastard,” Javi quips. “You barely have to do anything to make lobster delicious. I call French favoritism.”

“Speaking of,” I add, looking at the beautifully annoyed girl beside me. “What did you have to cook, Aurélie?”

“Me?” she asks, her voice a gasp of surprise as if she hadn’t expected to join the conversation.

“Yeah, what did Chef Matis test you with to make sure you were fit to grace his kitchen? I’m assuming those pretty blue eyes weren’t quite enough to make the cut.” I let my eyes roam over her body, appreciating every perfect detail. “I bet they were enough for him to take it easy on you though,” I tease in a low voice.

“Oh, umm—tarte aux myrtilles,” she answers, sounding a bit unsure of herself.

I frown down at her. “You made a blueberry tart in spring?” I ask in surprise. “That’s a little out of season.”

“He wanted to see how I handled the unexpected,” she bites back, her tone sharp.

“Fair enough,” I concede, her words stirring at my devious desire to discover the same exact thing.

The conversation gets lively as people get drunker, and I sip my old fashioned slowly as I contemplate how best to torture my tart little cherry. I look over to see that Aurélie has finished her drink and is twirling the cocktail stick around the rim in boredom. I snatch the empty glass from her hand, swallow the cherry at the bottom from my own, and order us refills. The glasses are fresh and cold in my hands as I carry them back to the table. The other chefs aren’t even looking at us as they all argue over the best way to use truffles to enhance a dish without overpowering it.

I hand Aurélie her drink, not receiving a thank you and not expecting one. I don’t take her cold demeanor personally; she’ll be begging me soon enough. Looking over to make sure the guys are still fully invested in their own conversations, I lean down and brush my lips against Aurélie’s ear. “Spread your legs,” I whisper, my words smooth as bourbon.

Her periwinkle eyes jerk up to mine in shock. “Quoi?” she snaps, her red mouth gaping at my audacity. She should be careful tempting me with those lips. I might decide to fuck them.

“Spread your legs, chérie,” I command. “You said I could touch you if I won.” And now it’s time for her to pay for doubting that I could.

“I did not specify where,” she retorts, crossing her legs just to spite me. I growl at her attitude; that kind of behavior is going to get her into trouble.

“Aurélie, spread those legs now, or I will show the whole bar how much you enjoy being spanked when you’ve been naughty.”

She blanches, biting down hard on her lip before she slowly uncrosses her legs and spreads them. Slightly.

“Wider, Aurélie,” I order in a harsh whisper. “I want to feel how wet you are while you sit here with your hand on my thigh.” I give a pointed look at where her fingers rest lightly on my upper right thigh. Sure it’s crowded, but she could have put her hand anywhere. The fact that she put it there shows that she might want me a little more than she cares to admit—even to herself.

She goes to snatch away her hand, but I capture her narrow fingers and hold them captive against me, a little higher than she was before. Swallowing hard, she spreads her legs wider, giving me access to her cunt should I choose to take it. Which I absolutely fucking do.

My hand slips under the edge of her dress, slowly sliding up her thigh. She’s wearing solid white today, the innocence of the color an illusion because I can see the slutty red of her panties peeking through the thin layers. Like an angel with the cunt of a whore. When my fingers reach the apex of her thighs, I have my answer. She’s seeping through her panties.

“Dirty girl,” I sigh, stroking my fingertips against her center. “Take these off,” I tell her, sliding a single finger along the edge of her panties, teasing her with the fear that I might go further.

Aurélie’s eyes flit anxiously to the chefs sitting across from us, scared that they might see our little game. I turn her head back toward me with a single finger, the glass of bourbon still in my hand. The condensation leaves a streak in her heavy makeup, and I can glimpse her perfect skin underneath.

“Don’t look at them,” I command. “Look at me. I’m the one that’s going to make you come in the middle of this bar, and I’m not going to do it while you stare at some other fucker.” I rub the edge of my damp glass along her jaw, smearing her makeup more. “Your beautiful eyes stay on me, do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” she mumbles, her eyes fluttering as she tries to obey while I slide my fingers between her folds over the material of her panties.

“Yes, chef,” I correct. My ego is coming out to play, but I don’t give a fuck. She can give me the respect I deserve, and it will make her suffer just a little bit more.

“Yes, chef,” she responds, the words flowing naturally from her red lips. When she doesn’t overthink it, she can submit quite easily.

“Good girl. Now get those panties down. I want to feel how warm you are on the inside.” I remove my hand and let her struggle to complete my task as discreetly as possible on her own.

With no hesitation this time, her hands slide up to her hips, grasping the edges of her panties and tugging them down. The act of removing her panties in public is easier than I expected; she must have practice. The thought darkens my mood as I think of a way to punish her for being a slut with someone other than me.

When she has the red silk down at her ankles, I hold out my hand to take them. She pauses for a moment before handing them over. I run my thumb over the wet spot, resisting the urge to bring them to my nose and inhale her scent. Our preoccupied colleges would probably notice if I started sniffing panties across from them. Instead, I slip them into my back pocket for later.

She’s still looking up at me, her bright blue eyes wide as she waits for what happens next, her lips parted like she wants me to use them for target practice. And fuck if I don’t want to. She’d be the prettiest little cumslut I’ve ever seen.

“We’re heading out,” Javi calls out of nowhere, startling both of us as we jump in our seats. This guy must have a death wish. That’s twice he’s interrupted me with my girl today. Fucking cockblock. Aurélie looks guilty; I’m fairly certain I just look pissed as hell. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow. Are you guys coming?”

“We just got refills,” I respond, a forced smile pulling uncomfortably at my lips as I lift the full glass in my hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll leave after we finish. Don’t want to give you too much of an easy time in the kitchen, One,” I quip with a wink, and I hate myself for it. Friendly banter makes me want to gag on my own chef’s knife, and this chipper fucker is eating away at the last of my social graces.

“Ohhh, he brings el fuego! We’re going to have to watch out for you, hermano,” he says playfully like I’ve just challenged him to a game of beer pong.

Fuck my life.

“It would be at your own risk if you didn’t,” I retort, letting him see the glint of my razor sharp edges. He’s right; he should watch out, especially if he’s going to keep distracting me from the French pussy I would like to be knuckles deep in right now.

Javi laughs at the warning. “Well, you two have a good night. Have another drink or two. I wouldn’t mind having an edge tomorrow if you both show up hungover in the morning.”

“Yes, you’d need an edge to win,” I retort. “Goodnight, One. Chefs,” I greet, nodding my head at them as they walk out the bar. And leave me alone with my pretty little whore sitting there in her white dress with no panties on while she soaks the furniture. The whole time, her eyes never left mine. Such a good girl. She deserves a reward. It’s a shame I prefer torture to treats.

“You’re alone with me now, chérie,” I taunt, swirling the liquor in my glass while the ice clinks against the edge. “Question is—what am I going to do to you?”

She goes to nibble on her lip out of habit, but I capture her bottom lip and tug it down to her chin, revealing her teeth in a way that probably feels distinctly unflattering. Panicking, she looks around the room for a split second to see if anyone is looking, and that is one second more than I allowed. To humiliate her even further, I slide my thumb and forefinger into her mouth in front of her teeth, stretching her lips wide. If I leave her like this for too long, she’ll start to drool all over my hand. As much as I would like to see her making a mess of herself, this isn’t the place to let my needs run rampant. I’ll have to wait until I have the privacy to wreck her like I really want to.

“What to do with my needy little slut?” I purr against her ear. I pull my fingers from her lips and wipe the spit against her cheek, spreading the wetness over her skin. I dip the same fingers into my glass, swirling them around in the alcohol before bringing them back to her lips. “Open.”

She obeys instantly, parting her red lips and sticking out her tongue too just to send my cock throbbing painfully in my jeans, longing for a lick. I press two bourbon soaked fingers into her mouth, pressing them along the middle of her tongue until I reach the back of her throat. And then I slide them further, forcing her to gag instantly around my hand. I pause, giving her a moment to adjust to having her throat filled.

“Do you want more?” I ask, moving my fingers slowly over her tongue. She nods as well as she can, and I smile at how much she’s enjoying having her mouth fingered in the middle of a bar. I pull back and bring my glass to my lips. She lifts her hand to wipe the spit from her mouth, but I reach out and capture her wrist. “Ah, ah, ah,” I chide. “I like you messy.” To emphasize my point, I reach up and run my thumb through what is left of her lipstick, smearing it across her cheek like the joker’s smile.

“Keep your mouth open and tilt your head back,” I demand. I dig my fingers into her golden hair and pull her head back farther before taking another sip of bourbon and swishing it around with my tongue. I lean over her, cradling her skull like I’m about to kiss her for the first time, and spit into her mouth, letting her taste the alcohol, bitters, orange, sugar, cherry and me all in one swallow.

Before her mouth has a chance to close, my lips are on hers, parting her teeth and delving inside her. I hold her steady beneath me, drinking her all in. Our first kiss tastes like bourbon and cherries. A perfect union. She tastes like she was made just for me.

Aurélie doesn’t fight me as I try to devour her. She opens even wider, letting me explore the ridges of her teeth and the roof of her mouth with my tongue. She doesn’t even struggle when I kiss her so long that her air runs low. I kiss her until I feel breathless and dizzy before finally releasing her, both of our chests heaving.

“Do you want me to touch you?” I ask, my voice unsteady.

“Yes,” she answers, her voice quivering just as much.

“Here?” I question, my eyes looking around at all the people who could see us. It’s late, nearly eleven, and the crowds have started to thin. It’s mostly couples left, more interested in each other than any of the dirty things we do in our own little corner. Hell, I could probably force her to her knees and shove my cock down her pretty throat, and no one would even bat an eye. The thought has my cock weeping for her mouth.

“Yes,” she says again, her eyes never leaving mine. She’s too far gone to care about the other people right now. She’s starving for me, and I won’t let her go hungry.

“Take out my cock,” I tell her, loving the flash of fear in her eyes. She’s happy to let me please her in a public place, but clearly she’s not as interested in reciprocation. “I’m not going to make you do anything,” I scoff. Yet. “I’m just not going to touch you while my rock hard cock is trapped in my pants.”

Nodding, she reaches for me, her trembling fingers grasping the buckle of my belt. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the thought of wrapping it around her neck and tightening until tears fall down her cheeks. Her hands move to my zipper, and my cock jolts as she brushes against it. She slides my jeans and boxers down low enough that my cock peeks up from the top, but she doesn’t touch me. I can finally breathe, and that’s good enough for now. The table in front of us is large enough to hide most of what we’re doing from any lurkers, but if someone wanted to see, they could.

“Lay back.” She obeys, resting her head on the edge of the loveseat so that she’s half reclining beside me with her legs facing toward me. I take a drink from my glass, this time letting a piece of ice slide into my mouth. Leaning over her, I make her think I’m going to spit into her mouth again. Instead, I reach down and capture her nipple between my teeth. She’s not wearing a bra, and the thin material of her dress does nothing to save her from the cold ice in my mouth as I use my tongue to force it against her. She squirms beneath me, moaning as loud as she dares in a public place.

I groan with her in my mouth, letting her feel the vibration against her sensitive nub that’s hard as a cherry pit. Before the ice melts, I move over to the other nipple, biting down hard as I swirl my tongue and the ice around her. She whimpers, and my cock jolts in answer to her call. I pull off her nipple and lean over her mouth. Sensing what I want, she opens for me, and I spit the small piece of ice into her mouth, watching her swallow it down like a good girl.

I swoop down and taste her mouth once more before grabbing another piece of ice from my glass. This time, I hold it between my fingers, sliding my hand underneath her dress and between her thighs. She shivers when I run the ice along the inside of her thighs, tensing for where I’m headed. And when I reach the apex of her thighs, she tries to adjust her hips and move out of the way. “Sit still,” I command, gripping her hip in one hand as I force the ice between her folds. She squeals when I press the ice directly against her clit, the temperature cold to the point of pain on her sensitive bundle of nerves.

I rub the ice over her clit, using it to force her toward pleasure even as she squirms in discomfort. The ice melts in my hand under the heat of her cunt, creating a puddle of wetness on her dress and the seat below her. She groans when I reach to grab another piece of ice from my glass. “Hush,” I chide. “You know you love it.” She shakes her head when I thrust a new piece of ice between her legs, even as she starts to move her hips to grind against my hand. “Yeah, you love it so much you filthy little slut. So pretty moving those hips to rub ice all over your sweet clit.”

I pull out my dripping wet hand to grab another piece from my glass. It’s almost all melted. “Do you want to come, chérie?”

“Yes,” she answers, nodding her head frantically at the same time.

“This is the last piece,” I tell her as I hold up a cube of ice. “If you can come before it melts, I’ll let you. If not, you’re not allowed to come at all tonight. Understood?”

“Y-yes, chef,” she whimpers. And fuck me, that phrase on her lips twists at my insides in a way that it’s never done before. I feel like I could come without even touching my dick as I listen to her sweet moans with my hand on her cunt.

Willing to give her a helping hand, I slide two fingers into her slick pussy. She keens at the sudden intrusion, her cunt clamping down on my hand as I continue to slide the ice over her clit. When I slam a third finger inside her, she comes without warning, pulsing around my fingers as she bites down on her hand to keep from screaming and alerting the entire bar that she’s orgasming with more than half my hand shoved up her cunt. She finally collapses against the loveseat, and I pull the small sliver of ice out from between her thighs.

“My good little whore made it with time to kill,” I tell her, feeling quite pleased with her performance. “Open.” She obeys, taking the rest of the ice on her tongue and licking the taste of herself from my fingers. When she’s done, I slip my fingers from her mouth and bring them to my lips, running my tongue along the sides until I’ve licked away every drop of her spit. Then I claim her mouth, loving the earthy flavor of her cum dancing on the tip of her tongue. I could devour her for eternity, drink in her arousal, lick the sweat from her skin, suck the blood from her very veins. I won’t be satisfied until I’ve consumed all of her.

I frown when she starts to pull away. I need more from her, and I’m desperate to feel her from the inside as I fill her with my cock. “It’s late,” she whispers against my lips, her eyes locked on the clock mounted on the far wall. Her small hands push against my chest, and I grab both of her wrists in my hands.

“Are you ready to take this somewhere more private?” I ask, dipping down to take her mouth again. Because I certainly am.

“I need to go home,” she says, turning her head to evade my lips.

I laugh as I stare down at her until I realize that she’s sitting silently beneath me. “Wait, you’re serious?” I scoff.

“It’s late,” she says again, a furrow between her brows.

“What’s the matter, Aurélie? Does daddy still give you a curfew?” She flinches, turning her eyes away from me.

“Something like that,” she whispers. That’s apparently the only explanation I’ll get of why I’m not taking her home and fucking her in my bed tonight.

“Okay,” I say in resignation, not wanting to push the matter. I untangle my legs from hers and help her sit up. “Can I walk you home?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” She frowns when she looks down and sees the wet spots over her tits, the white material translucent to the point where I can see the rosy color of her nipples. She hasn’t even noticed the mess I’ve made of her dress further down her thighs. “You should get home too. We still have to be at Dix first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, mom,” I retort, rolling my eyes. When I go up to the bar to settle the tab, she grabs her purse and runs to the restroom. I can only guess from the amount of time she takes that she’s hoping I’ll give up and leave, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m walking out of this bar without her. Finally, she emerges, her face a perfect painting of makeup once more. I’m instantly overwhelmed with the desire to smear her lipstick with my mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says as she brushes past me and heads toward the exit.

“Like what?” I ask in annoyance. I’ve never met someone who takes such an issue with the way my eyes linger on their body. Maybe because this is the first time I’ve felt something that even remotely resembles the obsession that courses through my veins when I’m near her.

“Like you want to eat me,” she calls over her shoulder, pushing open the doors and walking out into the warm summer night. She’s right. That’s exactly what I want to do.

I follow her, pushing the doors open a little firmer than necessary. She’s started walking down the street without so much as a thanks for the fucking orgasm. “Hey,” I call, catching up to her quickly and grabbing her by the elbow. “You can’t just walk away like that.”

“I have to be home by midnight, Grey,” she huffs while trying to jerk her arm out of my grasp.

“So let me walk you,” I compromise, refusing to release my hold on her arm even as she struggles. The girl is impossible. “I’m not going to let you walk the streets of Paris alone at this hour.”

She stares up at me like I’m an idiot, her brows knotted into a scowl. “You’re probably more dangerous than anyone I’ll run into on the streets I’ve spent my whole life walking.” I have no retort because it’s probably true. “I have to get home before—I just need to get home. We have to be up early.”

“Yes, you’ve said that,” I answer with a frown. I reach out to run my fingers over her now perfect lips. “Is there another reason you’re running away? Did I do something you didn’t like?” I mentally run through all the things I could have done to scare her away. You know, like spit in her fucking mouth. And I’m instantly second guessing allowing her to see that side of me that no one sees.

“No,” she says with such certainty that I suspect she’s being genuine. “No, you were perfect. I—I’ve never done something like that before.” Her hands wrap around my neck and pull me closer. “I liked it.” Her mouth lands on mine, and I let her lead as she coaxes my lips into a soft kiss. “And I want more.” Another kiss. “But not tonight.” Her lips meet mine once more; this time, it feels like a parting kiss. “Tonight I want to go to bed and get a good sleep so I can kick your American ass tomorrow in the kitchen.”

I can’t help but smile even as she pulls away. “Okay, golden girl. Go sleep in your empty bed.” She starts to walk away from me, and I pull her back one more time, wrapping my arms around her narrow waist and grabbing her ass. “And you had better bring it tomorrow, or I’ll put that pert French ass over my knee and spank it until it’s red how I like.”

“Sadist,” she accuses, rolling her eyes as she pulls free from me.

“Slut,” I retort, knowing she enjoys my torture as much as I do.

She smiles as she turns away and starts walking in the opposite direction of my apartment. “Bonne nuit,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Bonne nuit, chérie,” I answer, even though she’s already too far to hear me.