Shades of Red (Sharp Edges Duet #1)

5. Croquembouche

My shitty fourth floor apartment echoes with emptiness. The silence that’s usually so tranquil is deafening as I kick off my leather shoes and strip off my belt and shirt before free-falling into my empty bed. My sheets smell like bergamot and spice—not a hint of cherry sweetness. I honestly can’t believe I came home alone tonight after everything that happened at L’Armurerie. My cock is in the same disbelief as it sits hard and aching between my thighs.

That is the second time I’ve gotten to touch her and taste her but still not claim her in the way I need to. And I assure you, there won’t be a third. The next time I have her, she’ll be mine. Completely.

I slip my hand into my back pocket and pull out the little scrap of red. I rub the panties between my fingers, the softness stroking my skin just like they did her slick cunt when she had them on. The silk is no longer damp with her arousal, but I bring them to my nose to inhale the scent of her. Fuck me, she smells sweet. I run my tongue along the center, lapping at her earthy flavor with a hint of spice. It’s a heaven for the senses that I could happily drown in.

Fisting her panties, I reach down and strip out of my pants and boxers, dropping them to the floor. Fully naked, I crawl onto the bed and grab a pillow from the side of the bed that I don’t sleep on. The side that will be hers when I finally get her where she belongs. I straddle the pillow, enjoying the feeling of having something between my thighs as I reach down and wrap Aurélie’s red panties around my cock. The black tattoos on my thighs are stark against the white sheets as I move my hips back and forth harshly, thrusting into my fist like it’s her tight cunt.

I wonder if she’s a virgin? I moan at the thought of her painting my cock red as I tear into her for the first time. “Fuck,” I groan, imagining my hand in her hair, forcing her lick it off me afterward, watching her pretty lips smeared red with her own virginity. And then I’d taste it right from her mouth.

I fist my cock harder, loving that little edge of pain as the swollen head slides through my fist with the slickness of pre-cum pouring out my slit. “Fuck, Aurélie,” I growl, lost to the fantasy. “Take it.” I slide my hand faster, twisting my wrist when I reach the tip. “Take my whole cock down that slutty fucking throat.” I feel wetness soak through her panties, my own arousal so thick that it’s like running my fingers through a bowl of cream.

The room fills with the wet sound of my balls slapping into my hand with every pump of my fist. Mon Dieu I wish they were slamming against her chin as she takes me all the way down. “You love it so much, don’t you chérie?” I pant, my chest heaving as sweat slickens the backs of my thighs. “You love to let me take your air while you gag for relief. But you won’t get any, will you?” I squeeze my knees hard against the pillow below me. “No, you’ll take it until I come down that throat. And you’ll swallow down every drop.” I feel my balls seize and my shaft thicken in my hand. “Because you’re my good.” Thrust. “Goddamn.” Thrust. “Whore.” Thrust.

I’m coming quicker than I ever have before, my hand jerking violently on my cock as I explode. “Fuuuuck,” I moan, falling down to one hand as I lean into the pillow beneath me and ride out my orgasm. Warm cum bursts out of me, so much that it’s soaking the panties and dripping down my shaft and onto my smooth balls before landing on the pillow below. I keep pumping, wave after wave of pleasure hitting me like a storm until I’m completely spent.

I fall back onto the bed, my lungs and heart working overtime to carry oxygen to my bloodstream. My cock is still hard. It usually takes me a while to start softening, and I typically come twice before I do. But I don’t have the energy to go again when there’s no warm cunt to fill. Her cunt.

I throw the wet panties on what will be her side of the bed, wiping my sticky cum fingers on the top of the sheets. Tomorrow night, that side of the bed won’t be empty, and I won’t be coming in my fucking hand.

Tomorrow, Aurélie is all mine.

I’m going to kill her. I can make it quick—one swift slice to her carotid artery with a boning knife, and it would be done. At this point, any other options to preserve my sanity are running dangerously low. And if I’m going to survive long enough to make sous, she’s going to have to go.

Aurélie didn’t even show up to the kitchen the morning after L’Armurerie. Or the day after. By day three, someone called to let us know she was sick and wouldn’t be in until next week. Chef was incensed, but since she already competed in the challenge for the week, he chose to let her absence slide. And he took out his frustration on everyone in the kitchen for the rest of the day.

I don’t think I’ve ever spent so long mincing onions until they’re all exactly the same size. Because apparently that’s a culinary skill of the highest order. I was in tears by the end of it—because of the damn onions not a tender heart. I think he was just pissed and looking for someone to scourge. If only he knew how much my golden girl likes punishment. Then he could dole it out to the chef that actually deserves it.

My focus is fucked. I've been so intent on watching the kitchen doors all week, waiting for a familiar head of golden hair to walk through that I’m not putting all of myself into my culinary work. And I hate her for it. I lied when I said our connection wasn’t a distraction. It’s obvious that our innate attraction to each other inevitably pulls us away from victory. When I’m in the kitchen, all I can think of is her. She is my destruction. My armageddon. And that makes her my greatest rival.

It’s Monday. A new week. A new challenge. And I’m sick of this addiction to the girl whose red panties are still lying cum-stained in my bed. This is me metaphorically flushing my stash. I’m getting clean. Aurélie isn’t going to pollute my bloodstream any longer. It’s time to do what I came here to do without getting sidetracked by red lips and a wet cunt.

My determination to walk into the kitchen and make it my bitch shatters when I turn the corner into the kitchen and see that the counter in the back isn’t empty like it has been every morning since I made Aurélie come for the second time. She’s standing beside my prep station, her back to me as she gets her materials ready for the day, her damn golden hair shimmering in the sun.

I instinctively hold my breath as I walk toward her, not wanting to take a hit of the sweet scent of cherries and vanilla that wrecks my sanity. She certainly doesn’t look like she’s been fighting a cold for the past five days. She’s stunning as usual, her makeup painted on perfectly, a black dress peeking out from under her chef whites, and a pair of red heels clicking on the marble as she shifts around her station.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” I comment when I settle into my spot beside her, my tone like bitter almonds. Her head jerks up in panic. I’ve startled her. Good.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers after a moment of awkward silence.

“Save it,” I snap, refusing to look at her again. I pick up my favorite knife and start sliding it against the honing steel to keep it perfectly sharp. These hands will never handle a dull blade.

“I wanted to be here?—”

I cut her off, “Save your lies for someone who enjoys the taste of betrayal. I’ve got better things to swallow.”

“Grey, please look at me.”

Growling, I whip toward her, my eyes devouring every inch of the beautiful girl I haven’t seen since the night she came on my fingers with ice on her clit. Her bright blue eyes are glossy with a sheen of unshed tears. I shut down the weak part of my heart that wants to cave to her. Tears mean nothing. They’re merely a chemical reaction. Hell, give me a strong onion, and I’ll show you how to make an impervious man weep.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I know you don’t believe me, but there is nothing I wanted more than to be here with you.”

“But you couldn’t?” I scoff.

“No,” she answers in a small voice.

“Because you were sick?” I’m handing her a shovel; it’s her choice whether she wants to dig her own grave deeper.

She pauses. “Yes.”

“Whatever you say, goldie,” I snap, disbelief evident in my voice. She can lie all she wants. That doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to believe her.

“Attention everyone,” Chef Matis calls, giving me an unwelcome distraction from thoughts of punishing Aurélie’s lying fucking mouth with my cock. “Since it looks like we actually have a full kitchen today,” he throws an accusatory glare at the girl beside me, and I love watching her squirm with guilt, “let’s jump right into a challenge.”

He stalks the front of the room, his hands behind his back and an imperious expression on his face. “I think I’ve taken it too easy on you all. It’s given some of you the room to slack. I apologize for the oversight, and it is one I fully intend on rectifying today.”

Chef Matis claps his hands. “We’re switching modes. I want pastry. Pastry is precise, and it is not an area where you can hide bad technique with good flavors. You must be perfect with both.” There is a long, dramatic pause before he announces our torture for the day. “You will be making croquembouche. I expect tall, beautiful towers with no gaps, perfectly constructed pate à choux, and a filling of your choice. Decoration is up to you—be as creative as you like. Presentation and taste will be judged equally, so if you give me a leaning tower of Pisa, you will be told to get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

There’s a small ripple of laughter throughout the room, but Chef Matis remains stoic as usual. “You have eight hours. Begin.”

The minute Chef leaves the room, panic sets in. I can’t do this. The last challenge with pastry, I choked on my own lack of experience. Something as technical as croquembouche will be even worse. I’m fucked.

“Are you okay?” asks a familiar voice from beside me. It’s only then that I realize I’ve been clutching the handle of my chef’s knife and not moving an inch.

“Fuck off, Aurélie,” I bite out, still refusing to look at her.

“I can help if you need me to.”

“I said fuck off. I don’t need you to save me. And even if I did, I’d rather fail than accept help from a snake who’s more than likely to bite my hand when I extend it.”

“Fine,” she snaps, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder. “Fucking fail then.”

“What the hell is this?” Chef Matis asks, taking in the state of my croquembouche tower, which is hardly towering. My first batch of pate à choux burned in the oven, so I didn’t have all the pastries I needed. The result was choosing to have a sparse, pencil thin tower or more of a small pyramid. I chose the latter.

“My interpretation of a croquembouche, chef,” I answer, hoping that my confidence will make it seem like I didn’t fuck up.

“Given your less than pleasing language skills, I would say interpretation isn’t your strongest suit, Nine.”

“Yes, chef,” I reply as I’m expected to. He could tell me that my croquembouche is a dumpster fire worthy of throwing into La Seine along with myself, and my response would still be the same. Yes, chef.

“Let’s hope your flavors are enough to keep you from being evicted from the premises. What’s your filling?”

“Velouté, chef.”

He chokes a little, his culinary French pride getting stuck in his throat. “You’ve made them savory?”

“Yes, chef. It was my play on a Yorkshire pudding.” And the only saving grace I could think of to keep me from having to experiment with sweetness in the amount of time we were given. I don’t enjoy dessert. Making or eating it.

“This is a French restaurant, Nine. Keep the damn British out of it. You’ve got no business making a savory croquembouche. I sympathize with artistic creativity, but do not give me a cheeseburger and call it Chateaubriand.”

“Yes, chef.” I don’t mind the insult. I’ve not presented my best work, and I know it.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a tasting.” He waves his hand at my small tower. “Take the monstrosity back to your station.” His eyes sweep to the back of the room. “Ten,” he commands, his voice sharp like acid.

She keeps her eyes turned away from me as she passes with her own croquembouche tower. I think she’d like nothing more than to shove the whole sticky tower of pastries in my face if it wouldn’t mean she’d lose the challenge.

It’s beautiful, I admit with begrudging admiration. The most perfect tower I’ve seen in person. Her side of the kitchen was filled with the sweet scent of orange curd, and she even managed to find orange blossoms to weave in between the pastry for decoration. She dipped half of her pastries in caramel and crushed pistachios to add detail and texture to her tower and light wisps of spun sugar encircle the tower like clouds. She fucking nailed it.

“Ten,” Chef greets. “This looks like the most presentable tower we’ve seen all day.” It’s his own brand of praise. “Let’s see if you actually have the taste to match.” Chef Matis pops a whole puff into his mouth, his fingers getting sticky with caramel. Aurélie looks anxious as she shifts on her red heels awaiting his judgment.

“Delicious,” he announces after swallowing. “To my great surprise, you’ve won a challenge, Ten.” Aurélie doesn’t smile with excitement. In fact, she looks almost insulted with her brows furrowed.

“Thank you, chef,” she answers finally, her cherry lips pressed into a pout as she goes to pick up her croquembouche tower.

“Leave it,” he orders. “It can serve as an example.” He turns his eyes to address the rest of the kitchen. “Most of you have impressed me with your pastry skills today. Well done.” His eyes land on me, heavy and judging. “Nine, your pastry approach was abysmal. You need more skill in traditional French techniques. And because you haven’t had any formal training, you’ll have to learn in the kitchen. You will be staying late tonight to practice until you make a tower as perfect as this one.” He gestures toward Aurélie’s masterpiece, and I can’t help but scoff. Fat fucking chance.

Aurélie’s bright blue eyes fix on me with smug satisfaction, her pretty lips twisted into a haughty smile. She loves seeing me flayed in public. It makes me want to take a blade to her skin and see if the blood in her veins matches the color of her lips.

“Ten,” he calls, and her tart smile is instantly replaced with demure respect as she looks at him. “You will stay late and help him.”

She gasps at the command. “Why am I being punished? I won the challenge.” Her little nose is scrunched up in distaste at the thought of having to train me.

“Not all sins come due when they should, Ten. Maybe it’s destin,” he replies, and his smile can only be described as cruel. “Well done everyone. Enjoy the rest of your day, and I will see you bright and early in the morning.”

I sulk with my arms crossed over my chest, refusing to acknowledge the impending torture.

“Nine come here.”

Growling in annoyance, I storm toward the front of the kitchen where Aurélie is still waiting with a sour look on her face. I stand beside her, keeping a healthy distance between us. “Yes, chef?”

“I don’t want either of you leaving this building until your technique is perfect, Nine. I trust you enough to be the judge of when that is. The keys to Dix are in my office. Lock up when you leave. And I expect you here in the morning just as early as everyone else, understood?” His tone isn’t unkind, just stern like a parent who expects better out of you. The paternal concern in his eyes grates on my nerves. Given my relationship with parents, I would rather he screamed abuse.

“Yes, chef,” I answer because there’s no other answer to give.

“Good,” he answers with a clap. “Play nice, you two. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The minute Chef Matis is out the door and we’re left alone, Aurélie’s shoulders slump. “Et merde,” she whispers under her breath.

“My thoughts exactly,” I respond with a scowl, even though she wasn’t talking to me.

“Just go home,” she bites out, her eyes flashing with irritation as she stares up at me like she hates me. I wish to the devil that I could hate her too. “I can make another one myself,” she continues, unbuttoning her chef’s whites as she prepares for at least another four hours in the kitchen. The formal uniform can start to feel hot and stifling after a while, and we’ve already been in the kitchen all day, “Chef won’t know the difference. We can just tell him you made it.”

“Ah there’s my lovely little deceptress,” I say, my tone sweet as honey mixed with poison. “I’m starting to think lying is the most fun you can have with your clothes on. And I think we both know what you like to do when they’re off.”

“Fuck you,” she spits back. “You know nothing about me.”

“Maybe that’s because every time I try to get close, you run away,” I seethe. My hands tingle with the need for violence. I raise them to my neck and start to unbutton my uniform slowly.

She glares at me, but she has no retort to offer. “That’s what I thought,” I reply, sliding the white coat off my shoulders and throwing it on the closest prep station. I’m wearing a white button up underneath, my shirt snugly tucked into black pants. I look over to find Aurélie staring, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there was hunger in her stark blue eyes.

“See something you like?” I ask, my tone suggestive as I pay her the favor and run my eyes over her.

We’re opposites today, darkness and light. I find it fitting in more ways than one. Her dress is black silk, the sleeves sliding off her narrow shoulders. It’s clearly expensive, tailored to fit her form as it hugs her body down to her mid calves. There’s a strip of creamy white skin peeking out from the thin slit that runs up to her mid thigh, teasing me with the thought of seeing more. She would almost appear demure if she didn’t look like she wanted to devour me with those red lips.

“I could just take off my shirt, if you want? It would save you the trouble of undressing me with your greedy eyes.”

She snaps out of her lust instantly and throws me a scowl. “You are a pig. If you won’t leave, then I will.” She brushes past me as she storms for the door.

“Get your fucking ass back here,” I command. Snatching her wrist, I jerk her back toward me, the force of it slamming her straight into my chest. She instinctively puts her hands up and tries to push me off. It only makes me hold her tighter. “Chef said you’re not leaving this building until you teach me, even if you hate every second of it,” I snarl, lowering my head until my face is inches from hers. Close enough to inhale the scent of cherries that I’ve tried to ignore all day.

“I will hate every second of it,” she spits, still struggling even though it’s pointless. She just can’t help herself. She’s like a little rabbit stuck in a trap, and she’ll screech and tug until her last breath. Too bad I’m far too happy to sit back and watch.

“Good.” My smile is cruel and merciless. “I like to see you suffer for me.”

“I hate you,” she grits out of clenched teeth.

“Mmm, now you’re just trying to turn me on,” I reply, licking my lips for a taste of her. She struggles even harder at the subtle reference to my cock. Her movements cause her hips to knock into the erection between my legs, and I groan at her accidental touch, gripping her even harder to keep her from brushing against me again.

“Let go of me,” she shrieks, her helplessness driving her frantic.

I feed off her panic, drinking it in like the richest wine, bitter and sweet. I want more of it. I want to get drunk off the scent of her fear. The thought drags me in a direction far removed from rationality as an idea forms in a dark corner of my mind. A way for her to willingly give me enough of her delicious terror that I feel satiated. At least for a little while.

“Tell you what,” I announce, an unfamiliar darkness rippling in my blood, begging to be set free. “I’ll let you run.” Her eyes jolt to mine, hopefulness and suspicion twined together in the bright blue depths. “I’ll even be generous and give you the choice of hiding.” Her brows furrow, and she stares at me in confusion.

“If you make it out of the restaurant or manage to stay hidden for ten minutes, I’ll let you leave.” A devious smile tugs at my lips when I think of something that will sweeten the deal. Something she won’t be able to resist. “Hell, I’ll do you one better. If you escape before I catch you, I will remove myself from the competition for sous chef. I’ll be out of your life permanently.”

“Cache-cache?” she scoffs. “That’s your grand idea?” She shakes her head, her eyes full of annoyance rather than fear. “What’s the caveat? What’s worth losing your chance at sous?”

I don’t tell her that there’s nothing endangering my chance of becoming sous chef. I don’t tell her I’m not risking a goddamn thing. And I definitely don’t tell her that this was over before it even began. I just tell her exactly what will happen in ten minutes when I drag her from whatever hiding spot she scurries into and claim my prize.

I lean down and press my lips to her ear. “When I catch you, I get to hurt you.”