Page 15 of Shades of Red

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 DieuI wish they were slamming against her chin as she takes me all the way down. “You love it so much, don’t youchérie?” 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.Hercunt.

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 goingto 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’reall exactly the same size. Becauseapparentlythat’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,pleaselook 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 weresick?” 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 unwelcomedistraction from thoughts of punishing Aurélie’s lying fucking mouth with my cock. “Since it looks like we actually have afullkitchen 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 givensomeof 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 pâte 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.”

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