Page 21 of Shades of Red

“I’m fairly certain that living up to Chef Matis’ standards is more important to you than getting your dick wet, even if my pussy is golden.”

I groan at the reminder of my responsibilities when all I want to dois fuck her again. But she’s right. Crème légère and pâte à choux come before the needs of my cock tonight. “Fine,” I retort bitterly, bending down to untie my belt from one leg and then my shirt from the other one. I’ll have to let her wear it since I annihilated her dress.

“Don’t pout,mon bel Américain,” she chides, a lovely smile on her ruined lips. Her freed legs wrap around my waist and pull me closer to her. Her hands run delicately over the tattoos on my arms, tracing the patterns of the artwork inked in black on my skin as she slides her hands up to my neck and pulls me down toward her.

For the first time tonight, she’s not behaving as though she’s being forced to endure my pleasure. She’s acting like she wants this just as much as I do. And when her soft mouth lands on mine, warm and willing, I think I might believe her. Our kiss is sweet, nearly chaste compared to the heat of the blood and liquor filled acts of violence we’ve shared before. And the innocence of her lips on mine makes me want to defile her mouth all over again.

“Tell you what,” she purrs in between small kisses. “Win another challenge.” Her mouth trails down to my jaw. “And you can take me home.” Her lips drop to my throat, and I shiver with pleasure. “And do dirty,filthythings to me in the sweet little hovel that you call a home.” Her perfectly straight teeth sink into my neck, and I allow myself a moment to give in to the thrill of her aggression before grabbing her hair and pulling her off me.

It takes me a moment to shake myself from her dangerous coils. The constriction of her embrace felt like comfort a moment before I realized she was squeezing hard enough to strangle my heart in my ribcage. Aurélie is dangerous. She makes mefeel. And emotion is a deadly distraction because I have no idea how to combat it. No one has ever taught me how to handle someone delicately. I’ve known the desire to destroy for as long as I can remember. But the longing to mend things afterward is something entirely new.

I wrap steel around my floundering heart and gaze down at Aurélie’s angelic face. The viperous angel that will send me to my own Hell. I take her jaw in my hand and squeeze hard, reminding her thatI’llbe the only one doing the annihilating around here. “Deal,” I agree in answer to her proposition. I was already going to win the next challenge. She’s just thrown me her beautiful body to ravish as an extra prize. And I have every intention of wrecking her. “Game on, golden girl.”

“I can’t believeyou’ve already prepped,” Aurélie gasps when she enters the kitchen and sees all the ingredients laid out on the counter in perfect quantities. “When did you even have the time to do all this?”

I shoot her a wicked smile while I go to the walk-in to get myspecialbowl of cream. “When you were scurrying around the restaurant in the dark, terrified of what I might do when I caught you.” I bring the steel bowl back with me and place it on the counter before grabbing a hand whisk from one of the drawers. “Tell me, was I every bit the monster you were expecting?”

“Obviously,” she retorts, gesturing to the small cut on her neck where I nicked her with the knife while I came inside her. “Although, thedélicieux orgasmewas a pleasant surprise.”

I laugh at how far we’ve come since our first meeting in this kitchen. She’s barefoot and wearing nothing but my white shirt, the outline of her hips entirely noticeable as she sways them while scalding milk in a pan. I’m shirtless, my black tattoos standing out against the stark white of the kitchen. I never put my belt back on, and my black pants are ridging low on my hips and doing nothing to obscure the hard-on that never seems to vanish when I’m near Aurélie. My cock is already prepped for me to bend my girl over the counter and stuffher full again.

I start to whisk the liquid in the bowl rapidly, whipping my own cream by hand. It would be more standard to use an electric whisk, but I’ve always liked getting to control the texture with my own hands. And it gives me something to do with all the pent up tension that clearly wasn’t sated by our twisted little game of hide and seek. No matter how much I get of Aurélie, I always seem to hunger for more.

“What are you doing?” she asks when she looks over to see me jumping a few steps ahead in the crème légère recipe. She’s already tempered the eggs with the milk, and is stirring until the creme patissiere thickens.

“Practicing my technique,” I answer with a coy smile. “This is what Chef Matis requested, yes?”

“Alright,” she answers with a huff. “Just make sure you get it in the walk-in before it starts to deflate.”

“Yes, chef,” I quip, smacking her ass before continuing to whip my cream into stiff peaks. When it’s ready, I hold up the whisk and run my finger through the swirl of whipped cream on top. “Try it,” I tell her, holding my finger up to her lips.

“It’s crème fouettée, Grey,” she says while rolling her eyes and continuing to stir her pan. “I think evenyoucan handle a procedure of that simplicity.”

Her damn tart mouth makes this moment even sweeter. “Try it, then,” I order, rubbing the white cream over her stained-red lips. “Or I’ll make a mess of you until you do.”

“Fine,” she concedes, wrapping her lips around my finger and sucking it clean in a way that makes my cock get even harder in my pants. When she releases my finger, there’s a look of confusion on her face. “Have you salted it?” she asks, smacking her lips together like she’s trying to decipher what she’s just tasted. She doesn’t know thatshe just had her first taste of my cum. And she’ll be getting loads more after I win the next challenge.

“It’s my own secret recipe,” I reply with a wink. “I beat in a little something extra just for you.”

Like everything Chef Matis has decided to torture us with over the summer, this week’s challenge has been harder than expected. Ratatouille—a vegan peasant dish that has become synonymous with French cuisine. Unlike the thin slices used in confit byaldi, we are meant to be presenting a colorful array of cubed vegetables in a manner that is somehow elegant and modern. It’s nearly as basic as cooking can be, and I have no idea how Chef Matis is going to pick a winner out of ten dishes of al dente vegetables.

I decide to lean into my first impressions of high-end French cuisine when I came to Paris two years ago—the more a diner is willing to pay, the less you put on the plate. The last restaurant I worked in served five dots of liquid on a white cylinder and called it aculinary experience. It earned them another Michelin star. In an act of rebellious irony, I strive to offer the same sort of edible austerity.

In the end, I plate red bell pepper, yellow squash, zucchini, and eggplant—a single, symmetrical piece of each all lined in a row. My dish has four fucking pieces on it, and for some reason I love it. Iadd a crescent smear of the tomato, onion, and garlic sauce that the vegetables have been stewing in, a circular drizzle of herb infused olive oil, and a single sprig of fresh thyme. It’s simple, and it’s beautiful. And I hope to God it’s enough to win the challenge because this one is about more than just earning Chef Matis’ approval.

A win gets my golden girl in my bed.

“Nine,” Chef Matis calls, his arms crossed over his chest, prepared as usual to be displeased with whatever he is presented. I put my dish on his table and cross my own arms, mirroring his stance. I’m not afraid of his critique; I hunger for it because it feeds my need to constantly improve my work. He can tear into me all he wants. If he thinks I’m a failure, I’ll just savor the opportunity to prove him wrong.

“Finally, someone has made me something thatisn’ta bowl of fucking mush,” Chef Matis says as he examines my dish with a mixture of irritation and approval. I’m still not sure which is meant for me. “Well done, Nine,” he continues after taking a moment to silently critique my plating. “Although, I can’t say you were given much competition this round.”

Even though I’ve probably plated enough for a single bite, Chef tastes each element individually. He gives a deep hum of approval when he tastes the summer squash. “It’s perfect.” He rotates the zucchini with his fork before putting it in his mouth and chewing slowly. “They’re perfectly cut. Perfectly seasoned. Perfectly cooked.” The eggplant is the last to be tasted, dipped in what remains of the tomato smear and slid through a rivulet of infused oil. “You’ve given me the perfect summer bite, Nine,” Chef announces when he’s cleared the plate. “I’m thoroughly impressed.” He offers me his hand, and I reach out to shake it feeling stunned out of my own skin.

I dismiss myself and walk back to my station with an empty plate. Chef just said perfectfivetimes. That’s his personal record. If I had to guess, I’m at the top of his list for sous at the moment, and I couldn’tbe any more thrilled. That is, until I get back to my station and see a pretty little blonde chewing on her red lips. And I remember if I win, she’s fuckingmine.

“Ten,” Chef Matis calls out, his tone a little harsher.

Heaving a sigh, Aurélie walks her bowl to the front. I see a little bit of her dress sticking out from the bottom of her uniform, andfuck me, she’s wearing red. It’s like she knew she would be mine tonight, and I can’t wait to paint her skin to match her dress. She puts her ratatouille on the table and takes a step backward with her hands latched behind her back, her nails painted the same color as her dress. When we get out of this restaurant, I’m going to fucking tear her apart.

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