Page 45 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

Jameson is an absolute monster. A beast who gets off on torturing me and leaving me hanging. After driving me mad with his mouth, now he’s intent on doing the same thing with his cock.

He pushes into me hard then retreats slowly, letting me feel every fucking inch of him each time but never giving me quite what I need to reach that release.

It shouldn't surprise me, given what I know about him. Nothing should, really. Yet his reaction to my question earlier did. It shook him. And he opened up just enough to leave me wanting to know more. More about what makes him tick. What makes him shift from foe to this so easily.

What about him makes me let him do this to me…

He gets me so twisted, I’m not even sure where I am anymore. And now I’ve found myself surprised by him again, this time by how goddamn good he feels. How much my body responds to him. By how instinctive this feels despite us being natural enemies.

None of it makes sense.

This.

Us.

It’s all wrong.

It’s a recipe for disaster.

Throwing gasoline on an already raging inferno.

Yet every time he drives into me, it feels like some tiny broken part of me getting put back together again.

That's a dangerous thought, and not just because this is Jameson Fury. Because I can't have that. I can’t have someone like this for any length of time, for anything more than a quick release. Because it gives me false hope for things that will never happen and can never be. It makes me want a future that’s just out of reach and always will be, no matter how hard I fight for it and try.

This is just one time.

One. Time.

Even though we never said it, we both know it. All the hostility and tension worked out on the counter of my new kitchen.

I'll never be able to work in here again without thinking about how he feels inside me, of his hands digging into my hips, holding me steady. The burn in my fingers as I struggle to cling to the counter while he drills me from behind. The sound of skin on skin and his hot pants in my ear. The gentle brush of his kiss against my shoulder blade, so soft and different from the pace he set.

The man is more complicated than I can imagine. Capable of such brilliance and such brutality at the same time.

And he’s hiding so much more.

I'm convinced of that. Something he conceals under his façade of arrogance and apathy. When you’ve spent as long as I have hiding something, it’s easy to recognize it in others. Easy to see someone else struggling to contain whatever is eating away at them—physically, mentally, emotionally.

It’s precisely what he does. Buries himself in his work and conceals his wounds with his attitude in order to prevent anyone from getting close to him, someone who might rip open those old scars and make him bleed again.

But this isn't the time to explore that. Not when his cock is banging into my G-spot at just the perfect angle. Not when I've been so close to orgasm for so long that my entire body is vibrating and sweating. Not when I'm going to scream if I don't come soon.

His fingers dig into my sides, and a brief flash of them slipping across my abdomen almost makes me stop the bliss and end this on the spot. But instead of pondering the many complicated facets of the man behind me and my own hang-ups, I concentrate on the feeling.

The feeling of everything.

Cool stainless steel…

Slapping flesh…

The push and pull…

A battle for something we both want. A race we’re both intent on winning.

His hand snakes around my hip and finds my clit, rolling it in time with his hard thrusts. And it's exactly what I need to cross the finish line.

I gasp as lights explode against my eyelids, and my body vibrates, jerking back against him. He continues his punishing pace, dragging out my release until he finally finds his, pushing into me one final time with a mumbled curse before he sags along my back.

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