THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ ten ◘

"Seen the headlines?" I asked at last, after what seemed to be hours of glowering at this man, that I want to smack and undress at the same time.

I couldn't help it—no matter how much I loathed him and how he tried to destroy me, he was so damn delicious. His body was like a forbidden candy begging to be unwrapped, and I wanted to unwrap it. He was a rotten delicacy that would make me sick, but I didn't care. Dangerously beautiful on the outside, loaded with poison on the inside.

I craved that poison. And I despised myself for it. That wasn't what I came for; I'd come to have my say, to yell at him, to get my closure, and leave.

I yearned to punch him, but the more I stood there watching him, the more I yearned also to feel him inside me. To show him how wet he made me by standing there all ruffled up and confused.

"Yeah?" He scoffed as he sat on his couch but didn't gesture at me to join him. The TV was on, muted, displaying some silly cooking competition I also liked to watch to unwind.

No, we can't have things in common.

"And?" I tapped my foot to the ground, crossing my arms over my chest. My cheeks flushed; I felt exposed, though I was wearing a good layer of clothing. Something about the way he stared at me, not with fury, but not quite with lust either, made me feel out of place.

I was out of place. Yes, I was pissed at him, but did that give me the right to barge over to his apartment and berate him?

It was too late to change that. I'd stand my ground, get my piece out, and take off. He'd never have to see me again.

"And it's great publicity for my restaurant, I guess?" He pressed a button on the remote next to him, switching the TV off. "It's been booming thanks to the show. Ah," he smacked his thighs, "is that why you're here? To ask me to thank you? Well," he sneered as he got up and bowed exaggeratedly, "thank you, Béatrice Balzac, for elevating my status to somewhat well-known."

God, I wanted to slap him. Slap him so hard his skin turned red, sense it burn under my palm. Watch him writhe in pain, glowering at me with those dark, devilish eyes. Then I wanted to caress that skin into bending to my will. I wanted to squeeze his cheeks and make his head explode; but I wanted to see that head between my legs, burying into my pussy and making me scream.

Why, why did he make me feel this way? So furious, but so incredibly lustful all at once? I thrived on power-plays in the bedroom, and I liked things a little violent; but this went beyond my normal cravings. Yelling and kissing? Fighting and fucking?

He'd unearthed the deepest of kinks in me, and I wasn't sure if I liked it.

"This was a mistake," I said, spinning away from him, needing a reprieve from his conflicted stare. I gazed at the door, but I didn't walk towards it.

Something stopped me in my tracks. Some eerie hunch told me to stay put, to wait.

Wait for what?

"Right," he said, coming up to stand in front of me. Blocking me? Taunting me? "Mistake, sure. I doubt that."

"Excuse me?" I quirked a brow, giving him what he wanted: a reaction.

"Everything you do is calculated, Béatrice, so don't lie to me." He didn't quite bar my way, but I had a feeling that if I tried to move past him, he'd grab my wrist, preventing me from leaving. And I almost wanted him to, wanted to sense him caress me, squeeze me, heating me up.

Fuck, what is wrong with me?

No, I wouldn't let him touch me.

He wasn't smiling, but his lips were closer to sliding up than down. Did this amuse him?