Freya stood by the stove, the eye mask plunging her into darkness, her senses razor-sharp as she tuned out Kael’s presence—or lack thereof.
Where even is he?
She wouldn’t waste energy chasing his tricks today; the ribs were her battlefield, and victory was her only goal.
To make a dish which kicked his lame cooking’s ass.
Her hands moved with experienced precision, grabbing a heavy skillet, the cool metal grounding her as she poured in a generous glug of oil.
She set it over medium-high flames, the faint hiss of heating oil filling the kitchen, mingling with the Haven’s quiet hum.
She smelled the scent of spices—salt, pepper, paprika—clung to her fingers, a reminder of her focus, her control.
The oil popped, ready, and she reached for the ribs, her movements steady—until...
A sudden touch grazed her underboobs, warm and sensual, giving her a slight shiver.
Kael’s hands, soft but firm, caressed the sensitive skin beneath her breasts, squeezing gently through the sheer lace bra, the floral fabric shifting against her nipples.
A spark of pleasure flared, hot and unbidden, her breath catching as her body betrayed her with a shiver. But Freya didn’t budge, no mutter a sound, her jaw tightening as she placed the first rib into the sizzling pan.
sizzle sizzle
The meat hissing on contact, grounding her focus.
Not today, Kael.
His hands didn’t stop—one stayed on her breast, kneading with a slow, teasing rhythm, the lace grazing her nipple with every squeeze, sending tingles down her spine.
The other hand roamed lower, tracing her midriff, erotically, fingers brushing her toned abs before slipping beneath the waistband of her lacy panties.
He went lower, tickled her clit, a feather-light stroke that sent a jolt of electricity through her, sharp and overwhelming.
She knew it was coming, she was prepared, but still...
Her body flinched, a gasp escaping as her hand fumbled, a rib toppling awkwardly into the pan. Her finger grazed the skillet’s edge, a searing burn biting her skin.
She winced, a sharp hiss breaking her composure, pain cutting through the haze of pleasure.
"Careful," Kael said, his voice low, laced with concern as he caught her hand, lifting her burnt finger to his lips.
"I don’t want you hurting yourself." Before she could pull away, he sucked gently, his tongue swirling over the tender spot, soothing the sting.
His Empathetic Resonance humming to life, a warm, buzzing pulse that turned the pain into a twisted pleasure spiraling from her pain, his tongue’s caress amplifying and diminishing the sensations as he wished.
Her body jolted again, a confusing mix of heat and ache flooding her, her core tightening against her will.
Freya yanked her finger free, her blue eyes glaring uselessly behind the mask.
"Don’t touch my hands," she snapped, voice sharp, a warning edged with steel. "It’s against the rules." She turned back to the pan, forcing her focus, placing the remaining ribs with care, the sizzle anchoring her.
She wouldn’t let him win—not again.
The ribs needed to sear, browned on all sides, about five minutes.
She counted silently, her mind a metronome—one, two, three, four, five, six...—each second a brick in her fortress, keeping Kael’s distractions at bay while increasing her focus.
She stirred the ribs, the spatula scraping softly, their savory aroma rising, sharp and grounding. She could do this.
She would do this.
But Kael was like a shadow behind her, his presence a warm pressure she couldn’t ignore.
His hands roamed again, starting low, caressing the backs of her knees, teasing up her inner thighs, the stockings’ silk amplifying every touch.
"You’re so fucking hot," he whispered, his breath grazing her neck, sweet and insidious. "Smell so good—like victory, but sweeter." His words stroked her ego, a deliberate ploy, and she hated how it worked, her pride swelling even as her body tingled.
His hands slid higher, tracing her stomach, fingers splaying over her abs, firm and sculpted beneath her skin.
Then bolder—he cupped her ass cheeks, bare and exposed by the skimpy panties, squeezing gently, parting them with a playful tug that made them jiggle.
Freya’s cheeks flushed, a wave of discomfort crashing against her resolve—erotic, shameful, the intimacy of it unraveling her composure.
Her breath hitched, but she clamped her lips shut, refusing to give him a sound.
One hundred fifty-one, one hundred fifty-two...
She stirred the ribs, flipping them with a steady hand, the sizzle her lifeline.
Kael wasn’t done. His hands slipped under her bra, the lace no barrier as he cupped her breasts, bare now, his thumbs stroking the tips of her nipples—slow, rhythmic, coaxing them to harden.
"Ah~"
A small moan slipped out, soft and unguarded, her body betraying her again.
She tensed immediately, lips pressing tight, resuming her count—one hundred fifty-five, one hundred fifty-six—her mind screaming to hold on, to not slip.
She wouldn’t let him win, not when victory was so close, the ribs nearly seared, her focus razor-thin but unbroken.
His tease continued for a while, but Freya soon got accustomed to it, and stopped to flinch even if he tickled her.
Her internal clock ticked on, her mind sharp despite the black void of the eye mask.
Two hundred ninety-nine, three hundred.
Five minutes exactly.
The ribs had seared, their savory aroma filling the kitchen. She leaned forward to sniff them—they smelled like perfection, just the way she wanted.
She lifted them from the skillet with a steady hand, the sizzle fading as she set them on a plate beside her, the meat warm and glistening, browned just right.
Her lips twitched, a flicker of satisfaction—she was in control, untouchable, Kael’s earlier touches be damned.
She leaned a bit to the side of the stove, her platinum-cyan hair brushing her cheek as she inhaled deeply, catching the sharp, pungent scent of sliced onions and garlic waiting on the counter.
The blindfold forced her to rely on smell and touch, but she was ready, her senses honed from hours of training the night before and through the day.
She’d walked around her room with her eyes closed, memorizing every corner, every texture, until darkness was no obstacle.
Now, her fingers found the onions and garlic with ease, their cool, slick surfaces familiar as she added them to the hot skillet.
The pan hissed, the vegetables softening, their fragrance blooming—sweet, earthy, a faint sting that sharpened her focus. Two to three minutes, she estimated, starting her count again—
one, two, three...