by Aubrey Irons
I whimper as I feel his fingers leave me, but then gasp as I feel his breath, hot on the backs of my thighs.
“Oliver!” I gasp out as I feel his lips slide up the back of my thighs, teasing the skin there. I can feel his tongue slide across my thighs, delving deep between, and I melt against the countertop, all but whimpering for him to plunge his tongue into my pussy. He exhales hotly against me, his breath teasing and tickling against my pussy, and this time I do moan out loud, arching my back and pushing back - desperate to feel his mouth on me.
He stands, abruptly. I whimper again until I feel his fingers slide back to my heat, sliding through my folds back to my clit as he leans over me again, “Just beg me nicely, sweetheart,” he whispers into my ear, chuckling. The ass.
“All you’ve gotta do is give in.” His finger lazily circles my clit, and I’m biting my lip and clawing at the countertop, desperate for release.
I gasp as I hear the jangle of his belt and the sound of his zipper being drawn down, and then I moan loudly at the feel of his cock; hard, hot, and thick against my ass. His lips brush my ear, “You want this, don’t you?”
And I nod.
At that point, I can’t even help it; can’t even stop myself from doing it if I tried. Because at that moment, he’s got me so wound up that I’m almost ready to beg him for it.
“‘Yes, chef’; now is that really all that hard to say?”
Almost ready to beg him.
I take a gasping breath before I shake my head, “Not - oh God - not gonna happen.”
I am clawing at the edge of coming; teetering on the edge of tumbling off that cliff and shattering in climax, when he opens his mouth again, “Well, that’s too bad.”
And then like a switch being thrown, his fingers leave me, and he steps away as I hear the sound of his zipper again.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I whirl around to him, my eyes wild and my mouth hanging open to see him grinning at me as he finishes buckling his belt.
“Are…are you-” I’m clawing for words, my mind still foggy and barely coherent from coming as close as humanly possible to an orgasm without actually coming. I blink at him. “Are you serious?”
I stare at him in shock as he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them, smirking at me the whole time as he arches his eyebrows. “I mean, you’ve already said them, too.” He shakes his head and sighs dramatically.
“That was different, and you fucking know it.”
Oliver glances at his watch, “Oy, jeez, look at the time, I’ve got to run!” He winks as he quickly darts forward and kisses my cheek. His lips drift back to my ear, lingering there for a moment.
“All you’ve gotta do is say it, sweetheart,” he growls into my ear, almost pushing me back over the edge right there with his words.
And then he’s whirling around and walking out of the kitchen, leaving me panting, disheveled, and more sexually pent up than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
I somehow get the impression that I’m the first girl in history that can say that after Oliver Beckett walks away from her.
I groan and drop my forehead against the kitchen door of Jolie.
Right, Monday; we’re closed on Monday.
Of course we’re closed, which is why I spent the morning at home.
At home being brought to within an inch of orgasm by my cocky, arrogant, swaggering stepbrother.
I blush bright pink at the memory of him leaving me like that in the kitchen; the memory of me opening and closing my mouth as if still searching for words as the front door to the townhouse closed behind me. And then of course, there’s the memory of what came after. The memory of me barely closing the door to my room behind me before I was face down in my bed, my fingers pushing my panties to the side and gasping at the release they brought.
I decide to pretend I don’t remember that it was Oliver’s face I pictured as I came screaming into my pillow. I pretend it wasn’t his tongue I was imaging dancing across my clit, or his thick cock that I pictured fucking me from behind as I brought myself crashing over the edge with my fingers.
And of course, now I’m so scattered-brained by the whole damn morning that I show at work to do work on the one day it’s closed.
Lovely.
I bump my head against the door one more time, swearing under my breath, when the voice behind me catches me off guard, “Be a shame to bruise a pretty head like yours there, gorgeous.”
I whirl to see an older, extremely handsome man grinning at me.
“By the way, the entrance is around the front, luv.”
He’s sharply dressed - well-fit designer jeans and clearly tailored sports coat over a white linen shirt open at the collar. His face exudes a sort of cockiness not altogether different than Oliver’s, though this man’s is more deeply lined and a bit more world-weary.
“Oh, I- uh, I work here, actually.”
He shoots me a white, winning smile, “Waitress?”
“Kitchen, actually.”
He arches his eyebrows and nods, as if impressed, “Ahh, one of Ollie’s crew then?” He chuckles as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and sticks one in his mouth. “And how is the young Emperor Nero these days?”
I snort, “So you know Oliver?”
“Is it a cliché to say I taught ‘im everything he knows?”
He must see the look of surprise on my face because he steps towards me with his hand out, “Danny Cole, at your service, luv.”
My jaw drops; the Danny Cole?
He frowns and rolls his eyes at me, as if reading the look on my face.
“Oh, c’mon sweetheart, I’m just a cook like you. I’m not Jesus fucking Christ, you know.” I grin then, and he seems to brighten as that grin flashes again, “And you? Or should I just keep calling you ‘gorgeous’?”
I blush, shaking my head. “Sorry, Chloe. It’s a pleasure to meet you, chef.”
He rolls his eyes again, “Please, we’re not in my kitchen out here, darling; Danny will do.” He winks at me. “And the pleasure is all mine, my dear.” He shoots me a smoldering look that has me blushing a bit more than I’d have expected.
“So what’s got you here this early, darling?”
I smile and shrug, “I thought I’d try and get in before my shift and work on some recipes.”
“Well you’re a keeper, huh?” He winks at me, “Hard worker and a lovely smile to boot?” Danny whistles and grins at me again, “You’re a rare one indeed, gorgeous.”
I’m blushing again at the flirtations from this quite honestly extremely handsome man. Sure, he’s being a bit forward and utterly shameless about it, but it’s charming. He might be full of lines, but it’s a nice sort of cultured attention, instead of Oliver’s “spread your legs” type of attention.
“Listen, I was just about to go for a spot of tea down the road. Care to join while you wait for that lazy chef of yours to open his damn kitchen?”
I smile and nod, “Sure. Actually, the place is closed, I’m just an idiot and forgot.” He chuckles and I shake my head, “But definitely, though I’m more of a coffee girl.”
“Ahh, well, I guess I’m just old school then.” He offers his arm, which I take, before he leans in and winks, “Of course, not too old there, luv.”
The blush in my cheeks goes bright crimson as I lower my face to hide my grin.
“And now what do you do at Jolie, Ms. Chloe?” Danny asks as we stroll down the south bank street in search of tea and coffee.
“Pastry.”
“And what brought you there?”
I smile, “What, to baking?”
“Indeed.”
“I don’t know, I guess I just love it. My dad baked bread, and I just fell in love with it. The mixing, the making something with your hands.”
He nods knowingly at me, “Making greatness.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling, “Yeah, I guess that’s exactly it.” I grin as I glance at him realizing how good it fee
ls to talk shop with someone like this who gets it. Someone who gets why a person would want to spend all day in a hot, loud, chaotic kitchen making food for people.
Well, someone who gets it who also isn’t making my head spin with desire and thoughts I shouldn’t be having. Someone who’s name isn’t Oliver Beckett.
“Yep, that’s the spark, isn’t it,” Danny nods, “Finding it at Jolie are you?”
“Oh, definitely. Oliver’s amazing.”
“He’s a cocky prick is what he is.”
I choke out a laugh as I turn and raise my eyebrows at him.
“Oh, it’s fine, he and I go way back. I actually know his family from way back in the old neighborhood, truth be told.” He grins at my surprise look, “Oy, don’t let the tres chic haute couture that I surround myself in fool you, luv. I’m an East-Ender from way back; it’s how I know that little prick.”
“Wait, so you taught him how to cook or something?”
Danny shrugs. “Eh, I taught him how not to get himself cut, burned, or beaten up with that mouth of his in the kitchen. The army taught him a bit more, and then I just showed him where he was fucking up later when he came back.” He snorts, “Oy, he was a little terror that one, when he was young. He and that little shit Marco got in with the wrong crew, as it were. It was his mum, you know; she’s the one that asked me to give him his first kitchen job to keep him outta trouble.”
I’m grinning at the thought of a young Oliver running around terrorizing the neighborhood. Of course, in my bizarre mind, young Oliver still has all the same tattoos and the same buzzed-side haircut he does now, which makes the image even more hilarious.
Danny grins at my slight chuckle, “Oy, I’ll tell you, any other woman but Ella, and he’d ‘ave been right back on his arse in the street.”
“Ella?”
“His mum.” A shadow crosses over Danny’s face for a half second before he looks away; “She was one of the good ones, I’ll tell you.” He frowns, “It’s her I knew, from way back when we were kids.” He laughs, the sound darker and empty this time, “Course, then she has to go and marry that prick Barney. What she saw in him I’ve got no idea.” He shakes his head, suddenly smiling brightly again as he turns back to me. “Anyways, ugh. Ancient history; utterly boring stuff, isn’t it?”
“Not at all, actually,” I say, smiling, “It’s nice to hear about my new family.”
Danny frowns for a second before suddenly the recognition hits his face, “Oh blimey! You’re fuckin Chloe!” He suddenly takes a step back from me, “Well fuck me, huh?”
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes at him as I jerk my hand out his arm.
He must see the look on my face because he stops laughing for a second and gives me a quick look, “Aww, no-no, luv, nothing like that. I just get it now.”
I frown, “Get what?”
“What that little shit’s problem is.”
“Who?”
Danny laughs, “Ollie!”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure I follow. What’s his problem?”
He grins and cocks a finger at me, “You are, luv.”
“Pardon?”
“Or you’re each other’s problem, rather, as I sense the case may be.”
My cheeks go bright red as I frown at him, “I- I don’t know what-”
“Oh stop it,” he says, pulling another cigarette out of his pack and sticking it his mouth, “Fuck, if you were my stepsister I’d want in your knickers too.”
My face goes positively magenta as I roll my eyes.
“Jesus, and here I am the dirty old man hitting on you.” He quickly flashes me an apologetic look, “So sorry, gorgeous. Won’t happen again, scout’s honor and all that.” He does a little salute, as he puffs on his cigarette and I have to laugh, which seems to release the sudden tension.
“He’s good, you know.” Danny nods at me, “Oliver that is. He’s good, and Jolie is a good place, but he could be great.”
We stop in front of the tea shop and he glances at me, “Don’t suppose you still want to get that coffee after I acted like little scoundrel back there.”
I grin. “I’d love to.”
Danny laughs and flicks his smoke away as he reaches for the door, “Lovely, lovely. Besides, how old are you? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-three.”
He winces dramatically and clutches at his heart, “Oof, see? Sorry, luv, but it’d never work out with us anyways. You’re much too old for me.”
I’m still hooting with laughter as we step into the tea shop.
A week later, and I’m hitting the wall. The games aren’t working, or if they are they aren’t working fast enough. Because this girl is driving me fucking nuts. She’s hot then cold, and for the last nine damn days, she’s been frosty and full of one word answers.
At first, the “yes chef” thing was kind of awesome; it was like winning the power game. Except now, it’s just getting annoying. Now, I just want her to say my name. Fuck, I mean what I actually want is to hear her scream it, but I’d settle for a normal conversation at this point. I’m tempted to fuck off on the whole thing. Honestly, I need to go fuck Chloe right out of my system. I need to fuck every single thing with tits in the restaurant until whatever brief dirty fling I had with my stepsister is out of my head. What am I, afraid of hurting her feelings or some shit?
I’m checking in the meat delivery out back, sipping espresso with my clipboard in hand when she comes walking around the corner, giggling.
With fucking Marco.
Every muscle in my body tightens. Marco might be a mate, but I’m certainly not above burying him in a shallow fucking grave.
“Marco!” I snap, jerking his attention from the opening at the top of Chloe’s blouse to me.
“Oy chef!” He grins, nodding at me as they come up in front of me, “Shit, mate, you catch that fuckin footy game last-“
“You’re late,” I snap.
Marco frowns, and then quickly nods, shifting right into work mode.
Good man.
“Sorry, chef.”
I soften the sour look on my face, “Hey, do me a favor and get that stock going before you break down these shanks, yeah?”
“You got it, boss,” he nods. He shoots a quick look at Chloe before ducking inside.
She rolls her eyes the second the backdoor to the kitchen shuts behind him. “Oh what is it?”
I scowl, “Nothing, I’m just curious what that whole things was.”
She sighs, “He saw me coming out of the tube, we got coffee on the way over.”
I nod. “Huh, great.”
“Jesus, Oliver, are we going to play this game forever?”
“And what game is that, luv?”
“The game where we act like we’re children. The game where you don’t talk to me because I said no to you.”
I bark out a laugh, “Right, as if that’s what all this is.”
Of course it is.
“Look, I told you, it’s not…”
She trails off and I grin, “It’s not…what? ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” I snort.
“Whatever, you know what I mean. We just can’t do this,” she whispers quietly.
“I don’t see why not.”
She shoots me a look, “Seriously?” She shakes her head, “Oliver, I told you, it’s not like I don’t want us to be friends-“
“I don’t.”
She stumbles. “Excuse me?”
And right then, something inside snaps. It’s like saying it cements all the roaring, rambling thoughts I’ve had inside my head for the past week; hell, since she stepped off that fucking plane. Whatever it is, it’s like a switch being flicked, and the rest of world drops away except for her and me, standing in the raining London afternoon.
And I know right then, I’m not letting another fucking second tick by without doing something about this.
I grab her by the arm and drag her as she gasps around the corner to the alley beside the restaurant. Instant
ly, I’m pushing her up against the brick wall behind her, my eyes wild as my gaze burns fire right into her eyes.
“I said I DON’T,” I say gruffly, holding her by both her wrists against the wall. “I don’t want to be your friend, or your buddy, or your fucking pal, Chloe.”
And the second I say it, even I’m wondering what it means. What do I want to be with this girl?
But she throws that look right back at me; that fiery, defiant look filled with heat and power, but also this sort of scared tenderness behind it that just slays me. And just for a second - just for the briefest second - her lip trembles just a hair, as if giving testament to that scared girl behind this defiant mask of sass and attitude.
And it’s my undoing.
My mouth crashes against hers, hard. I push my whole body against hers as I grab her head in my hands and kiss her with everything I have; everything single thing I’ve been holding back. I’m hungry for her as I sear my lips to hers, heedless of whatever consequences this may bring.
And we’re frozen, just like that, for a single moment in time; a single second of just two people stopped in the flow of time. Just as we begin to unfreeze - just as the world is about to keep on spinning under our feet - I know she’s about to push me away, or slap me, or yell, or all three of the above, and that’ll be the end of it. After that, I’ll have my final verdict, and I’ll be done with this whole bloody thing.
Except, she doesn’t push me away, and she doesn’t slap me, or yell at me.
She fucking moans.
And it’s like unleashing the animal inside of me.
I growl into her kiss as we open our lips, tongues sliding against the other. Breaths come in halting gasps as we lose ourselves to each other. I’m pressing her up hard against the wall, and she’s rolling her hips against me, bringing her fucking knee up to my waists and hooking her leg around me as if to pull me even tighter against her. We break the kiss, gasping as we pull back for a second, eyes darting around the other’s and our breathing coming ragged before we go crashing right back into it.
I’m fucking lost in those lips; dropping out of all sense of time or space or any other fucking issue in the world. Because nothing else matters in that moment but those perfect, pouty lips pressed against my own.