Thief: A Bad Boy Romance

by Aubrey Irons

“My little friend that couldn’t get enough of your bum, earlier at your station.”

  Suddenly, I freeze; he cannot be serious.

  “Is-!” My eyes fly open, “Is that seriously a fucking-”

  “It’s literally a fucking cucumber at this point, but yes, luv, it is.”

  I start to make a move to jump off of him, but his arm holds me tight, and suddenly I’m moaning out in pleasure as his lips and tongue find my clit again.

  “Shh, just relax, luv,” he murmurs, gently licking me and making my eyes flutter shut as I bite my lip, “If you’re not into it, I’ll stop, but I swear you’re going to enjoy this.”

  And the problem is, I am enjoying it.

  A lot.

  I can feel the condom stretched over it now, but it feels staggeringly naughty, and dirty, and so unbelievably kinky. The feeling of something sliding in and out of me like a cock while Oliver’s tongue dances across my clit has me gasping in a whole new type of pleasure I’ve never felt before.

  His lips wrap around my clit, his swirling around the little pleasure spot as he starts to fuck me slow and rhythmically with the cucumber, pushing me deeper and deeper into my own pleasure.

  I can’t come like this; I can’t let myself come like this. It’s too…dirty.

  What, like fucking your stepbrother?

  “I want to feel you come for me, Chloe,” he growls, “I want to taste you when you come.”

  I’m gasping into his thigh, writhing on top of him as he slowly coaxes the impending orgasm from my trembling body. I open my eyes and see him rock hard and throbbing right in front of my face, and before I can even think about it, I’m reaching for him. He groans as I wrap my lips around him and suck him in deeply, and suddenly, the kink factor of this whole thing ratchets up even higher inside my head, sending me spinning.

  It’s so dirty, sucking him like this while he licks me and fucks me with that…thing. It’s like being taken by two Olivers at the same time, from both sides, and the utterly naughty image of that very scenario inside my head sends my body reeling as I start to claw at the precipice of my climax.

  There’s nothing slow about the way I suck him, all but gagging as I hungrily take him as deep as I can. I’m swirling my tongue around him while I stroke the part I can’t fit, wanting to taste him; wanting to make him come just like the way he’s about to make me- “Oh GOD!” I cry out as the wave crashes over me suddenly and without warning. I’m coming, and the orgasm tears through me from both ends as his tongue beats across my clit and the cucumber hits that perfect spot inside again and again and again.

  He groans into my pussy, and then he’s filling my mouth. I’m swallowing through my own climax, swallowing every drop of him as my body shudders and stutters through the tail of my orgasm and the world starts to blur a bit at the edges.

  Having a secret affair, at work, with my boss, who’s also my stepbrother, who just fucked me with cucumber while teasing my clit with his tongue…

  Yeah, we have officially left sensible, straight-laced Chloe behind long ago, and whoever this new version of me is?

  I kind of like her.

  I straighten the tie as I glance in the mirror, frowning at what a fuckin’ nance I look like.

  Okay, I look sharp as fuck, truth be told, but I’m just not used to putting on nice clothes and pretending I’m proper. I mean shit, I spend 75% of my time in loud, messy kitchens wearing what really amounts to fancy pajamas and an apron.

  I’m amazed I even remember how to tie a tie.

  I have a brief memory of my mother trying to show my how to do it in the mirror one morning before church, back when we used to go to church. I’m standing on a stool and she’s laughing as she stands behind me and tries to tie the damn thing before she gives up with another musical laugh. She finally just puts the thing on herself. And I remember laughing my head off at how funny she looked in her Sunday church dress with the cardigan on and the pearls dad bought her for their anniversary, and my short little striped kid-sized tie tied around her neck.

  Of course, after she died, we stopped going to church at all, which I guess suited both my dad and I just fine.

  “Like saying ‘thank ye’ to the fookin’ tax man, son, and we ain’t doin’ that no more.”

  Makes decent sense to me, truth be told.

  After that, I went eight years without tying a tie, until the army. And then I tied a shitload of ties, and usually multiple times a day at first since I kept mucking it up. Course, I also learned how to turn shit ingredients into something proper over a stove. I learned that even in the middle of Afghanistan, in the middle of a fuckin war-zone, you can find people selling probably the best spices on the planet in their old little stores, as if the apocalypse isn’t happening all around them.

  Some blokes went over there and learned how to kill people, or learned how to shove it all inside and slowly turn themselves crazy. Me? I got pinched lifting a case of soda my third day there, and after a fucking court martial hearing - for stealing what amounted to what, like ten quid worth of soda? - I was demoted and banished to the kitchens for the remaining year of my service.

  It’s probably one of the best thing that ever happened to me.

  See, Danny had taught me how to hold myself in a kitchen pretty proper. He’d taught me how to hold a knife, how to dice any vegetable out there and how to clean a cut of meat. Foundations is what he taught me; and that shitty little kitchen in the middle of the desert forced me to build my fucking tower.

  I shake my head, clearing it of the memories of that place that are best forgotten anyways as I finish straightening my tie before I walk out the door, stroll across the hallway, and knock on Chloe’s door.

  Gotta pick up my date for date night, you know.

  And it’s a real date; a real proper one like I’ve literally never been on before. Because really, it’s all new with her.

  “Where are we going?” We’re arm in arm as we stroll through down the side of a lane in Notting Hill. We’re in the nice, proper part of London for a change, instead of in grimy gritty Shoreditch. Hell, Jolie is on the south bank, which is right proper posh and all that, but it’s not like we ever see any of it outside the kitchen. So yeah, this time, we’re going someplace swanky, a place with a bit of class. Seems even scoundrels like me like a littler finery now and then.

  Finery like how fucking incredible Chloe looks in a dress and high-heels. I mean this girl looks hot in kitchen clothes; she looks downright sinful in this getup.

  “Surprise, I told you,” I say, wagging my eyebrows and loving the way she grins at me. I’ve had plenty of women give me “bedroom” eyes, or “hard to get” eyes, or any of that bullshit. But I have never had a woman look at me the way she does. Not once.

  Where we’re going is a restaurant owned by a guy I used to work with briefly before the army. It’s “slow food”; super “from-the-Earth” type shit, but it’s fucking incredible. He and his wife grow their produce on the damn roof of the place, right there in Notting Hill, and they bring in farm-raised everything else from meat to cheese; all of it. It’s simple, and perfect, and honestly, it might be one of London’s last hidden jewels.

  I mean, aside from Rajeev’s Brick Lane curry house that is, but a man can only take so much paneer in one week, you know?”

  Jerry and his wife Tricia greet me like old friends, even if it’s been at least a year since I got over here. He’s clapping me on the back and is genuinely so happy for me and the success I’ve found moving up at Jolie, which is great but also strange since I’m so shitty at taking compliments.

  Right, I know; me, not taking praise well doesn’t really compute does it?

  Truth is truth though. I put on the cocky mask, because it’s just how I was brought up and all, but being around real fucking proper trained chefs like Jerry and Tricia always makes me feel like some sort of fraud; the pauper that snuck his way into the castle or something. I mean these two have been cooking for like a decade and a half, or g
uys like Danny who’ve been doing it twice as long as that. So why the fuck is it some punk like me who gets stupid glowing blog posts about how good my shit is?

  “Cause it’s really good shit, that’s why, dummy,” Chloe says, rolling her eyes at me when I voice this exact thing at the table.

  “Right, but so are a lot of other people’s.”

  She grins at me, “Wow, you must really like me, Oliver Beckett.”

  She bats her eyes sarcastically at me and I roll mine. “Yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that, luv.”

  “Oh, you bring all your girls to Notting Hill for fancy dates at posh restaurants while you divulge insecurities to them?”

  She grins as I purse my lips together, “Cute, Chloe. Cute.”

  “See, I told you, you liked me.”

  I mean look at me; look at us!

  “So, this is a date, huh?”

  Chloe laughs, “Afraid so.”

  “I like it.”

  “Well will wonders never cease?”

  I reach across the table and squeeze her hand as the waiter comes over to take our order; “Oh, the lady will have the cucumber salad to start with,” I say quickly, grinning wickedly across the table at her as she about chokes on her water and shoots me a look.

  “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” She says, blushing fiercely as the waiter walks away with our order.

  “Wouldn’t want to tread on tradition,” I say as she rolls her eyes.

  “Oh, right, well of course, we couldn’t fall too much onto cliché, now could we?” She says with a wry smile.

  “And what cliché is that, luv? The one where you have lots of mind blowing sex with your stepbrother?”

  She blushes again, “Lower your voice!” She hisses, giggling.

  “Okay , fine.”

  “No, I mean, you know, being all…lovey-dovey like this.”

  I raise my eyebrows, “Wow, you are so that girl.”

  She laughs, the sound musical in the dim candlelight of the dining room, “No, I’m not at all that girl, which is why this is so…I don’t know, strange.”

  “Strange?”

  “Good strange,” she grins, squeezing my hand. “Really, really good strange.”

  I’m grinning at her and she rolls her eyes.

  “Oh don’t give me that look.”

  “Who, me?” I say, grinning as I sip my wine and lean across the table into her, like I just need to be fucking closer to her or something.

  “I mean, look at us, we’re like, on a date, in Notting Hill of all places.” She sticks her tongue out at me, “It’s like that movie or something.”

  “Jesus, are we that bad?” I blow air out through my lips before I grin at her, “Hollywood romantic comedy bad?”

  Chloe shudders dramatically. “Well, luckily for us, I’m not some movie star who you can dump orange juice on and then kidnap away to London forever.”

  “Oh, lovely, because I’m not opening a fucking travel book shop any time, like, ever, so I guess we’re good.”

  Chloe erupts into laughter, and I couldn’t stop the grin of pure fuckin’ happiness that spreads across my face then even if I tried.

  “Cheers,” I say, raising my glass towards her, “To acting the cliché.”

  “Cheers.” She clinks her glass to mine, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

  “So, I guess I’ll have to do something with red roses, or some other clichéd crap every time now, huh?”

  “Why Oliver Beckett, you charmer, you.”

  The storm always hits when you’re least expecting it. And I use that metaphor as a man who’s lived basically his entire life in the city of London.

  I’m prepping for service like any other day - like any other of the hundreds of days at Jolie before it, only I’m glowing.

  Fucking hell, I’m glowing now.

  And it’s not just that I fucked Chloe on the bathroom sink while the shower ran and filled the room with steam around us this morning before we came in. It’s just, her. It’s every fucking thing about her, in the most unexpected ways that have me tied up and twisted like I’ve never been before.

  And I like it.

  Service starts, and I can barely concentrate on calling orders or expediting, because I can’t fucking stop staring at the dark-haired girl in the back corner.

  Cupcake girl; the girl I can’t get out of my head, the girl who I woke up to this morning curled in my arms, and the girl who’s somehow making me forget the dirty rotten scoundrel I’ve spent most of my life trying to aspire to be.

  Oh, and my stepsister. Minor details.

  We’re not thirty minutes into service when Ian comes in, his face drawn and that pissed look on his face, “Ollie.”

  “What?”

  He rolls his eyes and sighs, “Barney’s here.”

  FUCK.

  I’ve had this talk with my dad a hundred fucking times; do not come into the bloody restaurant on a busy night of service. Or, you know, ever.

  There’s one basic rule that most new restaurant owners or investors fuck up, and it’s the reason something like 90% of new restaurants go belly up within the first year. The rule is simple, and it goes as follows: it may be your restaurant but it is a business, not your fucking playground. Okay, so you’ve got cash and you want to look like some sort of baller? Go be that somewhere else.

  It’s the guys that come into their own places and act like they’re at the Palms or something that go down in flames first. The guys who comp bottles of champagne and pricey dishes for their friends and tell themselves it’s a “business expense.”

  Sure it is.

  It’s essentially the same as walking into your practice if you were a lawyer and giving your buddies a free laptop off one of your employee’s desks, and how people don’t see that connection is fucking beyond me.

  My dad, by the way, is exactly that type of restaurateur.

  I swear loudly, slamming the towel in my hand down onto the cutting board in front of me, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Ian pouts. “I wish, mate, I wish. Your new mum is out there with him, and they’re, uh-” Ian shrugs and pantomimes tossing a glass back.

  Shit.

  “Alright, fuck, keep them fucking happy and keep them fucking distracted, okay?” Ian nods and walks out.

  My whole buzz is ruined then, because having those two here taking up space at a table they’re just going to comp anyways and being loud and drunk for real patrons is seriously the last fucking thing I need on a Saturday night rush. Having Barney and Laura here is the worst case scenario, really.

  That is, I believe it is, until twenty minutes later just as the rush is hitting its stride, when Ian comes back in.

  And this time, he’s pale, shaking, and silent.

  “Little fucking busy right now, Ian! What is it?” I yell, barely looking up from the fifteen app plates I’m setting in front of me and shoving out of the service pass. I glance up and Ian’s just quietly blinking and breathing heavily. “Ian!” I shout, “What?”

  “They’re here.”

  It’s like someone hits a switch, and somehow it’s like the whole fucking kitchen hears what he says as the whole room goes silent.

  “What? Who’s here?”

  Ian takes a deep, shaky breath, “Ollie, The Times,” his eyes dart up to meet mine as the floor starts to fall out beneath my feet. “The fucking Times reviewer is back.”

  Oh holy fuck.

  I glance back at Chloe out of pure reflex. Her mouth is as tight as mine, her eyes meeting mine as she nods. I turn back to Ian and slowly, I start to stand up tall; it’s fuckin’ go time.

  “Oy, keep the front of the house happy, savvy?” Ian nods. “And if you have to lock Barney and Laura in the fucking bathroom, do it.”

  I turn to the rest of the kitchen, tossing my towel down and crossing my arms over my chest. This is it; we’re in the damn trenches now, and it’s time to marshal this room for fuckin’ war. I look back at Chloe, and she smile
s at me, and that’s all I need. And this time, I’m ready for it; I’m readier than I’ve ever been. I’m not frayed at the edges, or coked up, or in free fall this time. This time, I just have to look at her, and I know we’ve got this.

  “You all ready?”

  The resounding “yes, chef!” roars across the room, and I’ve never been fucking prouder of anything in my life. This is my army that I’ve built from the ground up and trained. I might rage and roar and swear at them and scream in their faces, but we’re a fucking team, and we all know it. And there’s not a single person in this room right now who isn’t as invested in this as I am.

  “Oy,” I say, grinning around the room at Chloe, and Marco and all the rest of them, “We do our jobs, we do what we always do, and we’ve got this, yeah?” They all grin at me and I smile right back, “Let’s cook this fucker the best food he’s ever scarfed down.”

  It’s a whirlwind after that, and I’m bouncing around the room testing sauces, touching up on plating, checking temps on the grill even if I know it pissed Marco off when I step on his turf like that. And it’s all looking perfect, and I’m so stoked about that and so ready to blow this out the park that it’s almost like some sort of bad dream when the kitchen door opens and my dad barges right in.

  Jesus Christ, WHY?

  “Oy! Ollie!” He snaps, the glass of scotch in his hand sloshing around as he stumbles right through the pass and into my domain behind the line, “What’re you sendin’ out here to that Times wanker,boy-o?”

  “Oooo! It’s so busy in here!” It’s Laura, red-faced and taking sips from the world’s largest wine-glass as she follows my father into the kitchen.

  Yeah, no, we’re not playing this fucking game; not fucking tonight.

  “Oy, no,” my voice is firm as I shake my head, pointing at my dad and then Laura. “Nope, no way; out, the both of you.”

  Barney’s face gets red as he steps up to me, “Oy son, you don’t talk to me like that.”

  “I fucking do right now, and it you want me to do my job, you’ll do what I fucking say.”

  “Ooooh now, play nice, boys!” Laura says, giggling. I can see Chloe step forward out the corner of my eye, but I turn quickly and shake my head at her.