by Aubrey Irons
“Look, I just wanted to, uh...” His jaw tightens, like he doesn't know what comes next in this conversation past barging into my personal space.
I glare at him, “You just wanted to barge into my room?”
“Hey, who came barging in on who, sweetheart,” he growls. “You know I never asked for a new pastry cook, let alone a fucking flatmate.”
“Oh please, like I had a choice!” I throw back, hugging the blankets up tight to my chin and praying to God that he thinks the flush and the guilty look on my face is from the yelling, not the fact that I was...well, you know.
“Listen luv, what you and I-”
“There’s no ‘you and I’ here, Oliver.”
“You know what I fucking mean,” he narrows his eyes at me, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against my doorframe. “Before, back on that fucking exchange trip.”
“We do not need to go there,” I shake my head, souring my face like I’ve just bit into a lemon. As if somehow, physically reacting to the idea of bringing up the past drives it home.
“Yes, we do,” he growls, taking a step towards my bed, his eyes locked onto mine.
I instinctively grab the sheets a little tighter and he smirks; he fucking smirks, like he totally knows.
He arches a brow at me, “I don’t suppose you want to show me what’s under that sheet.” And then he fucking winks at me.
Oh my God, he’s so forward.
“You suppose right,” I say, stiffening and biting my lip.
“If I guess will you show me?” He says with a grin, moving closer until he’s standing right next to my bed.
“No,” I say, which sounds a whole lot more like maybe to even me.
Oliver sits on the edge of my bed, and I can practically feel the temperature in the room start to rise; I can feel the tingling in my leg from where his body touches mine through the sheet.
My very bare, very unclothed leg, I remind myself, chewing on my lip.
“You need to leave,” I say quietly.
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because this is wrong,” I say, barely mumbling the words. He grins and starts to laugh, and I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously, “What?”
“Nothing, luv, it’s just that your first answer wasn’t ‘because I want you to, Oliver’.”
I blush bright red.
Oliver shrugs, “I find that interesting, don’t you?” He’s leaning closer then, his arm dropping over to the other side of my body as he slowly leans over. My breath catches as he slowly moves up my body, until his lips are right by my ear and his body covers most of mine.
And I’m letting him.
“You know what I think?” He whispers into my ear, his lips grazing the skin there.
“I don’t want to know what you think, Ol-”
“I think you want me.”
His directness throws me off for one quarter second, and I find myself biting my lip to keep in the gasp that threatens to come tumbling out. “You’re delusional,” I whisper.
I can feel him grin, the heat of his breath against my neck, “Nah, sweetheart, I think deep down, you’re dying to know what it would feel like to come with my cock buried inside of you. You’re just aching to know what you missed out on those years ago.”
Oh my God.
I’m wet; so wet and so damn ready for him the second he says it, but at the same time, that voice deep inside screams “NO”. No to this man I should have nothing to do with. No to this cocky, arrogant bad boy whose only been and who’d only ever be trouble. The man who’s my boss; not to mention the biggest man whore in Britain.
“Oliver, you should sto-”
“Chloe,” his lips close around my earlobe, and I moan as his tongue teases the skin there.
My fucking traitorous body moans.
“See,” he grins, his voice a dark honeyed tickle in my ear. “I think you’re begging for it inside. You’re dying to know what my tongue feels like deep in your pussy; dying to know how hard I’m gonna make you come.”
It feels as though I might explode, right here and right now. I’m breathing heavily, panting, my eyes closed and my legs squeezing together. And the fucked up thing is that my body is so on edge and so turned on and he’s not even fucking touching me.
Until he is.
I can feel his hand slide under the sheets by my calves, and I shiver as his tongue slides against my ear while his hand closes over the skin of my leg. He trails it higher, teasing my skin and sending shockwaves through my whole body. I’m panting out loud, moaning for him as he kisses my ear.
The realization that my panties are still bunched and twisted around my knees hits me just as his hand finds them there. I freeze as the heat roars through my cheeks at having been totally busted with my panties down, but Oliver only growls into my ear, “Caught you.”
Fuck.
His words only get me hotter, and I whimper again as his hand skims down my legs before sliding right back to my knee under the sheet.
“Chloe,” he whispers heatedly into my ear as his hand teases up my thigh. I’m raising my hips towards him, biting my lip and closing my eyes as I will his hand to touch me; willing him to find my heat.
“Chloe I want you,” he growls, his teeth biting my earlobe.
I moan out loud, and I can feel his fingers inching higher; so close to my pussy that in another inch I know he’ll feel how wet I am.
“I want you…” He trails off, and suddenly his hand freezes on my thigh, “I want you to come to work on time tomorrow.”
OH MY FUCKING GOD.
My eyes fly open and he’s just grinning at me, the devil himself just chuckling away as I writhe on the end of the line like a caught fish.
The heat comes roaring into my face as I grab his hand and shove it out from under the sheets, “Get out!” I scream, but he’s just laughing as he stands from my bed and walks to the door.
“Pleasant dreams sweetheart,” he says with a wink.
“Oh, and I’m keeping these, by the way.” He pulls a hand out from behind his back and I blanch as I see my panties - the pair I just let that fucker skim off my legs - twirling around his fingers. He blows me a kiss, and even manages to shut the door before the pillow I hurl at his head manages to connect.
The next day is fucking brutal. All that obnoxious and pompous shit I say about kitchens being “battlefields” and me being “the general”? Yeah, well, along with the pretentious war analogies comes the fact that sometimes you’re seriously in the middle of a fucking war zone.
So yeah, fuckin’ brutal. And it’s not just because I’ve been up half the night at the club with Danny and then the other half of it with a rock hard cock and wildly conflicting thoughts about Chloe. It’s also not just because me teasing her last night as payback led to her being in an absolutely horrid mood today. Beyond all that shit, we get fuckin’ crushed during service.
And I mean just bent over a barrel crushed.
I’m short a dish guy for the night, and the new waitress, Delia, is Fucking. My. Shit. Up. Like, all Goddamn night. And honestly, the only reason I don’t end up throwing a fucking plate of food at her head is that she’s hot as hell.
Chloe ignores me, muttering only the bare “yes” and “no” at roared commands during the rushes; a noticeable absence of the word “chef” in there, but we’re so buried I have to let it slide. Beyond that, she fuckin’ ignores me all night whenever I try and get a rise out of her, which isn’t very fun at all. After all, what’s the fun in teasing this girl if she doesn’t react?
But then, what she is reacting to is Marco. And oh does she react to that crooked little shit; way more than I want her to.
The guy is a fuckin’ shark, and I should know because I pretty much taught him every part of his game. But he’s all over her station the whole shift, cracking jokes to her when he thinks I’m not watching, passing her little bits of steak or some bullshit when I’m roaring at my fish guy; basically flirting like the litt
le devil he is.
I make the executive decision that murdering my grill man in the middle of a Saturday night service probably isn’t the most prudent of plans, but I file it away for later after I congratulate myself on my own restraint.
It’s afterwards, when I’m in my office slumped in my chair with a glass and a bottle of something brown and Irish in front of me that the door just opens.
No knock, no “hey chef”, it just opens. And of course, it’s Chloe.
“Can I fucking help you?” I scowl, pouring a splash of whiskey into the glass tumbler on my crowded desk.
“Yeah, the changing room is full of sweaty cooks.”
I look at her in mock shock and surprise, “It is?!”
“Cute,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes at me, “Look I need to change, so…”
“What, here?”
“Yes here.”
I raise a brow at her, trying to figure out what game she’s playing at here. “You don’t just barge into the chef’s office without knocking, Chloe.”
She rolls her eyes, fuckin rolls her eyes at me.
“What happened to all that ‘stays in the kitchen’ bullshit?” She says, glaring at me.
“We’re not in the kitchen, we’re in the kitchen office,” I shrug and toast my glass to her before taking a sip, grinning as she rolls her eyes again
“Well, deal with it.”
The grin drops from my lips. On the one side, she’s testing me here, but the prospect of her changing in my small office right in front of me suddenly far outweighs the cons of her acting up. Plus no one’s here to see her sass back the chef anyways, so whatever.
She starts to undo her whites before she glares at me, “Um, some privacy?”
I laugh out loud. “Are you serious? It’s my office.”
“Look just turn around, God.”
“Whatever.” I turn around, barely, still watching her out the corners of my eyes. Her white kitchen jacket comes off, and I take a big sip of my drink as my eyes strain to the point of hurting; all just to catch of glimpse of her.
Damn, this girl is sexy as sin. And she’s wearing this black bra that contrasts fucking phenomenally with her skin. Creamy skin that’s covered in this thin sheen of sweat from the rough night; that has my pulse pumping a little faster. She turns away from my desk and drops her pants, and holy shit, there’s a little black thong to match.
This fuckin girl’s been working ten feet away from me with that on underneath that baggy kitchen uniform? Fuckin’ hell.
She bends over a little to grab her bag of clothes off the chair she dropped it in, and right then, I stop even pretending I’m looking away. This girl is driving me crazy with that ass and that-
Fuck. Then it hits me, and it’s all clear.
She’s fucking with me. Chloe’s trying to mess with me as much as I messed with her the night before, even if that was payback for her fucking with me before that. But whatever, she’s trying to one up me, but two can play that fucking game
“Yeah I should get out of here too,” I say, knocking back the last of my whiskey. I stand, and before she can say shit, I just start taking my own clothes off. She whirls in her undies, her mouth wide open and suddenly looking worried as she realizes her little plan is collapsing around her.
“Um, what are you doing?”
“Changing.”
“Now?”
I shrug, shooting her my most winning smile. “Hey, the changing room downstairs in communal. It’s just fuckin kitchen culture, sweatheart; everyone just changes around each other.”
She crosses one arm across her chest, as if her arm does anything to cover those glorious fuckin’ tits, while the other one holds a t-shirt in front of her panties. “Yeah but, it’s just you and me in here.”
I smirk at her, “So why would that be a problem, sis?
She wrinkles her nose and glares at me; defiantly. I grin, and before she can shoot any sass back my way, I just drop my pants. And then she’s just staring; poor thing. She’s just staring at my body, her eyes quickly darting across my chest and my tattoos and my kitchen scars.
And my package. She’s like, completely staring staring at the semi-bulge in my jockeys.
A grin teases my lips, and I arch a brow at her, “Who’s being unprofessional now, sweetheart?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring.”
“I am not.”
“You are so.”
She blushes fiercely. “Well Jesus, I’m not the one stuffing the front of my underwear for attention, Oliver.”
I laugh; “Says the girl wearing a matching lacy black bra and thong to work in a kitchen.” I smirk. “And it ain’t stuffed, luv,” I say with a wink.
She blushes even more, as if that was even possible, and her eyes dart back down then up to my face.
Shit, there’s that look again. It’s the same innocent look from before. Back when we were in school. Back when I was visiting on that exchange trip. And it’s making me hard.
Before I know it, I’m moving towards her, eyeing her and seeing she’s not pulling back, “I thought you came in here to get changed.”
She bites her lip, her eyes flashing around mine.
“You distracted me,” she says, that defiance still lacing her words, but they’re coming out whispered.
“Apparently. How’s that working for you?”
“What?”
“Being distracted.” I arch my brow at her as I nod down at my rapidly growing cock.
Chloe bites her lip, her chest rising and falling quickly. “It’s…” She trails off, her tongue darting out to lick her lips, “Distracting.”
The tongue is my undoing. The black bra and panties, the whispered words, the catching of her breath; all of it takes me to the fucking boiling point, but it’s that little dart of her tongue across her lips that pushes me over the edge.
She moans as I close the distance between us, and as I kiss her, I can feel her just melt into me.
We’re both gasping, our mouths opening for each other’s tongues instantly, moaning into each other as I sear my lips against hers.
“We-” she whimpers, kissing me fiercely before pulling back again, “We shouldn't do this!” She gasps, kissing me harder. “We can’t do this!”
But then she’s still kissing me, and when I don’t respond and I slide my hands up her sides and around her body, she moans and sinks against me. I move her hand to my cock, letting her feel how hard I am, and fucking loving the way she whimpers as her fingers curl around my girth.
She starts to stroke me through my jockeys like that, and my hand quickly moves to press against her mound, feeling how soaking wet she is through her panties. We’re moaning and gasping together, stroking each other with our underwear still on.
I start to slip my fingers under, feeling her tense and then moan as I slide against her lips, and then-
A knock at the door.
Are you fucking kidding me?!
Chloe jumps away from me like I just electrocuted her and snatches her clothes up from the chair. I whirl at the door, ready to fucking murder whoever it is.
“Chef?” The voice calls through the door; “Chef, I need you to sign off on that hood repair for the grill.”
It’s Ernie, my nighttime porter, otherwise known as “the guy that cleans the whole fucking kitchen after we fuck it up all night.” Also otherwise known as the guy I probably can’t kill and still run a functional kitchen.
Goddamnit.
I whirl towards Chloe. “Stay here,” I hiss, before turning back to the door as I yank my pants back on and grind my teeth.
“Hang on, mate. Just changing.”
I pull a shirt on. “Stay here,” I say to her quickly again, seeing her eyes go wide and her cheeks bright pink and flushed as she nods at me and hides behind my desk as I slip out the door.
I’m back in three minutes, but of course, by then, she’s gone. And at that point, I start to seriously wonder how long I c
an go with the world’s biggest case of blue balls before I need to go to the fuckin’ hospital.
It’s the constant back and forth with him that has me tripped up, and it feels like neither of us can win. We’re friendly and then we’re not; we’re hanging out and having a great time and then he’s cold and back to iron Chef Oliver, barking orders and ignoring me.
And I know some - okay, a lot - of that is my fault, but c’mon, I’m not leading him on or anything. This isn’t something that “can” happen by any standard. Beyond the fact that we work together, there’s our history, however small. And, I mean hello, stepbrother? No way.
Work is tough the next night. A food blog with a huge following just put a grand review of Jolie up, and so even the normal 2 hour wait is practically double that from the moment we open for service.
Everyone’s on edge anyways, but Oliver’s extra quick to jump down people’s throats; barking orders left and right and roaring like a mad-man for most of service. On that though, I’ll give him a pass. Working at his dad’s restaurant might not be his end goal, but cooking certainly is, and if Oliver is nothing else, he’s passionate about what he does.
I blush slightly at the thought of some other “passions” from the night before, but I quickly push that aside as the general chaos of the kitchen swallows me back up.
It’s the giggling that gets my attention finally, just as we’re starting to wind down. I look up, and my eyes instantly narrow on Delia, the bouncy little blonde waitress who somehow has managed not to get fired yet.
She’s also somehow managed to get Oliver wrapped around her fucking pinky, and that gets to me a whole lot more than the fact that she’s still a waitress here.
If he’s yelling at everyone else all night and generally acting like a drill sergeant, he’s all smiles with her; all charm, all little jokes and winks. Actually come to think of it, I’m not sure who’s wrapped around whose finger there. Either way, it’s got me quietly seething in the corner, much more than it should, given my whole diatribe earlier to him about this ‘not being a thing’.