by Aubrey Irons
“Shit!” Chloe whirls to me, her face white and her eyes wide as we’re both suddenly dragged out of whatever fantasy world we were both wrapped up in. “Oh my God, Oliver, this- this is so-”
“Look,” I hiss, grabbing her shoulders and trying forcing myself to look calm so she doesn’t have a meltdown right here in the pub bathroom. “We’ll say you drank too much and got sick and I was helping.” I wink at her, “I’m such a helpful stepbrother, you know.”
She wrinkles her nose at that last bit, “Why am I the one that’s too drunk?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, I’m the sick one, but we are in the women’s room, you know.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, “Okay, fine, whatever. Can we just get out of here?”
“Uh, whoa?” Delia arches her eyebrows at us suspiciously with a little sneer on her face as I swing open the bathroom door with my arm around Chloe’s waist. The blonde waitress puts her hands on her hips and makes a face. “Ew? You two are like relatives you know.” She wrinkles her nose. “Oh my God, I think that’s like, illegal or someth-”
“Oy!” I snap, shutting her the fuck up with the tone in my voice as she jerks her eyes to me. “She had a bit too much and wasn’t feeling it; I was helping her out.”
It’s actually alarming to me how well I can pull off a lie sometimes.
Delia’s whole face changes, from accusatory to suddenly looking at me with total puppy-dog eyes, “Oh my God, Oliver!” She makes this pouty, stupid looking kissy face; the kind that I hate when girls make. “That is so sweet of you to take care of your drunk sister like that!”
Chloe’s face is dark red as she looks at the ground and mutters something under her breath. I quickly elbow her in the ribs, “Stepsister,” I say quickly with a shrug.
Delia practically looks like she’s about to cry or something at how “sweet” she thinks I am. I’m betting her thoughts about me would be slightly different if she knew I’d just had two fingers buried to the knuckle inside Chloe’s pussy.
“Right, well, I’m just going to help her out for some air, yeah?” I flash my most winning smile at Delia, watching her basically melt there on the floor as she nods enthusiastically at me as I whisk Chloe past her and back out through the crowded pub.
We’ve barely made it out of the pub before I’m yanking my arm out of his and stomping away, looking for a taxi or a tube station, or literally anything to take away from Oliver as fast as humanly possible.
I want to cringe, or just fade away somewhere; maybe melt into a puddle and disappear into the cobblestones streets. My entire face burns with embarrassment and anger and just plain humiliation at what just happened in there; what I let happen in there. And it only gets worse when I feel a gust of wind tease up my skirt, reminding me of certain undergarments that I let him-
Ugh, I can NOT believe that just happened.
“Oy, where are you goi-”
“Leave me alone, Oliver!” I spit out, “Just fuck off and leave me alone.”
“Oh calm down,” he says, rolling his eyes with that smug look on his face as he rakes his fingers through his hair.
“‘Calm down’? You are such an asshole!” I sneer at him, shaking my head.
“Yeah?” He squares his jaw at me, “Takes two to tango, sweetheart.”
I don’t even trust myself to answer him without screaming at him. Instead, I whirl away with some sort of totally undignified grunting growling sound as I stomp towards the approaching headlights to see if they belong to a cab.
“Chloe, where in the hell are you going?”
“Home,” I growl, hugging my arms over my chest and refusing to even turn around to look at him.
“You hungry?”
This time I roll my eyes as I turn back to him, “What?”
“Hungry, Chloe. Do you want food.”
I scowl at him, hoping the angry face covers how absolutely mortified I am. “I’ll eat at home, alone.”
“Boring,” he says with a firm shake of his head. “I was actually thinking Indian food.”
I wrinkle my nose and make a face. Oliver does a double-take before he stares at me, “Stop it.”
“What?” I say, frowning at the smug prick shaking his head at me.
“Curry? Late night curry?”
I shrug, still frowning, “I dunno, it’s okay, I guess.”
“It’s okay?” Oliver rolls his eyes, “Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he swears as he grabs my hand and starts to drag me down the street. “Let’s go.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you prick?” I try and yank my hand out of his grip, “And just where do you think you're taking me?”
“Peace offering,” he says over his shoulder, towing me down the street as he raises a hand for a taxi.
“Oliver! Where are you taking-”
“The best shitty curry house in London, luv, that’s where.”
“Okay-” I’m nodding, and trying to stop myself from grinning as the flavors start to melt over my tongue, “Okay, I get it.” I lose the battle as the kind of smile that can only come from eating something absolutely delicious spreads across my face. I’m nodding, and Oliver is grinning, and so is Rajeev, the curry house guy.
“MY curry house guy,” Oliver had said as we strolled in, “I mean shit, you eat a man’s food four times a week, you start to get to know each other, yeah?”
I’m still pissed at him, and I’m still absolutely mortified that I let things- well, never mind. But ridiculously good coconut curry and a cold beer is certainly helping things.
A little.
“Okay, yeah, this is fantastic.”
Rajeev shrugs, “I know.” He winks at me and passes us two more beers before he heads back down the counter to check on something burbling on a stovetop.
Okay, so, this is not me. And not just because I’ve never had late night curry on Brick Lane in London before, but because I’m fairly certain I’m on a date right now.
A date that comes after I let the man I’m on the date with tear my panties off in a divey pub bathroom and finger me almost to the point of orgasm.
But without question, a date nevertheless.
A date with Oliver fucking Beckett; man-whore, my boss….
My stepbrother.
Chloe Caulfield, what has gotten into you?
And then of course I blush furiously as I choke on my sip of beer, thinking about exactly what just “got into me.”
“So,” I say, trying to force those thoughts from my head as I arch an eyebrow at Oliver, “Do you bring all your girls to this curry house?”
He snorts out a laugh as he forks a bite of spiced lamb into his mouth and rolls his eyes, “My girls?”
I give him a look, “You know.”
“I’m sure I don't know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh please! ‘London’s hottest young chef’? Didn’t that food blogger call you the ‘Hugh Hefner of modern English cooking’?”
Oliver roars out a laugh, choking on his lamb. “Oh, yeah, shit; they did call me that.” He shrugs, “Right, well, buggered there I guess.”
I crack up, almost spitting beer out through my nose, and he frowns at me, “What?”
“Did you seriously just say ‘buggered’?”
He cracks a grin at me. “What? Buggered, fucked, screwed.” He arches a brow at me and I can feel my cheeks go quite red all over again.
“No, Chloe,” he says with a casual shrug, “I don’t bring anyone here.”
I give him my closest approximation to the puppy-dog look he got from Delia at the pub and clasp my hands over my heart dramatically. “Oh, Ollie! Do you mean...you mean only I get to come to your late-night curry house?”
“Oh shut up.”
I snort out a laugh before I hide my smile in the last of my beer.
Honestly though, what the heck is wrong with me? I’m sitting - pantyless, I might add - in a curry house with London’s biggest man-whore, still mad at him, and still
totally and utterly turned on and on-edge from his fingers, and still absolutely confused as to what the heck I’m doing here with all of that.
And of course on top of that, I might just be having the time of my life.
If nothing else, this is the best date I’ve ever been on. Except, it can’t be a date. You’re not supposed to go on dates with someone like him, and you’re certainly not supposed to go on dates with your boss.
Or your damned stepbrother.
Well you’re probably not supposed to let him tear your panties off and have you on the verge of coming like a bomb going off either, for that matter.
Oliver, seemingly oblivious to the rush of conflicted thoughts in my head, downs the last of his beer and gives a wave to Rajeev at the other end of the counter before he turns to me, “You ready?”
“For?”
He smirks at me; “Didn’t you want to see where I take all ‘my girls’?”
I roll my eyes, “Oh, absolutely. So what’s next on Oliver’s grungy skank tour of the East End? A terrible club? An alleyway? Your favorite public restroom?”
“Itching to see more bathrooms, are we?”
My face goes bright red and I trip over the rest of my words as he grins at me.
“C’mon, Caulfield, let’s go paint the town red, shall we?”
We hit two more bars on the way home, to the point where it’s getting light out and we’re stumbling a little as we tumble through the front door of the townhouse.
“Shh!” I press a finger to my own lips, giggling and feeling the heat and the booze roaring though my face as I grin at Oliver. “Our parents are asleep!”
He rolls his eyes and snorts, “What are we, twelve?”
“I’m just saying-”
“Yeah?” He grins and spanks my ass as I step towards the staircase, making me giggle as I scamper up to our floor.
I feel free, and wild, and unhinged after our night on the town; ready for anything.
But I also know when it’s time to call it. I know when things are dangerously close to going further than they should.
At the top of the stairs, I step into the bathroom and start to close the door, when suddenly Oliver’s foot is in the way. I look up quickly, “What are you doing?”
He only grins, arching his eyebrows at me.
“Um, Oliver, I need to shower.”
“Hey, interesting, me too,” He says with a smirk, sliding into the bathroom with me and closing the door behind him. He winks at me before he starts to strip his shirt off. I bite my lip, seeing that chest carved out of fucking marble, those tattoos inked across his chest and shoulders.
I know when it’s dangerously close to going further than it should.
A shirtless Oliver, in an enclosed space, when it’s late and I’m slightly drunk, and still way more than slightly turned on from earlier?
Yeah, that would be the definition of that aforementioned “dangerously close to going further than it should” scenario.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I breathe, swallowing heavily and quickly forcing my eyes up to his face.
“I told you, showering.” He shrugs, as if this is totally normal as he brushes past me to crank the water on. He turns and when his eyes meet mine, I can feel my pulse jump, “You joining or not?”
“With you?”
He winks, “It’s just a shower, luv.”
I swear, that’s what he says; like either of us remotely believes this is just something innocent as the steam starts to swirl around us.
“Well?” He grins at me.
“Well what?”
“Do you plan on showering dressed?”
I shoot him a look, “Oliver-”
“Yes?”
“Our parents? Right downstairs?”
He looks at me with mock indignation and shock, “Why, Chloe! I don’t know what you’re implying!” He winks at me as he turns to check the water temperature.
I bite my lip. I should go; I should definitely, definitely go.
So why am I still standing here when he unhooks his belt and drops his pants? And why am I still not leaving when he steps close to me, and brings his hand up to my blouse.
I take a shaky breath, looking up at him, “And just who do you think I am, one of your girls?”
I say it with sass, like it’s meant to be a barb or something. But really, that’s the opposite of how I feel. Because tonight, I want to be one of “his girls”. I want to feel what he makes them feel, and after the taste from earlier and now with the beer and the desire coursing through me, I want more. I know his reputation, and I know every reason why this is so wrong.
But as the steam swirls around us and I let my eyes trace down every chiseled line of his body down to the thick bulge in his shorts…
I just don’t care.
I don’t care, and I want it all.
I don’t say a thing, but it’s as if he knows I’m saying yes just by the way my face flushes, or by the way my chest rises with my breath. He doesn’t say a thing either as he starts to pull at my blouse, undoing one button at a time.
And I let him.
“Take that off,” he says quietly, nodding at my bra as he turns to adjust the water temperature one last time.
I roll my eyes at him; “I’ve told you you’re bossy, righ-”
“Shh, gotta be quiet, Chloe,” he says, grinning wolfishly at me as he points a finger downstairs.
I let my bra fall to the floor, biting my lip and watching him intently as I feel his eyes slide over my breasts.
“Do you always shower in a skirt?”
He knows damn well I’m naked underneath it. He knows because he’s the one who tore my panties off.
“You first.”
Oliver grins as he hooks his thumbs into his shorts, and I literally gasp out loud as he shucks them off.
Jesus he’s big. Like, seriously big. I’m trying not to, but of course he catches me staring at it and just smirks. Yeah, our parents are right downstairs and here I am staring at Oliver’s cock as we get ready to shower to together.
My sensibilities have officially left the building.
He opens the shower door gestures with a hand, as if he’s some sort of gentleman helping a lady.
As if there’s anything “gentlemanly” about Oliver Beckett, despite that deceptively charming smile and accent.
As if there’s anything ladylike about doing what I’m about to do, for that matter.
I pull down the zipper at my side and let the skirt drop to pool at my feet, and then we’re standing there, face to face and totally naked.
This isn’t some dark pub bathroom, or the quiet shadows behind my mom’s garage back before. Here there’s nothing hiding us as we stare openly - hungrily - at each other’s bodies, surrounded only by the steam from the shower. And I know this is wrong; I know this is a mistake, even if I’m standing there actually trying to rationalize it in my head. I’m literally telling myself “oh, it’s just a shower”, as if there’s anything remotely appropriate about that between two people like us.
Oliver crooks a finger at me, “It’s just a shower, luv,”
Right.
But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of watching me back down, and before I can stop myself, or before I can roll my eyes at my own ridiculous excuse, I step past him and under the water.
It’s not a tiny shower, but it’s not big either, that much is clear when he steps in after me and I can feel his skin brush against mine. It’ teasing, but at the same time, it isn’t teasing.
“No sex,” I blurt out suddenly, my confidence dropping as I turn to look up at him. For some reason, I know right there that actual sex is pushing it; coming together like that is pushing a line we can’t push.
“Oh, I’m just here to shower,” he says with a smirk. “So sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”
I give him a look.
“What? Two people can’t just shower together?” He grins at me as he re
aches past me for the soap, his arm dangerously close to brushing my nipple, “I mean we’re basically family, Chloe.”
I wrinkle my nose, “Don’t be gross.”
His cock is rock hard between us, and I’m certainly wet from so much more than just the shower. But I’m trying so hard to ignore those facts as he just shrugs and starts to soap up. Fine; he wants to play this little tease game? Game on.
I turn, reaching for the shampoo when I suddenly gasp as I feel his body slide against my back.
“Oh, and Chloe?” He growls into my ear, his lips just teasing the skin there. I’m melting right there, biting my lip as I feel my knees go weak as his voice slides into my ear, “I think I already told you, you’re going to have to ask nicely for that.”
“You wish,” I whisper, biting my lip to stop the moan. I let the weight of his body press me forward, until I’m up against the clear shower wall, facing the mirror across the bathroom. The shower is made of that fancy plexiglass that doesn’t fog up, and I feel my breath catch at the sight of my breasts pressed against the glass with Oliver right behind me in the reflection in the mirror. His cock is throbbing and hard and hot, nestled in the cleft of my ass, and his hands come up soapy to slide over my skin, up my sides, grazing the sides of my breasts.
“Just a shower, hmm?” I whisper, gasping as his strong, slippery hands explore my sensitive skin.
“Mhmm,” he growls into my neck, his cock throbbing against my ass; “Can’t let you miss any spots. Weren’t you ever taught to wash behind your ears?”
I bite my lip, watching the reflection of the girl in the mirror who looks like she’s about to melt into a puddle. I see her bite her lip again as the hands of the man behind her slide over her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers.
“Those aren’t my ears,” I whisper quietly, my breath coming in gasps as his soapy fingers tease over the hard buds of my nipples.
“How clumsy of me,” he husks, biting at my earlobe as he lets one hand drift down over my stomach, down to my hip. His hand slowly delves between my legs, and I’m whimpering as I open them for him, letting him touch me there. I shiver when his fingers slide right between my lips, brushing over my clit just like he did hours ago in the pub.