Exposed: A British Bad Boy Romance

by Sennah Tate

  Alisha pats my knee, “Nah, he tucked you in and went home. I offered to let him stay. Told him there was plenty of room in my bed,” she laughs.

  “Oh god, please tell me you’re joking.”

  She shrugs with this little sly smile as she takes a pull from her coffee.

  “Al!” I screech, tossing a pillow at her head. She ducks and it lands on the floor harmlessly.

  “What, are you calling dibs?” she asks, an eyebrow arched in expectation.

  “I… No. I mean… That’s not professional and…”

  “And having him carry you home was?”

  I know she’s right and I know I have nothing to retort so I end up pursing my lips together in what I’m sure looks a lot like pouting.

  Alisha nudges my knee, “Hey, I’m just fucking with you, Suze. No way would I make a move on him. He seems pretty smitten with you anyway.”

  And just like that, there’s lava burning in my face again, a warm trickle of excitement pouring towards my core and that tiny hopeful voice that insists on saying ‘what if?’

  “You’re wrong,” I say, my voice sounding a little hollow and empty even to myself, “Jasper’s just… like that.”

  “Mhm,” Alisha says, but before I can muster up more unconvincing arguments, her phone buzzes.

  “Oh! It’s time!” She claps her hands together and crawls over me to grab my TV remote, turning it on and sliding under the covers next to me like we’ve done since middle school.

  “Time for what?”

  I don’t have to wait for an answer, though because she flips the channel and then there he is.

  Ladies and gentleman, Jasper Wild!! The audience on screen goes nuts, jumping to their feet and he’s walking out on the set, smiling and waving.

  Jasper.

  “What’s he—”

  “Shh!” Alisha hisses, turning up the volume on the TV.

  Jasper’s on “Wake up, America!” looking for all the world to be thoroughly rested and not at all hungover like me.

  In fact, he looks great — he’s wearing a crisply ironed chef coat, black chef pants and that easy smile that makes something deep inside me melt. Every. Single. Time.

  “I don’t think the camera does him justice,” Al says, sipping her coffee.

  She’s right. TV can’t quite capture the pure masculine confidence that pours off of Jasper. He looks charming and confident, sexy as hell and comfortable in front of the audience.

  But something’s missing.

  The fire in his eyes when he stares at me, maybe. Or the way a quirk of his lips can make my knees quiver and my insides turn to jelly?

  The camera loses that effect. Thankfully, or I’d be even more of a mess than I already am.

  “So, Chef Wild, you’ve been taking the culinary world by storm the past few years, is there anything you attribute to your success?”

  “You mean other than my devilish good looks and sexy accent?” he jibes.

  The audience laughs. The hostess laughs and bats her eyes at him in such an obvious move that I want to lunge through the screen and claw her eyes out.

  That’s gotta be the hangover talking.

  “I think I’ve been very fortunate to be able to put out things that are true to me and everyone has been exceptionally receptive to that,” he says with a touch of humility.

  I’ve never seen that side of Jasper. He’s always been swaggering, cocky and infuriating around me.

  “So I understand you have a new restaurant opening up in a few months and you want to share something from your menu with us?”

  Jasper smiles, “Yes. And this one is for the lads out there. Pay close attention and make this for your woman and she won’t be able to tear herself away from you.”

  The camera pans to the audience full of women who are now all tittering excitedly in their seats, mooning over Jasper like he’s the second fucking coming of Jesus.

  “Alright, when we come back, a dessert that will lead straight to the bedroom with Chef Wild!”

  The audience roars again and the show cuts to commercial.

  I don’t know why seeing him on television has me so angry. He never told me he had this planned — though it was probably on the schedule Elliot gave me.

  What’s worse is that he goes on TV and answers all of their questions with smiles and charm. Where’s that cooperation with me?

  I look all over my nightstand for my cellphone before spotting my purse sitting inelegantly on top of the dresser, contents half spilled across the usually-tidy surface.

  Alisha watches me as I get out of bed — still wearing my clothes from the night before, I finally realize — and fish my phone off the dresser to fire off an angry text.

  You didn’t tell me you were going to be on WUA.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I say, plugging my phone in before I start to strip.

  “You’re going to miss his cooking segment!” Alisha protests.

  I shrug, losing the button-down blouse as I do, “I think I’ll live, Al.”

  And before she can make another disappointed face or whine another objection, I slip into my bathroom and turn the shower all the way to hot.

  I’m hoping to burn away the memory of his fingers trailing up my thighs, his lips pressed against mine and just the barest touch against where I crave it most.

  Instead of having the desired effect, remembering all of those things brings my own fingers trailing over my body, teasing my flesh, pinching my nipples as hot water steams the room around me.

  I imagine it’s Jasper’s fingers moving inside me as I rock my hips against my hand, breaths coming in short quick gasps. He’s whispering into my ear, his breath warm, his words hot. I roll a nipple between my fingers and find my clit with my thumb before I shudder with a quiet — and wholly unsatisfying — release.

  No matter how much I imagine it, my fingers will never be Jasper’s and his are the ones I want.

  So much for professional.

  When I get out of the shower and walk back into my bedroom, Jasper is still on the television and my phone is lit up with a text message.

  Keep watching.

  I’m not sure what to make of the text and then I hear the cheery hostess say “So Chef, you’ve got to tell me — you seem to have a certain way with the ladies, is there anyone special in your life right now?”

  Jasper drizzles this gorgeous thick caramel over the cake he’s made and I think about licking it off of him; my mouth waters.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say anyone, Julie.”

  “So the rumors of your vast conquests are true?” Julie presses, her eyes alight with a hunger I recognize all too well — she’s not looking at the cake, afterall.

  Jasper shrugs, “At home I’ve got a drawer full of knickers; women will just come up to me and hand them over. It’s inexplicable, really.” He looks up at the camera and winks.

  Right at me.

  Maybe that seems crazy, but I just know he’s talking about me. About last night.

  I try to look at Alisha out of the corner of my eye. I hope to god that she didn’t pick up on that.

  She turns to me with a suspicious frown, but when I don’t offer any explanation she rolls her eyes and gets out of my bed.

  Before she walks through the door she turns back and gives me a withering look, a hand on her hip, “I’d never keep something super juicy from you, you know.” She’s not even trying to hide the disappointment on her face.

  “Al, I’m not. There’s nothing to—”

  She holds up a hand, “Save it. Maybe we’re just past all that ‘braiding each other’s hair and sharing secrets’ bullshit. Gotta grow up sometime, right?” She shrugs and leaves before I can say anything.

  Not that I have anything to say.

  What can I say?

  There’s nothing between Jasper and I other than the same flirtation he engages every other female on the planet with.

  Right?

  Right.

  He’
s still just trying to get a rise out of me.

  Before I know it, I’ve whipped out my phone again, typing another response with harder presses on the screen than are really necessary.

  You asshole. Now Alisha is pissed at me. She thinks I’m keeping something between us secret.

  His response comes back in moments, Aren’t you?

  There’s nothing to keep secret! I fire off, wondering why my fingers are trembling so much.

  I think I need food. All that tequila on an empty stomach and now coffee, too. I’m just jittery and peckish. That’s all.

  So you’ve told her how I nearly made you cum in one of the city’s hottest restaurants?

  Fuck. That text is enough to send a warm flush through me. I read it again and again, imagining the words in Jasper’s husky tones.

  Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Like I said: nothing to tell.

  I’m feeling a little proud of my response. Even if he’s all I seem to be able to think about, I don’t want him to know that he’s gotten under my skin.

  Then he answers and I’m instantly deflated.

  I’ll be sure to remedy that next time.

  I type out my response without even thinking, Next time?

  ;)

  What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  There is no ‘next time’.

  My phone lights up with an incoming call and I nearly drop it, fumbling it in surprise as Jasper’s grinning face appears.

  I don’t remember putting that picture in there. He looks drunk — did he take a selfie for my phone? I can’t remember.

  After staring at the phone in shock for a solid twenty seconds, I manage to actually answer it.

  “Hello,” I say with as little enthusiasm as I can muster.

  “Good morning, luv. Feeling alright this morning? Did you enjoy my telly appearance?”

  “What do you want, Jasper? I’m hungover and not in the mood at all.”

  He clicks his tongue in a disappointed way, “You always seem to be in the mood around me, Susie.”

  God help me, I wish it didn’t, but my pulse quickens with those words. My breathing goes shallow and I have to resist the urge to close my eyes and picture him there.

  Fuck you, Jasper Wild, I think.

  “Okay, I’m hanging up now,” I say.

  “Wait wait wait, don’t be so hasty, luv.”

  “What do you want Jasper?”

  He sighs, “Dinner tonight, I’ll answer one of your questions.”

  “I’m not playing this game, Jasper…”

  “That’s not how a negotiation works at all, Susie. I say, ‘dinner, one question’, you counter with ‘coffee, three questions’ and then I’ll say ‘lunch, one yes or no question and one open ended question, final offer’.”

  I realize I’m grinding my teeth when a sharp pain shoots through my jaw. This man is going to be the end of me.

  “And why in the world would I go through all of that just for a couple of questions?”

  I swear I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “What would you like to hear, luv? The wholesome answer? Because you need me to advance your career and write for the big newspaper like you’ve always dreamed.”

  I regret ever telling him about that.

  “You’re such a dick,” I mutter.

  “Not fond of that option, eh? Alright, we’ll go with the unwholesome answer: I’m hoping to get another shot at making you cum with my fingers inside of you and my name on your lips. Do you prefer that answer, darling?”

  Even though there’s no one there to witness my reaction to his words, I’m ashamed of it. Ashamed of the molten excitement brought on by his crude words and sensual voice. Ashamed at the images his words conjure in my mind.

  And ashamed that I know I won’t stop him next time…

  “No,” I lie in a whisper.

  He’s laughing at me, but it barely registers past the furious roar of my pulse in my ears.

  “Sure, luv. Whatever you say. I’m going to text you an address, see you in an hour?”

  I’m grinding my teeth again as I say “Fine.”

  What choice do I have?

  If I want to have any hope of getting out of the realm of puff pieces and scandalized celebrities, I’m going to have to knock this one out of the park.

  And that requires Jasper’s cooperation.

  That’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. As I get primped and ready for lunch with Jasper, I’m telling myself over and over again that this is for my career. For serious journalism.

  Not to kiss him again. Not to feel his fingers slide over my breasts. And certainly not because I want him to make me come.

  Nope.

  Not at all.

  That’s convincing, right?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jasper

  It’s nearly noon and the day has grown remarkably warm. I’m sitting on the patio of this little Jamaican shack Ricardo told me I just had to try.

  Of course, my mind is nowhere near food right now. I’m drumming my fingers on the uneven table before me, turning my head at every movement to see if it’s Suzette.

  From around the corner, she appears and my heart skids to a halt. Her golden hair is pulled over her shoulder in a tidy plait and she’s got a pair of those ridiculous over-sized sunglasses that girls wear. My eyes skim past the colorful halter top down to the perfectly-fitted little white shorts and I groan.

  Her legs look like they just go on forever and I keep fucking picturing them wrapped around my waist as I plunge deep inside her.

  Fucking hell.

  She pulls the sunglasses off and it’s like a slow motion scene from a bloody movie as she puts them atop her head, spots me, and a slow smile spreads her lips.

  That smile couldn’t possibly be for me, could it?

  Susie walks over and because I’m a fucking idiot that doesn’t know how to handle himself, I stand and pull her seat out for her. She looks at me as if I’ve sprouted another head — I’m not typically known for my chivalry — and then mutters a word of thanks as she sits.

  I retake my seat across from her and find that my knee is jerking restlessly.

  What the ever-loving hell is going on with me?

  “I hope this place is good. I’m starving,” she says, poring over the menu.

  “It comes on high recommendation,” I say, my fingers still drumming on the table. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that I’m nervous.

  But that can’t be right.

  When was the last time I was nervous?

  I couldn’t even fucking say. I’ve been a cocky prick my whole life, never at a loss for self-assured egotism.

  But now, with this girl… I’m fucking losing it.

  She looks up from the menu and narrows her eyes.

  “Holy shit,” she says, jerking across the table to grab my hand and pull it towards her, “I forgot about the tattoo!”

  Her fingertips barely brush over the half-finished design and my other hand balls into a fist under the table as blood pulses through my veins and I’m rock fucking hard for her already.

  “How could you possibly forget about the tattoo, luv?”

  She looks up at me with humor sparkling in her wide eyes, “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

  I shrug, “According to you, I didn’t. After all, it’s only almost finished.”

  Susie opens her mouth for a retort and then clamps it shut instead. Perhaps I’ve won for the moment, but she’s not giving up yet.

  Good.

  She makes a show of turning her attention back to the menu to ignore me and I shrug, doing the same. She’s here to ask me questions. She’ll undoubtedly crack before I do.

  The waiter comes, takes our order and brings our drinks before Susie finally breaks.

  “You seemed pretty comfortable on TV this morning,” she says, stirring the ice in her tea.

  “Not my first time,” I say with a shrug.

  Sh
e frowns, “You certainly didn’t seem to have any problems answering Julie Bryant’s questions,” she says, like the name leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

  I chuckle, “Jealous, are we?”

  She wrinkles her nose, “No. I just don’t understand why you have to be such an uncooperative pain in the ass with me and the absolute picture of debonair charm with her.”

  “You are jealous,” I say, nudging her with my foot under the table.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “I’m just tired of you making my job more difficult than it needs to be.”

  I fold my arms in front of my chest and give her a hard look, “Well, alright then, ask your questions.”

  She straightens in her seat and breaks a little notepad out of her purse. Why that simple gesture makes me smile is a mystery to me.

  “What are your influences? Culinary and otherwise, I mean.”

  “Is that really what you want to know about me, Suzette?” I counter before I can think better of it.

  I don’t know why part of me is disappointed. I wanted her to ask me something… meaningful, provocative maybe. I wanted Susie to be different from the legion of other journalists with identical questions.

  She frowns and straightens her posture, clearly trying to assert herself, “I think it’s an important piece of information to build the bigger picture of who you are, yes.”

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table, “Well, alright. We’ll be boring. I take my inspiration from my life, really. Things I enjoy, things I don’t. I like to try to change things I don’t like into something I do. I like to surprise people with what they’ll enjoy. Even if they never saw themselves doing so.”

  She raises her eyebrows, never looking away from me as I speak, never writing a word of it down. I see her mind whirring behind those wide eyes and I know she has something on the tip of her tongue by the part of her lips and the sharp rapid rise of her chest.

  Why the hell is it so fun to make her thoughts turn to the gutter?

  When she doesn’t say anything at all, I continue, “For example, I’m sure you never expected to be sitting across from me imagining all the wicked things I could do to you, did you?”