by Aubrey Irons
I pull her close again. “You want to go big, just say the word darlin and I’ll drag you back to that locker room right now.”
Her face flushes and her fingers slide up my arms to tighten at the front of my jersey as she kisses me again, slipping her tongue across my lips before pulling away. “Go win, Big Ten.”
I grin, “Yes ma’am.”
And then I turn and jog onto the field.
To win.
For her.
Because I’m Dalton fucking Cole.
And I don’t know any other way but winning.
48
Hailey
Four years later…
“I’m pretty sure we could get in serious trouble for being in here.”
Dalton chuckles into my lips, his hands sliding up my body and his fingers brushing against the sides of my breasts through my shirt. “Well, you could get in trouble for being in here. I’m supposed to be here.”
I roll my eyes. “Getting ready to play football, not trying to unhook my bra.”
Here, by the way, being the locker room for the New York Giants.
“You’re right, you’re right,” he murmurs, kissing me again before he pulls abruptly away. “I’ve got a tryout to get to, darlin. Can’t be fooling around with one of my fans.”
I grin hugely at him as I punch him in the arm. “One of?”
He grabs me and kisses me fiercely, silencing me and making my knees week.
“The only one that counts,” he murmurs again.
I pout. “So you really gonna go out there and leave your fiancé all hot and bothered?”
“Depends,” he says darkly into my ear. “Did you dress how I asked you to?”
I blush fiercely, feeling the shiver run up my back. “Do you mean your brutish demands that I not wear panties?”
His hands tease down over my ass. “Exactly.”
I shake my head. “Then, yes, Mr. Cole, I think I meet your dress code. Or maybe lack thereof.”
I squeal as he spins me around, and I moan when he bends me over, my hands flat against the metal of the lockers. He’s pulling my skirt up over my thighs, and then over my bare, panty-less ass. I whimper as I hear him growl hungrily behind me, his hand sliding over my skin, giving me a light smack that makes me groan and claw at the metal under my fingers.
I can hear him shuffle behind me, and then I cry out as I feel his lips and his tongue against my thigh. I bite my lip as his tongue drags higher up my skin, and for a second, my eyes dart to the ring on my hand, and I grin.
It’s been six months since he asked, and six months since I said the easiest “yes” of my life. The wedding itself we’re putting off for a little bit, because, well, we’ve got things to do first.
Things like him being the hottest prospect the NFL has ever seen.
The tryout today is completely for show, because we all know this team wants him as bad as any of the others who’ve flown us out to “try out”. Of course, New York might know they’ve got some extra leverage on him those other teams don’t.
Me.
Because I’m starting a Columbia Medical School in a month, and that very well may seal the deal.
Part of the reason Dalton’s so sought after - aside from his crazy talent, of course - is because he waited. He didn’t go the NFL route his junior year like everyone does, he finished school first. And it worked out pretty well for just about everyone. Heather couldn’t have been prouder, and I think my dad was psyched to win a record-setting fourth college football championship in a row.
Columbia as an undergraduate program never happened after the interview debacle. But I’m okay with that, because I’m a firm believer these days that things work out how they should. I didn’t stay at Georgia, because honestly, I couldn’t. Not after what happened, and not after the media zoo that our relationship caused.
Thankfully, it turns out that an in-person interview set up by a Dean of a prominent school who happens to be an alumni goes a long way with the board of admissions at Duke - where I ended up going.
Hey, it was only four hours from Dalton, and honestly, I don’t think either of us would have graduated if we’d been closer than that to each other.
Roxie was a little pissed about losing me to Chapel Hill, but she ended up visiting almost as much as Dalton did.
I think the cute purple-haired girl who lived down the hall from me had a lot to do with that.
Roxie’s getting her masters at NYU now, and dating one of her professors - a recently divorced, recently straight woman.
Some things never change. But in any case, she’s psyched I’m going to be in New York.
“You keep staring at that ring like that and my cock might start to get jealous, darlin.”
I grin at Dalton’s words murmured into the back of my leg. “I sincerely doubt tha- oooh.”
I groan as he drags his tongue across my bare slit, lapping hungrily and making my legs shake.
God he’s good at that.
Dalton growls as his hands grab my ass, pulling me back against him and spreading me wide as he pushes his tongue deep. I’m moaning, feeling the blood pound in my ears as I claw at the lockers in front of me. I push back against him, whimpering as his tongue moves to circle my clit.
He’s relentless, sucking gently at me as he bats his tongue across my clit. His hand pulls back from my hip, only to come down in a small smack across my ass that has me gasping. He eases a finger against my opening and pushes inside as his tongue circles my clit again and again. And I’m so close, when he suddenly pulls back, leaving me panting.
I can hear him standing behind me, and I know what he’s after, but I want my taste first.
I can never get enough of tasting him.
I turn and push him back, dropping to my knees and yanking at his football pants.
“Hey, we’re on a time limit, you know,” he groans as I reach inside and wrap my fingers around him.
“Let them wait,” I groan. “This is mine.”
I pull him out, and I moan.
Yeah, four years later, and Ten still makes my jaw drop.
And stretch.
I moan hungrily as I slide my lips over his crown, swirling my tongue around the tip. Four years later and the damn taste of him still makes my head spin and my body burn.
Dalton groans, his hand sliding down to curl his fingers in my hair.
I’m sucking at him, stroking him, reaching down to cup his balls as I try to inhale as much of his thick cock as I can.
“Fuck,” he growls, pulling me off of him. “Hang on.”
“What?” I say innocently, looking up and batting my eyes at as I lean forward and lick the underside of him.
“I don’t want to come in your mouth,” he groans, pulling me up and kissing me hard. “I want to come inside of you.”
I moan as he pulls me back with him, sitting on the edge of the locker room bench and pulling me into his lap. My legs go astride him, a natural, practiced maneuver.
And trust me, it’s practiced.
I moan into his lips as he pushes against my opening, the thick head of him easing into me as I slowly lower myself down his length.
God he’s so big.
Four years later, he still fills me up like the first time.
Four years later, he still looks at me like I’m the last meal on Earth.
Four years later I still get butterflies when he does, and I still go to pieces when he kisses me like he’s kissing me right there.
I cry out as he sheathes himself to the hilt inside of me, his hands tight on my hips and his cock throbbing so hot and so deep inside. I rise up, moaning at the sensation of my clit dragging over his shaft before I drop back down, feeling him go deep.
We start to move like that, his hands on my hips and my ass, his mouth on my neck, my breasts, my lips. My fingers claw at his muscled biceps, moving to the back of his head to slide into his hair and hold him against my neck like that as I slowly grind up and down his perfect
cock.
“You’re…” I gasp. “Ugh, you’re going to be late, you know.”
“Whose fault is that,” he growls, pumping his hips up off the bench to meet my own.
He starts to grind up into me harder and harder, his fingers digging into my skin as he holds me tight, bouncing me up and down on his big tool. His lips fasten to that tender spot in the hollow of my neck, and as he starts to fuck me harder and suck at the skin there, I can feel myself start to fall.
“Fuck, Hailey, I’m gonna come.”
“Fill me up!” I gasp into his ear, raking my nails down the back of his neck. “I want to feel you inside of me on the sidelines when I watch you ace this tryout.”
Dalton roars, and as I feel his thickness swell up even harder inside of me, my eyes squeeze shut as I go crashing over the edge with him. I scream into his neck and feel his cum pump deep inside of me, his cock pulsing as my orgasm rumbles through me.
I’m hand-in-hand with him as we step out onto the field, a grin on my face that probably gives the whole thing away.
I don’t care if it does.
Evan, now his new agent, taps his watch and gives him a glare. Dalton just grins. “Relax, man.”
He turns back to me, squeezing my hand. “You going to stay for this?”
“Of course, dummy,” I grin.
Dalton smiles as he pulls me against him and kisses me.
“I love you,” he murmurs into my lips.
“And I love you too.”
“You know this tryout is bullshit, right?”
I roll my eyes. “You are so cocky-”
“No,” he shakes his head. “I mean it’s bullshit because of course I’m going to play for them. I’m going to go wherever you are, darlin.”
He kisses me quickly before he turns to head onto the field.
“Good luck!” I call to him. But he turns, grinning that same damn cocky farm boy grin that I fell in love with.
“Don’t need it!” He calls back with a wink as he jogs out to the field.
And he doesn’t.
He’s Dalton fucking Cole.
And I love him.
The End
Also by Aubrey Irons
Standalone Stepbrother Romance:
Secret: A Military Stepbrother Romance
Cockney: A British Stepbrother Romance
Crude: A Stepbrother Romance
Soldiers of Fortune Series:
Heat
Burn
Score
Roar
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About the Author
Aubrey Irons enjoys writing about bold, sassy, and intelligent women and the dominant, cocky, and quite typically forbidden alpha males who love and lust for them; gripping stories, happy endings, and enough heat to keep things extra steamy! In the real world, Aubrey is kept plenty entertained by her own tattooed Marine husband, their precocious and adorable three year old, and one very ill-behaved puppy.
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I
Cockney: A British Stepbrother Romance
Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons
Cover & Interior Design: Aubrey Irons
Cover Photos: FXQuadro Photography
CURA Photography
Lightsource
Editor: Sennah Tate
Formatting: Vellum
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and are in no way blood relations. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever cooked, waited on, or mixed drinks for others, and smiled through the aching pain in their feet in order to earn a living.
You are not given nearly the gratitude you deserve.
This book is also dedicated to the molecular compound C8H10N4O2 (caffeine).
And to my husband, for being my absolute favorite scoundrel to cook for in the whole world.
Author’s Note:
As an Anglophile, Cockney has been one of the most fun books I’ve ever had the pleasure of writing. It’s a bit steamier and a bit dirtier than some of my others, it may push the envelope a little, and you also may never look at cucumbers the same way ever again.
I apologize for nothing,
Before you begin though, I’d also like to take a minute to thank my readers for the heart-warming show of support, feedback, and kind words I get simply for putting words on paper. A few weeks before this book was published, another book of mine, Crude, came upon some trouble where it was quite suddenly and abruptly no longer for sale where it previously had been. The nitty-gritty of the story isn’t worth getting into, but suffice it to say, at the heart of it was a difference of opinion between myself and those who sell my books.
Writing a book takes a lot out of you, so when mine was unceremoniously banished to the wilderness, I found myself in a fairly dark place. However, the words of encouragement, support, and legal advice (no, literally) was quite simply humbling. To those who quite frankly said “no, seriously, who do I call and yell at to get this fixed”; ya’ll are crazy, and I love you for it.
I am happy to say that differences have been settled, and Crude is back for sale, just where it was before. But, I am quite sure that this book would have never been written were it not for the incredible people who read and support an independent author like myself.
Screw censorship; vive la romance.
-Aubrey Irons, December, 2015
1
Chloe
“Are you shitting me?!”
“Language, Chloe!” My mother frowns at me, and part of my brain is trying to process what she’s just said, but I’m still staring at the tablet she’s plopped down on kitchen table between us.
The tablet with the news webpage on it, and right there on the cover, a picture of him.
The boy from the exchange program five years ago when we were seniors in high school.
“Boy”: yeah,
right. Because the man smirking at the photographer in the picture on the website is anything but a boy. He’s bigger than he was then, even as cut and muscled as he was back then. Bigger shoulders and a broader chest stretching the tight v-neck t-shirt he’s wearing in the picture. That cocky, arrogant, and lopsided grin, and what I know are heart-stoppingly gorgeous dark brown eyes behind those sunglasses. He’s got more tattoos now too, more than he even had back then, when they were all part of his bad-boy image.
The bad boy; the hot, dangerous, and gritty British hooligan covered with tattoos and the mouthwatering accent that drew me in like a moth to flame.
And there he is, on the front page of some British news article.
“Chloe-”
I jerk my eyes back up to my mom, and suddenly my thoughts jump tracks entirely, back to the bomb she’s just dropped on me. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head before I open them back up and stare at her; “Wait, you’re not serious are you?”
“Chloe,” She rolls her eyes; “Of course I’m serious.”
“Mom, you’re getting married? How the hell have I never known about this?!”
“Oh, lower your voice, Chloe!”
Mom shakes her head as she walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of sauvignon blanc.
“Jesus, mom,” I make a face, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s noon.
“Oh, relax, we’re celebrating.”
My brain is still shocked by the news, but my eyes also keep darting down to the picture on the webpage. The article headline is something about a new restaurant. That’s right, he cooked or something. I glance back at my mom sharply; “Mom, how am I just hearing about this?”