Cockney:A Stepbrother Romance(11)

"Shouldn't what."



"Do this."



"And what exactly are we doing, Chloe?" He growls into my ear.



I have no idea, but I don't really want to stop doing it.



Instead, I open my mouth, "So what do I smell like?"



"Like cookies."



I laugh and start to turn, but he keeps me hard again the table, and I  gasp at the feel of him as he presses his hardness right against me.



"No, you smell like jasmine, from your shampoo. And you smell like sage from the stuffing you made earlier."



I bite my lip and close my eyes, the movement of the whisk slowing and  then stopping as I feel him lean into my neck, his lips just shy of  touching me as he all but nuzzles the curve of my shoulder.



Oh my god what are we doing?



"You smell fantastic, actually," he says, rocking his hips into me, the  bulge pressing hotly against my ass and those strong arms sliding around  my waist. And I'm trembling for him. I hate that this cocky, arrogant  little shit is having this effect on me, but it's undeniable.



It's undeniable that I'm absolutely soaked for him.



"Fantastic, huh?"



"Lovely, actually," he murmurs, and this time I shiver as I feel his lips graze the side of my neck just under my jawline.



"Oliver..."



"But I'd wager something else smells even better right now," he says  darkly, his arms pulling me tight against him as we start to drop all  pretense of him being here to help me bake.



"Something else that I bet smells like honey and smells like you're as hot for this as I bet you are."



"You're delusional," I whisper.



"Am I?"



"Mhmm," I manage to croak out, feeling my body begin to betray me more and more by the second. "I'm not hot for...oh God-"



His lips slide across my collarbone and up to the delicate skin of my  neck, and then I'm actually moaning as I sag into him with a whimper.



God, I'm whimpering. When the hell have I ever whimpered for anything?



"Please; you're so hot for me I can practically smell you right now, luv."



I groan as I feel his teeth just barely graze my skin; nipping me enough  that I let out a small gasp, my hands dropping to grab at the  countertop in front of me.



"You are such an arrogant prick, you know."



"Sweetheart, you've got no idea," he husks into my ear, "but if you want, I can show you a lot more of my prick than that."



God he's so crude, and yet it's getting me hotter than I've ever felt before.



"You want it, don't you," he says, grinding his thick erection into me.  His hand moves up my arm from the mixing bowl to slide up and down my  side, just barely grazing the underside of my breasts through my chef's  coat. "You want me to bend you over this table right here and fill you  up with every inch of this cock don't you, luv," he murmurs, his thick  accent like honey in my ear.



"Mm-mm," I shake my side to side, my eyes squeezed shut, not trusting myself to open my mouth.



"Or maybe - maybe you'd want my tongue." He leans close, his lips  brushing my ear as just the tip of his tongue slides out to tease my  earlobe. "I've got a wicked tongue, darling, but then, you already know  that don't you."



I remember that tongue. "Mm-mm, nope," I say quickly and breathlessly,  my eyes tightly shut as I shake my head. I'm melting right there in  front of him; dripping into a puddle so quickly that I'm so close to  saying and doing virtually anything he tells me to.



Oliver chuckles lowly, as if reading my thoughts, "Just say the words, luv," he growls into my ear.



I whimper again as I feel him press his thickness against me, "What words," I breath out.



"You just have to ask me nicely, that's all," he says darkly in my ear.



"Uh-huh," I'm close to babbling, so close to just breaking down right here and begging him to fuck me like I'm dying for him to.



"Just say ‘yes, chef'."



That. Fucking. Prick.



I'm suddenly ripped from the free-fall I was in, and my eyes are wide  and my focus is sharp as I whirl in his arms and glare up at him, "You  asshole!"



He's grinning; grinning like a jackass, like he knew how much that would tear me out of the moment.



"It's just two words, sweetheart," he says, smirking arrogantly at me.  "Just say the words and I'll do everything I just promised." He leans  close, "I'll do everything to ease that ache I just know you've got in  your knickers right this very moment."



But right there, my mind is set. Right there, I know without a doubt  that I will not be yielding anything to this pompous prick, and I will  most certainly and under no fucking circumstances be begging him to do  anything to me.



Ever.



Yes, chef? Are you fucking kidding me?



I want to punch him, or slap him again, or, or something to wipe that  cavalier, swaggering smirk off his damn face. But instead, I only smile;  I bite my tongue and I smile up at him as sweetly as I possibly can.



"Are you hard for me?" I breathe out, batting my eyes and biting my lip seductively at him.



His brows shoot up for a second before he grins and starts to nod, "You know I am."



I smile bashfully, "And you want to taste my sweet little pussy?"



A dark, hungry look comes over his face as his eyes flash fire at me, and his jaw tightens as he nods.



"And you wanna bend me over this table and fuck this tight," I lean  closer, "dripping wet," I reach up and trail a finger across his jaw and  over his lips, "perfect little pussy until I can barely walk?"



Oliver growls then, grabbing my hands and pushing me back hard into the  table as he leans into me, "You fucking know I do, Chloe."



I bite my lip and smile coyly, savoring this moment before I drop my  bomb. And then, ever so slowly, I crane my head up and let my lips trail  across his ear.



"Too bad," I whisper, "Because you're not going to, and I'm never going to ‘beg' you for a single thing."



I would give almost anything for a camera at that exact moment, just to  capture the look on his face as I push him back from me and start to  step away, "Oh, and Oliver?" I smile sweetly at him as I start to step  away before pointedly dropping my eyes to the huge bulge in jeans, "Good  luck with that."





Jesus I need a drink.



Well, no, what I really need is something young, willing, and strange  that I can sink my cock into until I forget all about Chloe Caulfield. I  need a distraction; a drug, a drink, a lay I can forget about five  minutes after like usual. I need anything to get my mind back in focus  instead of this lingering obsession I have on the last girl in fucking  Britain I need to obsess over.



Then of course there's the raging case of blue balls I'm gritting my  teeth at as I shove my way to front of the line outside the trendy club  in Hoxton.



"Oy, chill there little lord." A huge guy with dreads and a suit holding  a clipboard steps between me and the door, "Feeling like a special  fuckin' snowflake tonight are we?" He narrows his eyes at me and nods  his chin at the hundred or so people glaring at me from the line that  runs down the length of the block.



"I'm meeting someone."



He laughs, "I bet you are, son, I bet you are." His arms fold over his  chest and the smile drops in an instant, "Back of the line, and don't  make me do it for you."



The funny thing here is that I was raised amongst tough guys like this.  Wannabe gangsters and villains like this taught me how to lift a wallet  from tourists in Leicester Square, or flip stolen handbags alongside  Camden when other kids were learning to ride bikes and do their  homework.



Needless to say, I'm not intimidated by thugs in suits working nightclub  front doors. Not to mention, I need a drink fuckin' ten minutes ago,  and I'm on the list.



I'm about to say something about the man's mum that'll most likely make  things wild real fast, when the door behind him bangs open and a man in a  top suit with a bird on both arms stumbles out, laughing. He stops  suddenly, and his mouth spreads into a grin as he sees me, "Ollie! Oy  you little shit, c'mere!"



He pushes past the scowling door man, shrugging off the two tarted-up girls on his arms as he grabs me into a big bear hug.



Danny Cole; the Danny Cole, as in one of the most recognized chefs on  the planet. As in, three fucking stars in Michelin, Danny Cole. I get  blog posts, Danny gets the New York Times.



"The young prince deigns us with his presence after all, eh?" He pulls  back, grinning at me, "Didn't think important chefs like you could make  it out to social functions like these."         

     



 



He's yanking my chain; purposely being a dick to rattle my cage. Anyone  else in the world would get popped in the mouth right quick for that  type of shit, but then again, anyone else in the world isn't the man who  taught me how to cook and got my ass off the street.