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 can 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'.
But there I am, skulking in the corner and glaring at him as he leans against the service window and cracks jokes with Delia; Delia who's got one button too many undone to be remotely appropriate in this sort of restaurant, I might add.
"Oh, him?" I turn to see Marco grinning at me from his spot by the grill. He smirks and nods at Oliver. "Oy, he's the master, isn't he."
"What, chef?"
Marco laughs, his dark, brooding eyes sparkling and that strong jaw cracking into a wide, white smile. "Well, sure, but I'm talking about being master of a different kind of dish." He gestures with his chin at Delia. "Oh he does go through them," he says with a dark chuckle.
I scowl, feeling the anger rising up inside, and again, that damned confusion about why I'm even angry about a man I don't even want flirting with another girl. I mean what do I care?
Why do I care?
Marco glances at me and laughs, "Oy, sorry, you probably don't want to hear about his conquest do you? I mean your two families being so close and all, a bit too familiar, yeah?"
"Yeah, not really," I say icily, trying to shrug as nonchalantly as possible.
The ticket printer spits out a quick ticket, followed quickly by Ian, the Maître d', bustling into the kitchen to announce that it's the very last table.
Thank God.
Pasta, too, which means the rest of us besides poor Julie on steam line can start wiping down and stocking before getting the hell out of here.
Which of course, also means getting the hell away from Oliver flirting with that fucking girl.
Marco swears a relief under his breath and suddenly elbows me. I turn to see him grinning as he pulls a little flask out of his apron pocket and winks at me.
I can't help but giggle as he wags his eyebrows at me.
"Little nip to speed things along?" I shoot a quick glance at Oliver, who I'm sure would have something to say about his cooks drinking before they're done, but he's too busy sticking his fucking eyes down Delia's cleavage to notice.
I turn back to dark, dangerous, handsome Marco and shrug. "Sure," I say. "Why not?"
"Atta girl!" He grins, "Listen, we're going to the pub after for a few, you should come with."
I know what an invitation for drinks means from a man who looks like Marco; from a man who looks at me the hungry way he's looking at me right now. And part of me wants to jump at the idea of getting Oliver out of my head. Part of me says "why the hell not", when he's made it so perfectly clear that his only interest in me is to wind me up so that he can shit all over me. And of course, on top of that, it's not like there's anything that can or could ever happen with him. I mean our parents are getting married for crying out loud. He's my boss, and a total man-whore, and probably has a rap-sheet from when he was younger that's longer than his-
I shake my head to quickly get the thought of Oliver's, well, anything out of it.
But at the same time, I've got a feeling I know just how he'd react to me and Marco, even if it is just "going out for some drinks." An alpha caveman like Oliver? I roll my eyes; I can't even imagine the macho bullshit that would come out of that.
I turn to Marco and try and smile as I shake my head, "Thanks, Marco, but I don't think I-"
The sound of Delia's high-pitched little giggle rolls across the kitchen, and I whirl around to see Oliver on the other side of the line now, his arm draped over her shoulder and that cocky, smoldering, panty-melting grin on his face. He looks up for just a second and catches my dagger-look before he just turns back to her and winks.
I can feel my hands clenching at my sides as I turn back towards Marco, suddenly forcing a smile to my face. "You know what, I'd love to."
The bar is pounding some shitty techno-pop song that's making my head hurt. One of those whiny little tween-twat blokes who can't grow facial hair but cries about some girl leaving him as if he even knows what that means.
It's a little hard to take the little shit's whining seriously when he can't grow a proper fuckin mustache yet.
The song grates at my ears, making my head hurt as I sit there peeling the labels off my beers. I should be paying attention to Delia, the little blonde waitress currently curled in my lap trying to keep my attention with her tits practically falling out of her shirt. Except I'm distracted.
I'm distracted by Chloe.
Chloe giggling and laughing at every bloody thing fuckin' Marco says, nonetheless. Touching his arm. Batting her fuckin' eyes.