Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance (35 page)

J
esus 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.

If you believe in them, you might say Danny Cole is a sort of guardian angel. That is, if you also believe guardian angels drink like Irish dock workers and fuck anything with a pair of tits that moves.

“Sorry, late night at
Jolie
, and-” I shoot the bouncer a withering look, “Had a bit of a problem with the list it seems.”

Danny shakes his head, “Oy, well, get your ass in there son; you’re gonna
love it
in here.” He turns and pats the bouncer on the shoulder. “Easy there boy-o, he’s with me,” Danny says as he passes him a wad of notes. He grabs the two girls he walked out with and drags them back inside, jerking his head at me to follow.

“Yeah,
boy-o,
” I say with the fakest smile I can come up with as I clap the big bouncer on the shoulder too, “
Down boy
.” His eyes narrow at me, but he doesn’t say shit as I follow Danny inside the club.

* * *

I
t’s fuckin
mad
inside
; and that’s even before Danny leads us through the crowd back to the VIP area he’s commandeered. The VIP area full of champagne, booze, and fuckin’
gorgeous
girls just gaggling to hang out with him.

Jesus, celebrité suits Danny well.

When we sit, we’re instantly surrounded by girls with bedroom eyes; girls who drape themselves over the two of us, girls who laugh at everything Danny says, and girls who trace fingers over my arms with stars in their eyes.

Kitchen groupies.

The fucked up thing is, this
actually
exists. With chefs being the new celebrity rock stars they are these days, the rock-star lifestyle naturally follows. Model-slash-hostesses and actress-slash-waitresses, food bloggers, restaurant reviewers, or just star-fuckers who see your name in the paper next to a picture of success and see it as their best shot of touching greatness.

Okay, given, these girls are all here for
Danny
, but cool by association is never really a bad thing now is it?

I mean the man only has
one
dick.

“Oy, so how’s it being the top-dog, Beckett?” Danny says, running a hand through his silver-tipped hair as a young blonde thing on his lap tries to kiss his neck. “Feel like murdering your whole staff yet?”

I laugh. “Naw, mate; it’s-” I shrug, “It’s exciting.”

Danny grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. He’s one of those pricks that just gets more handsome with age; one of those guys that makes me hope I age more like my mother’s side than my pudgy, balding father’s.

“So thats a yes on murdering the lot of them?” He says.

“Shit yes,” I say, raising a glass of champagne to him as he laughs.

“Fun being at the top, eh?”

I snort, “We calling
Jolie
the top now?”

Danny rolls his eyes as the girl on his lap starts to suck on his earlobe. “I can get you a job at fuckin Burger King if you like, boy-o. You got a packed house over there every night at your father’s place and you’ve got a kitchen they sunk, what, like a million quid into?” He snorts again before tossing back the rest of his champagne. “Don’t be one of those twenty-three year old jaded twats, Ollie.”

I shrug, nodding at him as the girl next to me on the couches slides up closer to me, as if her interest in me is directly tied to how much attention I get from Danny.

It probably is, and I
probably
don’t give a fuck.

“So, Marco giving you any shit over there?”

“Nah,” I say, “I’m running it real proper.”

Danny smirks past the girl in his lap, “Yeah I bet. Little hothead like you trying to make everyone scared of him, right?” He shrugs, “It ain’t easy at the top mate. You’re isolated up there.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Aw, now what’s the matter, lad, run out of waitresses and hostesses to fuck over there?” Danny grins at me while a second girl comes up behind the first attached to his neck and starts kissing
her
neck. “C’mon mate, what’d I teach you about fishing off the company pier?”

“Probably something like, ‘they’ve got the best fish’?”

Danny roars out a laugh before raising a hand to our personal cocktail waitress and gesturing for another bottle of bubbly.

Run out of waitresses and hostesses to fuck over there?
Yeah,
right
. Except I’m not sure how to tell a guy like Danny that it’s the opposite. How do you tell a perpetual bachelor like the man sitting next to me, the man who taught me everything I know about getting pussy, and the man with
three
girls now literally crawling all over him that it’s actually
one girl
that’s got me twisted up in this vice I can’t seem to break out of? How the fuck do I even begin to explain that I’m actually
annoyed
by the girl running her hands over my thighs because all I can think about is Chloe and her outright denying me?

“Listen, Ollie; stick it out with
Jolie
,” Danny says, looking me in the eye. “I know working for your pops ain’t ideal, but that’s a good place to earn your wings, mate.” He sighs and then reaches over to clap me on the shoulder, “Now buck up and cheer up, and go take this pretty young thing-” he grins at the girl climbing into my lap, “into the bathroom or something. You’re making me nervous over there, lad.”

He’s right, really. The whole Chloe thing is fucking with my head in ways my head
never
get’s fucked with by a girl. I need to forget the whole thing and just move on to things I know, like fucking models in club bathrooms. The Chloe thing? Fuck that. That’s a tree I need to stop barking up anyways. Time to drink up and forget.

* * *

A
few drinks later
, and that plan is just
not
fuckin’ working; the whole “getting Chloe out of my mind” bit. The girl on my lap is running her hands over my chest, leaning into my neck as if to kiss me there even though I keep absently pulling away every time she does. I’m just not fucking feeling it; at all.

This girl is fake; in every sense of it. This girl is a shadow following the light of the fame. She doesn’t want
me
, she wants what I
am
. She wants what I represent, and the idea of that has me gritting my teeth.

But I know what I need, regardless of her intentions. What I need is to fuck Chloe Caulfield right out of my system. What I
need
is what I knew I needed when I walked in here. I need to bury my cock balls deep in something strange and something that’ll hopefully scream loud enough to get Chloe’s name out of my head.

So when the girl who’s name I honestly don’t even know asks me if I “want to get out of here”, I say “fuck yeah,” even if just on instinct.

And when we’re in the cab, and she’s all over me, I’m still trying to make myself get into it, even if I’m
still
not.

“Oy, c’mon baby, I want to feel you fuck me right here in the cab.” A girl this forward would normally have me hard a steel, but for some reason it’s sort of just turning me off this time. And I’m trying to muster myself up to get into this and just do what I know I need to do to get Chloe out of  my damn system, when the girl starts to pull her skirt up, flashing her panties at me in the back of the taxi. “C’mon,
fuck me
chef,
” she says.

Fuck
.

It’s the words I was
dying
to hear from Chloe earlier. The words I’d give a fucking leg to hear out of her mouth. But hearing it from this girl’s overly-made-up lips is just the final breaking point of the whole night for me, and I’m just done.

“Oy, where do you live luv?”

She grins at me, like this is me finally saying yes to her invitation, “Hackney,” she says, batting her eyes and licking her lips.

“Fantastic.” I knock on the driver’s glass, “Oy, pull over here, mate.”

She suddenly looks at me like I’m crazy. “Where are you going?”

“Sorry darling, gotta work in the morning.” I pass a bundle of notes to the driver, “Make sure she’s in first, yeah?”

“Are you fucking serious?” She’s glaring at me now, as if me not wanting to fuck her in the back of a taxi makes me some sort of reprehensible asshole.

“Nice meeting you,” I say, shutting the door behind me and knocking on the roof to signal the driver.

“Fag!” She screams out the window as the taxi pulls away into the night.

Classy ladies you hang out with, Danny
, I grumble to myself, clenching my jaw.

I’m not far from home, so I walk, ignoring my raging case of blue balls and still trying to figure out how to get Chloe fucking Caulfield out of my Goddamn head.

I
turn
over for the fifteenth time, tangling myself up more in the sheets as I glare at the clock on the bedside table. Wonderful, four o’clock in the morning and I still can’t find sleep.

And I know why I can’t, even if I don’t want to admit that to myself. I don’t - can’t - admit to myself that the reason I can’t get my brain to turn off is the same reason I can’t seem to get my libido to shut the hell up either.

This is withdrawal, that’s all
, I grumble to myself as I roll over and stare up at the ceiling.
I just need to stop thinking about that asshole.

The term “easier said than done” comes to mind. Because trying to stop thinking about Oliver Beckett is like trying to stop tonguing the cut in your mouth, or ignoring that mosquito that just won’t stop buzzing around your ear.

On the one hand, I took the tube home
grinning
from the restaurant,
gleeful
, bursting with pride for leaving him in the lurch like that. There’s something empowering in saying no to a man like Oliver, and leaving him with that look on his face was a like a rush of adrenaline right to the heart.

Except there’s the other side of that. The side where walking away from and saying no to a man like
that
- a man that entwines himself into your psyche like that and a man that has you literally
whimpering
at his touch - leaves you just as wound up and just as frustrated as you left him.

Hours later, hours after I walked away feeling so smug and self-assured, I’m still fighting to say no to him - this time, in my head. Hours later, I’m still trying to ignore the touch of his hands on me, the feel of his lips grazing my neck, and the tickling tease of his words, deep and dark in my ear.

Hours later, my body is still keyed up and on fire for him, my blood pumping a little faster, my cheeks still a little hotter.

My panties still a little wetter.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying once again to just
will
sleep to come to me, and once again to no avail.

Forget Oliver
. I mean honestly, he’s probably out with some skank at this very moment. Oh, what, I “left him high and dry”? A man like that? I almost want to laugh. A man like that probably had some other girl screaming his name barely an hour after I left him.

The thought makes me sick, and
that
makes it even worse.

But then, I keep thinking about how it felt when he almost kissed me; how he felt pressed against me. How the softness of his lips and the scratch of his stubble across the curve of my neck sent shivers down my back and sent shockwaves through my core that I’m still reeling from, here in my bed.

“You want it, don’t you? 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?”

I bite my lip and close my eyes as his words come flooding back to me, feeling the creeping flood of heat rush through my body.

“Or maybe; maybe you’d want my tongue.
”

God
. And as much as I want to deny it, as much as I want to pretend it’s not from him, I’m suddenly dripping wet and burning up between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, moaning softly at the feel of the heat there before I let my traitorous thoughts take over. My hands slide down my stomach to the waist of my panties, hooking my thumbs in and slowly peeling them down my thighs.

“I’ve got a wicked tongue, darling.”

And just like that, I’m caving. Hours later, I’m finally giving in to Oliver Beckett, finally surrendering my body to him, even if it is only inside my head.

I gasp as my fingers slide against my pussy, finding my center and pushing inside. Oliver might be in my head right now, but the effect he has on me is
quite
real, here in the shadows of my bedroom.

In my head, I’m imagining that tongue of his. I’m imagining that dirty, cockney-accented mouth of his whispering all sorts of crude things to me as he bends me over the table and trails kisses down my back. My other hand strokes my thigh, imagining his lips teasing the skin there, before moving up and kissing me where I truly want him to.

I moan as I sink my fingers deep, curling them against that spot just inside as my thumb teases over the aching nub of my clit. In my dreams, it’s
his
fingers, and
his
tongue on my pussy though. My pulse races and my breath catches in my throat as I rock myself higher.

I’m biting my lip, trying to hold in the moan, when I hear the front door slam shut downstairs. I freeze. There are footsteps on the stairs, and thank
God
I only hear one set of footsteps instead of the click of heels from some girl he’s bringing home. The thought of him playing porn again all night enters my head then, and I groan, sliding my finger out of my wetness and shoving a pillow over my head.

He’s at the top of the stairs then, and I’m silent as I wait for him to go into his room and shut the door. But then without warning, it’s
my
door that’s suddenly opening as Oliver steps into my bedroom.

I gasp and rip the pillow away from my face as I yank the covers up tight to my neck, “What the
fuck
are you doing?” I hiss, glaring at him and hating that it was
that
face I was just imaging between my legs at the height of my denied release.

“Look, I just wanted to, uh...” His jaw tightens, like he doesn't know what comes next in this conversation past barging into my personal space.

I glare at him, “You just wanted to barge into my room?”

“Hey, who came barging in on who, sweetheart,” he growls. “You know I never asked for a new pastry cook, let alone a fucking flatmate.”

“Oh
please
, like I had a choice!” I throw back, hugging the blankets up tight to my chin and praying to God that he thinks the flush and the guilty look on my face is from the yelling, not the fact that I was...well, you know.

“Listen luv, what you and I-”

“There’s no ‘you and I’ here, Oliver.”

“You know what I fucking mean,” he narrows his eyes at me, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against my doorframe. “Before, back on that fucking exchange trip.”

“We do
not
need to go there,” I shake my head, souring my face like I’ve just bit into a lemon. As if somehow, physically reacting to the idea of bringing up the past drives it home.

“Yes, we do,” he growls, taking a step towards my bed, his eyes locked onto mine.

I instinctively grab the sheets a little tighter and he smirks; he fucking
smirks
, like he totally knows.

He arches a brow at me, “I don’t suppose you want to show me what’s under that sheet.” And then he fucking
winks
at me.

Oh my God, he’s so forward
.

“You
suppose
right,” I say, stiffening and biting my lip.

“If I guess will you show me?” He says with a grin, moving closer until he’s standing right next to my bed.

“No,” I say, which sounds a whole lot more like
maybe
to even me.

Oliver sits on the edge of my bed, and I can practically feel the temperature in the room start to rise; I can feel the tingling in my leg from where his body touches mine through the sheet.

My very bare, very unclothed leg
, I remind myself, chewing on my lip.

“You need to leave,” I say quietly.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because this is wrong,” I say, barely mumbling the words. He grins and starts to laugh, and I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously, “What?”

“Nothing, luv, it’s just that your first answer wasn’t ‘because I want you to, Oliver’.”

I blush bright red.

Oliver shrugs, “I find that interesting, don’t you?” He’s leaning closer then, his arm dropping over to the other side of my body as he slowly leans over. My breath catches as he slowly moves up my body, until his lips are right by my ear and his body covers most of mine.

And I’m letting him.

“You know what I think?” He whispers into my ear, his lips grazing the skin there.

“I don’t want to know what you think, Ol-”

“I think you want me.”

His directness throws me off for one quarter second, and I find myself biting my lip to keep in the gasp that threatens to come tumbling out. “You’re delusional,” I whisper.

I can feel him grin, the heat of his breath against my neck, “Nah, sweetheart, I think deep down, you’re dying to know what it would feel like to come with my cock buried inside of you. You’re just
aching
to know what you missed out on those years ago.”

O
h my God.

I’m wet; so wet and so damn ready for him the second he says it, but at the same time, that voice deep inside screams “NO”. No to this man I should have nothing to do with. No to this cocky, arrogant bad boy whose only been and who’d only ever be trouble. The man who’s my
boss
; not to mention the biggest man whore in Britain.

“Oliver, you should sto-”

“Chloe,” his lips close around my earlobe, and I moan as his tongue teases the skin there.

My fucking traitorous body
moans
.

“See,” he grins, his voice a dark honeyed tickle in my ear. “I think you’re
begging
for it inside. You’re dying to know what my tongue feels like deep in your pussy; dying to know how hard I’m gonna make you come.”

It feels as though I might explode, right here and right now. I’m breathing heavily, panting, my eyes closed and my legs squeezing together. And the fucked up thing is that my body is so on edge and so turned on and he’s not even fucking touching me.

Until he is.

I can feel his hand slide under the sheets by my calves, and I shiver as his tongue slides against my ear while his hand closes over the skin of my leg. He trails it higher, teasing my skin and sending shockwaves through my whole body. I’m panting out loud, moaning for him as he kisses my ear.

The realization that my panties are still bunched and twisted around my knees hits me just as his hand finds them there. I freeze as the heat roars through my cheeks at having been totally busted with my panties down, but Oliver only
growls
into my ear,
“Caught you.”

Fuck
.

His words only get me hotter, and I whimper again as his hand skims down my legs before sliding right back to my knee under the sheet.

“Chloe,” he whispers heatedly into my ear as his hand teases up my thigh. I’m raising my hips towards him, biting my lip and closing my eyes as I will his hand to touch me; willing him to find my heat.

“Chloe I want you,” he growls, his teeth biting my earlobe.

I moan out loud, and I can feel his fingers inching higher; so close to my pussy that in another inch I know he’ll feel how wet I am.

“I want you…” He trails off, and suddenly his hand freezes on my thigh, “I want you to come to work on time tomorrow.”

OH MY FUCKING GOD
.

My eyes fly open and he’s just
grinning
at me, the devil himself just chuckling away as I writhe on the end of the line like a caught fish.

The heat comes roaring into my face as I grab his hand and shove it out from under the sheets, “Get out!” I scream, but he’s just laughing as he stands from my bed and walks to the door.

“Pleasant dreams sweetheart,” he says with a wink.

“Oh, and I’m keeping these, by the way.” He pulls a hand out from behind his back and I blanch as I see my panties - the pair I just let that fucker skim off my legs - twirling around his fingers. He blows me a kiss, and even manages to shut the door before the pillow I hurl at his head manages to connect.