Thief: A Bad Boy Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  “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.

  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 co
me 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.

  It’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 withdrawa
l, 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.