Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  I grit my teeth against the waves of the pleasure rolling through me, my pulse roaring in my ears. I want it. I want it so badly, I can practically feel the words forming on my lips. But I clench them shut, slowly shaking my head.

  No; I will not be begging Oliver Beckett for anything. As much as I want everything he has to give. I shake my head, “Mm-mm, no,” I swallow heavily, forcing myself to breathe. “There will be no begging and no fucking.”

  “That a fact, hmm?” He husks, grunting as the head of his thick cock bumps over my clit again, making us both gasp. My legs are spread for him, my hands and my cheek flat against the glass of the shower stall. I look down, whimpering as I see the head of him push across my pussy and jut out from between my legs, his fingers teasing my clit. He rocks his hips forward again, and this time I cry out as I feel my pussy slide across his shaft.

  Oliver grunts, his thrusting getting faster and faster as I feel my whole body start to melt around me as his cock against my clit starts to drive me right over the edge, “You better shut that mouth, sweetheart.”

  I gasp out loud, moaning as I feel myself start to clench up, “I- oh God, I can’t help it!” I whisper out.

  His hand is suddenly at my mouth; his finger slipping between my lips.

  “Suck,” he growls in my ear. I shiver and moan, feeling raw sexual heat pouring through me. And before I can toss something sassy or barbed back his way, I’m opening my mouth, and wrapping my lips around his finger.

  His cock is rubbing against my pussy so perfectly, and the way he’s slipping his finger in and out of my lips is like another cock. I moan deeply as I suck his finger, licking and sucking at it as if I’m on my knees worshiping his cock with my mouth. I feel my whole body start to let go. It’s so fucking wrong, and so dirty, like he’s fucking me at both ends at the same time, even if he’s not inside of me.

  I start to whimper, pumping my hips back against him, pushing my ass back into his rock-hard abs as I feel my whole body begin to shatter in the steam of the shower stall.

  Oliver’s fingers press my clit against the delirious motions of his cock sawing between my lips, and suddenly he leans forward and sucks my earlobe between his teeth.

  “Come for me, Chloe; I want to feel that tight little pussy come all over my cock.”

  And then I just let go.

  I wonder later if I draw blood at how hard I bite down on his finger to silence my screams, but at the time, all I know is blinding white light and heat exploding through my body. Suddenly, hours of torturous teasing, hours of running around town with Oliver without any panties, and hours of dying to feel him again after he had me so close before come crashing to a crescendo.

  I’m clawing at the shower door as I come, shuddering against him and feeling his powerful arms holding me upright. Oliver roars, and I feel his body go rigid behind me. I can feel him pulsing against my pussy, and I moan as I look down to see his come spraying from the head of him between my legs against the shower door.

  We’re silent for a moment, both of us panting as we lean against the glass of the shower door, before I turn in his arms and smirk at him, “Who’s loud now?”

  He grins, “Challenge accepted.”

  17

  Oliver

  “Oy, you look like shit.”

  I’m bleary-eyed as I frown at Marco while he shakes his head at me. Any other day and I’d tear him a new asshole, but today, I just don’t have the energy.

  Well, that and I know he’s right. Chloe and I are on about three hours of sleep after last night, which is red-lining it even for me. Of course, I tried to push it after the fun in the shower by following her back into her room, but she’d pushed me back towards the door. “Out,” she’d said, shaking her head. “Not while they’re home, Oliver.”

  Like my dad ever comes up to my floor, but I’ll grant her that worry. It’d be just my luck for the one day ever that my old man comes upstairs in the morning to be the day I’m in bed with his fiancé’s daughter.

  So yeah, it’s going to be absolute murder getting through the shift tonight. But hey, if I do look like shit after the night I had with Chloe?

  Totally worth it.

  I blink and rub my eyes before nodding at Marco instead of giving him a dish of authority, “Yeah, late night, mate.”

  “Where’d you run off to after the pub? You buggered out right when your sister did.”

  “Stepsister,” I add, clearing my throat and trying not to grin too much at his mentioning buggered.

  “Yeah she was feeling sad and shit,” I shrug. “Dunno, mate, probably the move and all that.”

  Marco nods, “Well, sad or not, she left me all high and dry when she ditched. I mean I know she’s your sis- stepsister or whatever, mate, but the stems on that one? Shit, bruv,” he says with a whistle and some sort of pantomimed thrusting motion with his hips.

  I can feel my fist clench at my side, my jaw tightening as I narrow my eyes at him. This is one of my oldest mates in the world, going back to when we were kids tearing it up around the old block, and yet I’m suddenly wanting to pound his fucking face in for just thinking about Chloe like that.

  Cool it, I mentally growl to myself. Can’t very well go around murdering friends for expressing an interest in a girl I can’t very well say I’m into.

  Marco shrugs, oblivious to how close he just came to getting my fist in his teeth, “Anyways, not a total loss; got my knob polished by that new waitress.”

  I smirk and raise a brow, “Delia?”

  He laughs, “I wish, brother. Nah, the other one; Jill.”

  “Not bad.”

  “Yeah it was alright,” he glances at the prep sheet in his hands. “Fuck me,” he groans.

  “Full book out front tonight, get your game face on.”

  He grins, “Says the bloke who looks like he slept in the fuckin gutter.” He eyes me suspiciously, “Okay, please tell me you at least had a bit of luck last night after you dropped Chloe home.”

  You have no fucking idea, my friend.

  I shrug and say nothing, and Marco grins. “Atta boy!” He shakes his head, “Fuckin hell, must be nice to be restaurant royalty.”

  Chloe steps into the kitchen. Chloe who looks as tired as me. Chloe who’s ignored me at breakfast and caught her own ride to work while I was upstairs getting ready.

  Yeah, mate, it’s fuckin’ lovely at the top.

  She shoots me a look before quickly moving to her station and tying her apron on, her back to me.

  “Oy, hit that list, yeah?”

  Marco nods. “Hey, go find yourself an espresso IV drip bruv, you really do look like shit you know.”

  “The list, Marco.”

  He grins, “You got it, chef.”

  Chloe doesn’t turn to look at me until I’m right next to her, like she’s just noticing I’m there. Which is total fucking bollocks, by the way, since I watched her shoot me about three not-so-hidden glances on my way to her side of the kitchen.

  “Hey.”

  “Yes?”

  I frown, “What’s with the ditch this morning?”

  I cringe the second I say it, realizing what an utter twat I sound like. Like some sort of jaded chick the day after.

  Seriously, what the fuck is this girl doing to me?

  Chloe just shrugs and turns back to dough she’s rolling out, dusting it with the occasional sprinkle of flour, all while doing her damnedest to avoid looking at me. “You were going to make me late.”

  I arch a brow at her, even if she isn’t looking at me. “You just got here.”

  “My shift just started.” She cocks her head as she turns towards me, “I’m not late or anything.”

  “No, you’re not late, you’re just acting a bit crazy since you kicked me out of your room last night.”

  She whirls at me then, her face bright red and her eyes wide, “Oliver!” She hisses, her eyes darting around the kitchen. “Jesus, keep it to yourself,” she spits out.

  I roll my
eyes, “Fucking hell, relax. I’m not exactly going to go around telling everyone.”

  She glares at me, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, did you want me to send out a staff notice about how I made my new pastry cook come all over my cock last night?”

  Her face goes quite crimson and she drops the rolling pin in her hands to the floor with clatter. Her eyes dart around the room again, again like she’s worried someone’s listening to her dirty little secret, which somehow starts to really piss me off.

  “You’re unbelievable,” she says quickly, shaking her head as she picks up the rolling pin and tosses it in the basic sink next to her station.

  “You know, I think I remember you saying the same thing last night just before I gave you the best orgasm of your life while you sucked off my finger.”

  I have no idea what’s pushing me to be such a prick here, but it’s like I can’t even stop the words from coming out of my mouth. And the worst part is, I know I’m acting like this because for the first time literally ever, I’m the one getting kicked out of a room or getting ditched at the front door. How in the hell did things get so turned around?

  Shit, that’s what I do best. Leaving, sneaking out, ditching, not calling back; you name the scummy post-sex move, I’ve done it. I’ve spent most of my adult life using my charm and my looks, and my position either in the streets, or the army, or now the restaurant world to drop panties and spread legs. And after? I’m fuckin’ gone and on to the next.

  Except now I’ve got this fucking girl. Chloe fucking Caulfield; the girl who stood me up. The girl that told me “no sex” last night.

  The girl who kicked me out.

  I’m not sure what the fuck is wrong with me, but I need to get my shit together is what I need to do.

  Chloe’s whole face wrinkles up as she turns to me with her mouth open, “I did not ‘suck off your finger’ you disgusting pig, I-” she stumbles over her words, her face growing bright red again and her fists balling up at her sides. “You know what, I knew last night was a huge mistake.”

  “Oh?” I cross my arms over my chest and smirk at her, “Why’s that, luv? Cause once you’ve had a taste, you can never go ba-”

  “Because you’re disgusting, and a man-whore, and...and...repulsive.”

  Her eyes flash as they meet mine, and for maybe the first time in my life, I’m actually at a loss for words. Fuck, I mean what do you even say when someone calls you repulsive?

  You say nothing, that’s what you say.

  I hold her gaze with my own for one more second, glowering at her, before I turn and abruptly stalk back across the kitchen to the service pass.

  Nice one.

  If I was tired before, a few hours later right before we start service I’m fucking fading. I’m stumbling, squinting at the menu in front of me for any last minute changes while Ian, the front of house manager and Maître d’ taps his foot impatiently and straightens his fucking tie for the hundredth time.

  “Oy, Ian, chill; you’re making me nervous.”

  “Oh, am I? Sooo sorry, chef.” His tone is dripping with sarcasm, and though I give him a sharp glare, he’s another one who gets a pass. Not just because I’m Goddamn exhausted, but because Ian’s been a home run of a wingman more times than I can count.

  Let me just say, a gay friend is secret weapon you definitely want to have when you’re cruising for girls.

  I finally realize I’m not even reading words on the menu and pass it back to him with a mumbled “it’s fine” and a middle finger when he rolls his eyes and snatches it back from me.

  “Mate,” Marco is leaning against the counter next to me, eyeing me.

  “What?” I’m irritable, and tired as shit, and I just want to get through this fucking day so I can sleep and figure out how to get Chloe out from under my Goddamn skin tomorrow.

  “You’re fading.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Marco.”

  He opens his mouth but then hastily closes it and shakes his head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, chef.”

  “Marco, Jesus, what?”

  “Nah, mate, you’re like, the boss right now, and we’re at work.”

  I roll my eyes and punch him in the arm, “Fuck you, spill.”

  He darts his eyes around the kitchen full of cooks all busily preparing their stations and getting pots simmering and basically not looking our way before he huddles close to me and reaches into his pocket, “Need a bit of medicine to get through?”

  Fuck.

  I stare at the little baggie of coke in his hand. Coke is never a good plan for me, even when I’m out to party. It messes with me too much, makes me crazy.

  Of course, I’m practically seeing double right now with sleep deprivation, so perhaps this is what they might refer to as “desperate times, desperate measures.” I check the time on the wall, the minute hand ticking dangerously close to when we’ll open for our first seating. Yeah, sniffing drugs might not ever be a good plan, but I’m suddenly wondering if it’s the only plan.

  I look over Marco’s shoulder at Chloe off in the corner of the kitchen. She looks up and then glances at me, as if feeling my eyes on her. And for a second, I’m about to push Marco away and tell him to fuck off and just get on with my night. But then my eyes meet hers and she just glares at me, like I’ve wronged her in some way.

  And it pisses me right the fuck off.

  Fuck it.

  “Oy, let’s do this,” I mutter at Marco, rolling my eyes when his light up. We haven’t done this shit years; not since before the army when we were into the street life. It was a bad idea when we were young, dumb, and broke; it’s a fuckin’ awful idea when we’re older and at our fucking job.

  Just the same, when we’re out back by the kitchen entrance, I can still feel the giddy rush you always get when you’re about just about to do something incredibly fun but incredibly stupid. Marco’s tapping lines out on the flat of his chef’s knife - “cutting cold” we call it in kitchen-speak - and I’m still trying to convince myself this isn’t the worst idea in the world when the backdoor suddenly bangs open.

  Marco swears and dips the knife down behind his back as we both glance back; it’s Delia.

  “Oh, um,” she turns to head back inside, the cigarette she was about to light resting between her lips, when she suddenly pauses and looks at us more curiously, “What are you two doing out here?”

  “Never you mind love,” Marco says, grinning at her. She arches an eyebrow, and then like a Goddamn idiot, Marco makes a little sniffing motion with his nose.

  I’m going to kill this fucking guy.

  Delia’s eyes light up and she checks behind her before stepping towards us, “Oooo….do you mind?”

  “Not at all!” Marco beams, bringing the knife up from behind his back as Delia move to join us. She’s all smiles at me, but I’m too busy glaring daggers at Marco to even bother noticing.

  This is way off book. Being out here doing fucking cocaine right before service with my buddy the grill guy is one thing; doing it with the damn wait staff is fucking pushing it.

  But then again, I am fading here. I’m on zero fucking sleep, my heads all turned around and upside-down from whatever the fuck is happening with Chloe, and I just need to Get. Through. This. Night.

  The powder is cold as it hits my nostrils, and then fire when it hits my bloodstream a second later.

  Theeere it is.

  I’m letting the rush wash over me, and pushing the knife away towards Marco when the door opens again. And this time, it takes me a second to turn and focus, and realize that it’s Chloe.

  ...Chloe standing in the doorway, glaring at me as I stand there with a rail of coke on a fuckin’ knife with Delia giggling and stroking my arm.

  I’m opening my mouth without even really knowing what to say, but then she’s shaking her head and just walking back inside anyways.

  Fuck.

  I shrug Delia away from
me with a growl and start to march after Chloe when the door slams open again and this time I’m face to face with Ian.

  His eyes dart behind me and then focus on me as he narrows his gaze, “You ready?”

  I frown, “Yeah, of course.”

  His eyes drop to my nose, and he arches his eyebrows and makes a little brushing motion on his nose. Shit. I quickly bring a hand up to brush away any remnant powder.

  “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “Ian, fuck off, I’m fine.”

  He’s not smiling. “Oh, you are? Lovely, because the shit is about to hit the fan inside.”

  18

  Chloe

  The London times is here. The fucking London Times food reviewer is at Jolie.

  To put this in perspective, picture finishing filming on a small independent movie and having Roger Ebert pick it up to take a quick look. Or imagine finishing your solo song on the stage and then having to face Simon and the other judges of that talent and singing show you happen to be on.

  Yeah, it’s like that.

  Okay, the reviewer’s supposed to be this big secret, but any modern restaurant in London worth it’s truffles knows who he is, fake mustache or not. He’ll come twice before writing his review. You get two hits to make it perfect. There’s no third chance, ever.

  Needless to say, there’s an absolute chill over everything in the kitchen as soon as Ian drops the bomb on us. Well, a chill over almost everything, because I’m still seething mad at Oliver. It’s stupid because it’s not like I have any damn right to feel jealous or whatever. But...ugh, I don’t know. I guess there was just something about seeing him out there, with her, that has me seeing red. And it’s the absurdity of me feeling jealousy about someone like Oliver that maybe bugs me even more.

  His face it etched in wood when he comes back inside following an utterly white-faced Ian. Yeah, this is a big fucking deal. It may not be the Michelin guide, but it’s the Times. This is the sort of review that will make or shatter a place like Jolie, and we all know it.