Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance
Page 1
There’s a reason I hate Oliver Beckett: he’s a huge, massive pr*ck.
London’s hottest new bad boy chef is a panty-dropper. He burns his way through party girls’ bedrooms as fast as he blazes around his military-precision kitchen.
He’s a face from my past I never thought I’d see again. The tattooed smooth-talking British exchange student from five years past. The one who brought me in like a moth to flame for one night of firsts... before he left me behind forever.
The one who almost had my v-card.
Except he’s not in my past anymore. Now I’m stepping off a plane in London to start my new job in his kitchen. London, where we’re moving because my mother is marrying his father.
Yeah, not just my boss. That smug, arrogant jerk is about to be my stepbrother.
He might be all grown up now - gorgeous and demanding and wildly successful. But what happens when the man who never hears no comes up against the one woman who won’t take his bullsh*t? The one that won’t submit.
He wants me to beg him for it, but I won’t.
I mean, I can’t, right? That would be so wrong.
So deliciously wrong.
I think I’m in big trouble.
Author’s Copyright
Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons
Cover Photos: FXQuadro Photography
CURA Photography
Lightsource
Cover & Interior Design: Aubrey Irons
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and are in no way blood relations. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
Dedication:
This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever cooked, waited on, or mixed drinks for others, and smiled through the aching pain in their feet in order to earn a living.
You are not given nearly the gratitude you deserve.
This book is also dedicated to the molecular compound C8H10N4O2 (caffeine).
And to my husband, for being my absolute favorite scoundrel to cook for in the whole world.
Author’s Note:
As an Anglophile, Cockney has been one of the most fun books I’ve ever had the pleasure of writing. It’s a bit steamier and a bit dirtier than some of my others, it may push the envelope a little, and you also may never look at cucumbers the same way ever again.
I apologize for nothing,
Before you begin though, I’d also like to take a minute to thank my readers for the heart-warming show of support, feedback, and kind words I get simply for putting words on paper. A few weeks before this book was published, another book of mine, Crude, came upon some trouble where it was quite suddenly and abruptly no longer for sale where it previously had been. The nitty-gritty of the story isn’t worth getting into, but suffice it to say, at the heart of it was a difference of opinion between myself and those who sell my books.
Writing a book takes a lot out of you, so when mine was unceremoniously banished to the wilderness, I found myself in a fairly dark place. However, the words of encouragement, support, and legal advice (no, literally) was quite simply humbling. To those who quite frankly said “no, seriously, who do I call and yell at to get this fixed”; ya’ll are crazy, and I love you for it.
I am happy to say that differences have been settled, and Crude is back for sale, just where it was before. But, I am quite sure that this book would have never been written were it not for the incredible people who read and support an independent author like myself.
Screw censorship; vive la romance.
-Aubrey Irons
Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Mailing Lis
More Books By Aubrey Irons
Two Chapter Preview of Crude: A Stepbrother Romance
About The Author
Contact
Heat: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
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An Excerpt:
“We just can’t do this,” she whispers quietly.
“I don’t see why not.”
She shoots me a look, “Seriously?” She shakes her head, “Oliver, I told you, it’s not like I don’t want us to be friends-“
“I don’t.”
She stumbles. “Excuse me?”
And right then, something inside snaps. It’s like saying it cements all the roaring, rambling thoughts I’ve had inside my head for the past week; hell, since she stepped off that fucking plane. Whatever it is, it’s like a switch being flicked, and the rest of world drops away except for her and me, standing in the raining London afternoon.
And I know right then, I’m not letting another fucking second tick by without doing something about this.
I grab her by the arm and drag her as she gasps around the corner to the alley beside the restaurant. Instantly, I’m pushing her up against the brick wall behind her, my eyes wild as my gaze burns fire right into her
eyes.
“I said I DON’T,” I say gruffly, holding her by both her wrists against the wall. “I don’t want to be your friend, or your buddy, or your fucking pal, Chloe.”
And the second I say it, even I’m wondering what it means. What do I want to be with this girl?
But she throws that look right back at me; that fiery, defiant look filled with heat and power, but also this sort of scared tenderness behind it that just slays me. And just for a second - just for the briefest second - her lip trembles just a hair, as if giving testament to that scared girl behind this defiant mask of sass and attitude.
And it’s my undoing.
My mouth crashes against hers, hard. I push my whole body against hers as I grab her head in my hands and kiss her with everything I have; everything single thing I’ve been holding back. I’m hungry for her as I sear my lips to hers, heedless of whatever consequences this may bring.
And we’re frozen, just like that, for a single moment in time; a single second of just two people stopped in the flow of time. Just as we begin to unfreeze - just as the world is about to keep on spinning under our feet - I know she’s about to push me away, or slap me, or yell, or all three of the above, and that’ll be the end of it. After that, I’ll have my final verdict, and I’ll be done with this whole bloody thing.
Except, she doesn’t push me away, and she doesn’t slap me, or yell at me.
She fucking moans.
And it’s like unleashing the animal inside of me.
I growl into her kiss as we open our lips, tongues sliding against the other. Breaths come in halting gasps as we lose ourselves to each other. I’m pressing her up hard against the wall, and she’s rolling her hips against me, bringing her fucking knee up to my waists and hooking her leg around me as if to pull me even tighter against her. We break the kiss, gasping as we pull back for a second, eyes darting around the other’s and our breathing coming ragged before we go crashing right back into it.
I’m fucking lost in those lips; dropping out of all sense of time or space or any other fucking issue in the world. Because nothing else matters in that moment but those perfect, pouty lips pressed against my own.
“Oliver,” she gasps, pulling away for a second before pressing her lips back to mine, kissing me hungrily, “I- I-“
“I want you,” I growl, bringing my mouth to her neck and biting the skin there, hard. “I wanna bend you over right here, yank those jeans down over that sweet ass, pull your panties to the side and bury my face in your pussy.”
She moans, her breath hitching and her hands clutching at my back as I rasp the words into her ears. I can feel her hips undulate against me.
“And then I want to slide every single inch of my cock inside of you, and fuck you like you need to be fucked,” I hiss the words into her ear, my hand coming up cup her breast through her shirt. I run my thumb across a hard nipple I can feel right through the material. “And I’m not gonna stop until I hear you screaming my name.”
She groans and cranes her neck to bite at my ear as she pulls me hard against her.
“I want to know what your face looks like when you come, Chloe.“
“Are you shitting me?!”
“Language, Chloe!” My mother frowns at me, and part of my brain is trying to process what she’s just said, but I’m still staring at the tablet she’s plopped down on kitchen table between us.
The tablet with the news webpage on it, and right there on the cover, a picture of him.
The boy from the exchange program five years ago when we were seniors in high school.
“Boy”: yeah, right. Because the man smirking at the photographer in the picture on the website is anything but a boy. He’s bigger than he was then, even as cut and muscled as he was back then. Bigger shoulders and a broader chest stretching the tight v-neck t-shirt he’s wearing in the picture. That cocky, arrogant, and lopsided grin. And, what I know are heart-stoppingly gorgeous dark brown eyes behind those sunglasses. He’s got more tattoos now too, more than he even had back then, when they were all part of his bad-boy image.
The bad boy; the hot, dangerous, and gritty British hooligan covered with tattoos and the mouthwatering accent that drew me in like a moth to flame.
And there he is, on the front page of some British news article.
“Chloe-”
I jerk my eyes back up to my mom, and suddenly my thoughts jump tracks entirely, back to the bomb she’s just dropped on me. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head before I open them back up and stare at her; “Wait, you’re not serious are you?”
“Chloe,” She rolls her eyes; “Of course I’m serious.”
“Mom, you’re getting married? How the hell have I never known about this?!”
“Oh, lower your voice, Chloe!”
Mom shakes her head as she walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of sauvignon blanc.
“Jesus, mom,” I make a face, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s noon.
“Oh, relax, we’re celebrating.”
My brain is still shocked by the news, but my eyes also keep darting down to the picture on the webpage. The article headline is something about a new restaurant. That’s right, he cooked or something. I glance back at my mom sharply; “Mom, how am I just hearing about this?”
My mother takes a big gulp of her wine before she glares at me; “Well it’s not my fault that you managed to get kicked out of law school after two weeks.”
I roll my eyes; “Mom, I dropped out; there’s a slight difference.”
“And does that distinction put you any closer to being a lawyer?”
I groan, pinching the arch of my nose between my fingers; “No, mother. Which is exactly the reason I left.”
Seriously, we’ve been through his three hundred times.
“Well maybe if you’d spent as much time in undergraduate thinking about your career as you did working in those restaurants, you’d have been more prepared.”
I groan loudly and my mom shrugs and takes another sip of her wine.
“But hey, what do I know?”
“Mom!” I snap; “Can we back it up here? Who is this guy?”
“I’m not sure I like being interrogated like this, honey,” she says frostily, taking another quick sip from her glass. “And you’re ‘just hearing about it now’ because I just got off the phone with him ten minutes ago when he asked me.”
I scrunch up my brow. “He asked you over the phone? Who the hell is this guy?”
She sips her wine, and then drops her eyes to the tablet sitting in front of us.
“Well, you remember that nice boy Oliver Beckett don’t you? The one we had stay at the house for that exchange program during your senior year?”
Yes, mom, the boy who nearly took my virginity in the back seat of your mid-sized sedan.
“Yes,” I snap.
My mom tsks and shakes her head; “You two don’t talk, do you? Oh he was such a nice boy, Chloe.”
No, he wasn’t.
“No, mom, we haven’t talked since back then.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
Mom’s being cagey. After ten years alone together, even having been away most of the last four I can tell she’s avoiding the subject at hand, “Mom?”
“You know, his father is quite nice, too.”
I frown.
“Quite nice, actually. And maybe you two haven’t kept up, but Barney and I have stayed in touch since Oliver left.”
“Um, OK?”
“A lot, honey,” She says quietly.
I can start to feel a horrible sensation creeping up inside of me. Oh c’mon, there’s no way-
“Mom where is this goi-”
“You might say we’ve been doing the long distance thing,” Mom bites her lip and looks at me, “You know, dating.”
The horrible sensation starts to turn into a roar inside of me, and suddenly, my eyes are darting back to the table, and the cocky, smirking, arrogant, panty-melting grin
of Oliver fucking Beckett.
“Mom-”
“It’s Barney, honey!” My mom squeals excitedly; “He’s asked me to marry him, and he wants me - he wants us to move to London!”
The bottom drops out then. And I’m just in free-fall as I stare at the boy from those nights five years ago. The boy whose kisses I can still remember, the boy whose hands I can still feel. And I’m putting the horrible little pieces together as the floor starts to sway beneath my feet.
The boy who nearly took my v-card, and then told everyone at school that he did.
The boy who’s about to be my new stepbrother.
Oh. My. God.