Read Online Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance by Aubrey Irons - Free Book Online
Authors: Aubrey Irons
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deep breath, glaring at him, “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Let this be a lesson about wearing headphones in a kitchen then,” He says with a shrug of his shoulders. He’s out of his chef-whites, in jeans and a black-t-shirt with his face looking freshly scrubbed and his hair wet and slicked back from a shower downstairs. His full lips pull back into a cocky sort of grin. Smile lines etch his cheek and that strong jaw line draws my eyes before they dart up to meet his dark brown ones.
“You did good tonight, cupcake,” he says with a grin. He holds his hand out, passing a can of cheap-looking beer my way.
I make a face.
Oliver rolls his eyes, “What do you want, fucking champagne?” He smirks, “Welcome to kitchen life, luv. Now drink up.”
He cracks a second beer for himself before moving next to me to lean against the counter-top and peer down into the bowl I’ve been mixing. “So what are you making?”
“Just experimenting with a recipe for savory tarts. Balsamic-glazed wheat berry and brussel sprouts.”
He nods slowly, arching a brow, “Not bad, not bad. Tarts, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“A bit different from those buns of yours this morning then, eh?”
My face grows red and I shoot him a look. But for some reason, this time there’s nothing behind the look; at least none of the honest vitriol from earlier. This time it’s more a flirting look.
God, what am I doing?
And honestly, when and how exactly did me being pissed at this cocky little shit turn into whatever little flirtiness I’m showing now? Am I so cheap that I can be bought with a can of beer and a single mediocre comment about my job performance?
“You’re not drinking.” Oliver nods at the foamy beer in my hand, “C’mon, you’re like pissing on sacrament here.”
I roll my eyes. There’s Oliver for you, always so cocky and dominant.
Demanding.
“ Fine ,” I say, taking a big sip of the cheap beer in my hand. Hey, at least it’s cold this time. “But I’d ask that you please get my buns out of your head, thank you very much.” I roll my eyes as I pick up my whisk again and start to whip the batter I’ve got going in the bowl.
“Oy, you’re doing that wrong.”
I raise a brow as I look at him, “Excuse me?”
“The whisking,” he says with a shrug, “You’re beating the batter, not mixing it.”
“Seriously?” I give him a withering look before I roll my eyes and turn back to my mixing bowl.
“Look, it’s not a power thing,” he says, “I’m just saying there’s a better way.”
“Oh, right because you know all the best techniques.”
“Oh, trust me,” he grins at me, “My techniques would blow your mind, sweetheart,” he finishes with a wink that has the blood rushing into my cheeks.
Oliver moves behind me suddenly, his hand circling around me and coming to rest on top of my own over the handle of the whisk.
“Hey! Just what do you think you’re-”
“ Relax , I’m just going to show you.”
I feel a shiver up my back at sound of his voice, so deep and low in my ear, as well as the feel of him so close behind me. I can smell whatever clean-smelling soap he’s used to wash his face. I can feel the heat and the hardness of his muscles pressing into my back.
“You’ve got to love the whisk, darlin’,” he husks into my ear, “Right now you’re jerking that thing like you’re giving it a fuckin’ handjob.”
“Jesus, Oliver,” I wrinkle my nose.
“What! That’s what it looks like!” He chuckles, and I feel his laughter through my back as he moves close, his other hand circling my waist. “Look, you just need to be more gentle. It’s more like you’re brushing hair, or conducting an orchestra or something.” He chuckles, “Not jerking a cock.”
I flush again, and I can feel him pressing against me. I can feel something else
“Let this be a lesson about wearing headphones in a kitchen then,” He says with a shrug of his shoulders. He’s out of his chef-whites, in jeans and a black-t-shirt with his face looking freshly scrubbed and his hair wet and slicked back from a shower downstairs. His full lips pull back into a cocky sort of grin. Smile lines etch his cheek and that strong jaw line draws my eyes before they dart up to meet his dark brown ones.
“You did good tonight, cupcake,” he says with a grin. He holds his hand out, passing a can of cheap-looking beer my way.
I make a face.
Oliver rolls his eyes, “What do you want, fucking champagne?” He smirks, “Welcome to kitchen life, luv. Now drink up.”
He cracks a second beer for himself before moving next to me to lean against the counter-top and peer down into the bowl I’ve been mixing. “So what are you making?”
“Just experimenting with a recipe for savory tarts. Balsamic-glazed wheat berry and brussel sprouts.”
He nods slowly, arching a brow, “Not bad, not bad. Tarts, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“A bit different from those buns of yours this morning then, eh?”
My face grows red and I shoot him a look. But for some reason, this time there’s nothing behind the look; at least none of the honest vitriol from earlier. This time it’s more a flirting look.
God, what am I doing?
And honestly, when and how exactly did me being pissed at this cocky little shit turn into whatever little flirtiness I’m showing now? Am I so cheap that I can be bought with a can of beer and a single mediocre comment about my job performance?
“You’re not drinking.” Oliver nods at the foamy beer in my hand, “C’mon, you’re like pissing on sacrament here.”
I roll my eyes. There’s Oliver for you, always so cocky and dominant.
Demanding.
“ Fine ,” I say, taking a big sip of the cheap beer in my hand. Hey, at least it’s cold this time. “But I’d ask that you please get my buns out of your head, thank you very much.” I roll my eyes as I pick up my whisk again and start to whip the batter I’ve got going in the bowl.
“Oy, you’re doing that wrong.”
I raise a brow as I look at him, “Excuse me?”
“The whisking,” he says with a shrug, “You’re beating the batter, not mixing it.”
“Seriously?” I give him a withering look before I roll my eyes and turn back to my mixing bowl.
“Look, it’s not a power thing,” he says, “I’m just saying there’s a better way.”
“Oh, right because you know all the best techniques.”
“Oh, trust me,” he grins at me, “My techniques would blow your mind, sweetheart,” he finishes with a wink that has the blood rushing into my cheeks.
Oliver moves behind me suddenly, his hand circling around me and coming to rest on top of my own over the handle of the whisk.
“Hey! Just what do you think you’re-”
“ Relax , I’m just going to show you.”
I feel a shiver up my back at sound of his voice, so deep and low in my ear, as well as the feel of him so close behind me. I can smell whatever clean-smelling soap he’s used to wash his face. I can feel the heat and the hardness of his muscles pressing into my back.
“You’ve got to love the whisk, darlin’,” he husks into my ear, “Right now you’re jerking that thing like you’re giving it a fuckin’ handjob.”
“Jesus, Oliver,” I wrinkle my nose.
“What! That’s what it looks like!” He chuckles, and I feel his laughter through my back as he moves close, his other hand circling my waist. “Look, you just need to be more gentle. It’s more like you’re brushing hair, or conducting an orchestra or something.” He chuckles, “Not jerking a cock.”
I flush again, and I can feel him pressing against me. I can feel something else
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