Authors: Aubrey Irons
There’s a reason I hate Oliver Beckett: he’s a
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.
my boss. That smug, arrogant jerk is about to be my
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
right? That would be so wrong.
I think I’m in big trouble.
Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons
Cover Photos: FXQuadro Photography
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.
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
the gratitude you deserve.
This book is also dedicated to the molecular compound C
And to my husband, for being my absolute favorite scoundrel to cook for in the whole world.
As an Anglophile,
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
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,
, 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
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
. To those who quite frankly said “no, seriously, who do I call and yell at to get this fixed”; ya’ll are
and I love you for it.
I am happy to say that differences have been settled, and
is back for sale, just where it was before. But, I am quite sure that
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.
Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance
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“We just can’t do this,” she whispers quietly.
“I don’t see why not.”
She shoots me a look, “
” She shakes her head, “Oliver, I told you, it’s not like I don’t want us to be friends-“
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 DON’T,” I say gruffly, holding her by both her wrists against the wall. “I don’t want to be your
, or your
, or your fucking
And the second I say it, even
wondering what it means. What
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
me. And just for a second - just for the
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,
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.
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.