Bossing the Virgin

By: Lila Younger

“So you hired someone? Finally. Is she any good?”

I think about Mikayla, with her big, innocent eyes and her long hair tumbling down across those slim shoulders and pert breasts. I think about that smooth, creamy skin, and how I wanted to touch and taste her. The way she stopped my brain in its tracks for a full five seconds when she walked in the door. I didn’t hire her for her body, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my cock thanked me for it.

“We’ll see tomorrow,” is all I say. “I’m going to get her to make me lunch.”


Mikayla shows up at eleven on the dot, and I’m glad for the break. I’ve spent a majority of this morning putting out fires. It turns out that it’s not only my father who was adverse to change. Plenty of his employees are too. I get that they’re afraid of trying something new, especially when new is the complete opposite of what we’ve done so far. But what we have isn’t working. Surely they can see that? It makes me want to bang my head against a wall when I have to explain that for the millionth time. So when Mrs. Stiller tells me that Mikayla’s shown up, I practically jump out of my chair to greet her.

She’s dressed completely different today, in a white chef’s coat and leggings that hug her curves. I feel desire rush down my body, and I have to make a firm decision to keep my eyes from wandering down. She’s foregone makeup, but her face is still fresh and dewy and gorgeous, even more so yesterday. She hands off her paperwork to Mrs. Stiller, and together we head toward the elevators. My dad loved cooking, and insisted that the company headquarters be fitted with a state of the art kitchen. I know that it’s been neglected in the past few years, but it was still sometimes used for work parties and the like. For the purposes of today, it would do just fine.

I’d sent someone yesterday to ensure that the kitchen’s fully stocked. Not only will Mikayla be cooking in here today, but she’ll be training the chefs at Red Canyon Steakhouse to ensure that they are all able to execute her menu, and she’ll be using it on a regular basis to come up with new seasonal favorites. It may be pricey to continually change up our offerings on the menu, but I think it’ll be worth it.

“You ready to do some cooking?” I ask her once we’re in the elevator.

“Is that a trick question?” She replies with a grin. “I’m always happiest when I’m cooking. Doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter when. In fact, your kitchen will be heaps better than the one I’m cooking in now.”

“Why’s that?” I ask. “I would imagine that a chef’s own kitchen would be where she’s most comfortable.”

“Oh believe me, I dream of the day when I can have a fancy kitchen in my very own home. Double ovens, a warming drawer, an extra prep sinks, tap for pasta pots. I’ve got a whole list. But right now I’m camping on my best friend’s couch, so the only kitchen I’ve got access to hasn’t been upgraded since the 80’s.”

“There’s an opening in the apartment building near my family’s home,” I say. “I was actually planning on moving into it myself but didn’t. Anyways, I think it would suit your needs exactly. I actually passed it by because of the kitchen. I spend far too much time on takeout to ever need that much space.”

I don’t say that I never moved in because my recently widowed mother ended up needing me to move back home. It was too empty for just herself, she says. I also agreed. She and my father were high school sweethearts. Losing him was like losing half of herself. I didn’t want her to be alone when her mind was in such a state, so I moved back into the guest house. Equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms, it is more than adequate for what I need right now. I am extra glad that I hadn’t moved back to the main house so that I could keep the ugly mess my father made of the company under wraps. The last thing I want her to do was worry over it on top of everything else she’s gone through.

“That-That sounds perfect,” she says.

The elevator dings and opens up.

“No problem. I’ll find the number for you tonight. It’s on my way home.”

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