His Young Maid: A Forbidden Boss Age Gap Romance Daisy Jane (love letters to the dead TXT) 📖

We finished mixing the batter and when I didn’t have piping bags, she showed me how she made them at home with no real supplies. She cut the tip off of a Ziploc bag and put a piece of rolled tin foil inside to create a tip, spooning the batter in slowly, cautiously and piped little discs of carefully measured batter on the pan. We sat on the kitchen floor—something I’d never done with anyone before—and talked about our favorite childhood memories of cookies while we waited for the oven.

She told me of the time she was eight years old, before she realized her mom had a problem, and they made chocolate chip cookies together from scratch and it was the single most perfect memory she could recall. I told her of a time that a girl gave cookies out as Valentines when I was in high school and it was the first time a girl had given me anything. She smirked at my story, then leaned forward, stopping before our lips made contact. “I hope you like sweets,” she bit her lip and leaned back, rosy cheeks and flushed chest.

Those times we cooked and baked together, I’d watch her move around my kitchen and I’d collect delicious and sinister mental images, tapping into them after she left, fucking myself recalling them. But I can’t help it. She makes me feel alive in ways I never knew were possible. And of all the dates, the ones where she baked and indulged in her passions, were the dates where she was the hardest to resist.

Fridays I cooked for her but because I don’t love cooking, we have pizza. We’ve tried all sorts of different crust recipes—cauliflower, traditional, stuffed, garlic and herb, two-ingredient. Together we chopped and diced all toppings, spreading them over our stretched dough, putting them into the pizza oven together. Though I’d done a fair amount of drinking before Britta, I’d stopped as soon as she agreed to date me. She swore she didn’t mind, she even admitted to drinking occasionally, too. But with her history and everything she’d told me she went through with her mom, it seemed like an obvious and easy choice not to drink. Instead, I bought a soda stream and we made all sorts of flavored waters and drinks, because, according to her, “carbonation goes with pizza like ice cream goes with cake.” Seeing her was the best part of every week, and talking to her was the highlight of each day. Her jubilance and positive outlook never ceased to surprise me, and when I’d comment on it, she’d chalk it up to our age difference.

Then I would try to think back to being twenty years old. The world at your feet, nothing but fun ahead. But Britta’s not like the average girl her age. She’s taken care of a sick person most of her life, she’s sacrificed her dreams and given up her savings in the name of love, for family. And she was still a ray of light. And now she’d given me a second chance after I’d disappointed her, broken her trust. It’s nearly impossible to have such a forgiving, sweet, pure person around and not fall in love with her.

If it was possible, I wasn’t capable.

We’d agreed to no touching, keeping it focused on establishing open communication—we had to give legs to whatever beast we had in the bedroom, together. Occasionally she’d run her finger down the center of my chest as she anxiously awaited my taste-test response and that slight physical contact had me ready for sex. I did a lot of adjusting, shifting from foot to foot, handling my dick when she had her back to me. Just tasting her cookies had my heart fucking pounding, my cock standing at attention. She is the only one to bring me to life like that. I love how she does that to me.

The last six weeks had been a cocktail of beautiful and torturous. I’d fallen in love with her, utterly, and it scared me to my fucking core. Going one million in on a business with a shady past was less terrifying than falling in love with a beautiful, sweet, young woman like Britta. And the fact that we’d agreed not to be physical was destroying me.

She’d text me when she woke up, to say good morning, and I swear I got hard just from that. Sometimes she’d send a photo of herself blowing a kiss or waving hello, and though she never let the camera dip below her face, the photos always made me rock-hard. I loved that sweet dimple in her cheek when she smiled authentically, the rose hue of her lips and how gently they curled into a smile when she was feeling shy. Her long tangle of dirty blonde hair and that cake scent that still drove me fucking wild—everything about her was so good. For me, it was now her or no one.

“Good morning,” she purrs into the phone, my cock lifting from its sleepy spot on my thigh. He knows her voice now, too.

“Good morning,” I refrained from using any pet names, though the desire to call her by something just for us had been growing to an undeniable size. She could be Britta to everyone. I wanted something just for me. I wanted her just for me.

“Today’s the day,” her voice turned glum and my cock slumped over. If she wasn’t happy, I couldn’t be happy. In the last six weeks, my happiness had been irrevocably intertwined with her existence and I hoped that she felt the same way.

“Can I pick you up after you say goodbye?” I ask, hoping she’d say yes.

I’d planned an entire day for her.

“We don’t usually see each other on the weekends,” she reminded me.

How could I forget. I spent most of my weekends with my fist wrapped around my cock, spraying the shower walls, panting