His Young Maid: A Forbidden Boss Age Gap Romance by Daisy Jane (romantic love story reading txt) 📕

and I, that part of your life is behind you. You’re free from it,” I cup her face with my hands and wipe away a stray tear. “I promise you, it’s behind you.”

She rises to her toes and kisses me, her hands drifting up my chest. When she pulls back, her eyes are misty and I can see her bottom lip tremble gently.

I’m not a cinderblock. I may have gotten misty there for a moment. Seeing the happiness and relief in her eyes, no matter what came of us, was worth it. Even the next part, which cost more than the measly quarter of a million medical debt she’d been working toward. This part cost a lot and was more of a risk because it assumed a future between us.

A serious one.

23

Britta

My heart was fluttering in my ribs like a wild butterfly in the sunshine. I couldn’t believe Brooks had paid my mother’s debt, setting me free of my effective financial prison. That prison, however, was built by the job I’d been working… which is why I was even living downtown in the city in the first place. Now without the need to be a maid, I was free to take out loans and go to school like a normal twenty-year-old. Maybe after the last six weeks of dating me, he’d realized I was too young and this was his way of letting me down easy—paying this debt for me? Though I’d wanted to blurt out that I loved him, I had to consider that this was perhaps a gentle goodbye. Without Melody, without my mom, I had no one to help me pick up the pieces if Brooks didn’t feel the same way. And as long as I didn’t admit how I feel, then I’d be safe. Right?

“There’s something else,” and when he says those three little words, my stomach jumps into a tangle, nervous and tight.

It could mean anything, good or bad. Though I’ve no reason to believe it could be bad, still, it could be. I’m nearly light headed by the time we reach his car and he helps me into the passenger seat. I melt into the leather, my heartrate making my arms feel heavy, my face hot.

“Why’d you want to tell me in the car?” suddenly my skin is clammy and hot, my hair sticking to my neck. Is it hot in here? “Is it hot? It’s hot,” I palm at my throat and tug at damp hairs pasted there.

“Britta, relax,” he reaches out and rests his hand on the inside of my knee, which sends a heat down my spine. My legs instinctively clench together, taking his hand with them.

“Baby, listen, take a breath,” he pushes a button that starts the car, and air starts to circulate, and I exhale heavily.

“You’ve never called me that,” I say, letting the warmth of his hand radiate through my thigh and trickle down to my panties, wet and hot.

“Well,” he rakes a hand over his face and pulls his glasses from his coat pocket, throwing them on in one quick movement. Fuck, that day-old stubble and smooth roll of golden chestnut and pepper hair, the way his shirt drops off his broad shoulders and pins in at his hips. He’s velvet and smooth, Marlboro man meets sexy professor, a wealthy and generous sex god. And I’m all thrift-store clothes and self-taught cookies, maid and broke, directionless and emotionally exhausted.

“Well, what?”

My heart thuds, please, please, please.

“I want you to be mine, my girlfriend because, well, I love you.”

Ohmygod. Ohmygod. He said it. It’s real. I sigh out. I’d fallen in love with the idea of a tortured and lonely bachelor when I read that poem, I’ll admit. But after getting to know Brooks, I realized he was an intoxicating blend of sophistication and chaos, beauty and raw charisma, he was more than the fantasy, better than a fantasy.

And that was how I felt before he paid my mother’s debt and told me that he loved me. Now? I’m ready to tear my clothes off and make love to him like I had in my private memories many times over the last six weeks.

“Britta,” he nudges me gently and I realize I’d been in shock.

“I love you, too,” I finally say. It feels good to say. So good.

“I want to have told you that before this but I didn’t, and, I don’t know, I was nervous,” he admits, shrugging only so slightly. Even in our emotional state, the testosterone seeps through his clothes and permeates the air around us, pulling me in a thick, hot frenzy. I squeeze my thighs tighter and his fingertips curl into my leg.

“This doesn’t make me love you, the money has never made me love you,” I wipe away a tear with the back of my wrist and tuck a hand between my legs, on top of his. My palm on his makes his eyes flicker closed for a moment; the slightest touches between us now so dizzying and powerful.

“I hope you really feel that way,” he says and the heat of his hand nearly burns through my turgid flesh, I can barely restrain myself anymore. There’s no oxygen in this car and I need to cover his mouth with mine and find my breath, my life in him.

“I bought some property in Connecticut,” he starts, raking a hand down his face, cleaning his glasses on his coat, slipping them back on. My panties tingle watching him while the scent of him reaches to me and curls under my chin, pulling me to him, like a cartoon.

“Yeah?” I say on a desperate exhale, an attempt to sound normal but I’m breathing so fast now, the need for him burning it’s way from my toes to my brain, making rational thought nearly impossible.

“It’s um,” he scratches the back of his head as if he’s nervous, but I ignore it. He doesn’t say anything when I move his hand up my thigh, fingers