Bossing the Virgin(13)

“Come on,” I say, rolling out of bed and extending a hand. She takes it, and I pull her up, my hands dropping down to cup her ass and lift her, impaling her wet warmth onto my cock. I hear her gasp and it just makes me harder. “Let’s go take a shower.”

**********

It’s another hour and a half later by the time we leave, and even my stomach’s feeling pretty hollow. Mikayla directs me to one of the chic neighborhoods in the city, brimming with local boutiques and upscale apartments mixed in with older, single story homes. There’s a local farmer’s market here every weekend, and it’s one of her favorite places to stop for brunch, she tells me.

“They have these amazing omelets,” she says reverently. “Fluffy eggs and the freshest, quirkiest ingredients too. That’s the sign of a good chef you know, when they can make the perfect eggs.”

I’ve never heard anyone feel this intensely about anything. My previous girlfriends, if you could call them that, were mostly focused on money. How much they had, or their friends had. A few of them wanted to be models or movie stars, but beyond that, there wasn’t much. That’s probably why it never got beyond sex. It’s not going beyond sex here either, I tell myself, only half believing it. It can’t be. But I admired how excited Mikayla could be about her job, her passion. She’d found what she wanted to do, and here she was doing it. There’s something inherently admirable about a woman who isn’t afraid to do that. She catches me watching her intently and blushes.

“Sorry for going on and on,” she says.

“Don’t be,” I say. “I think it’s great that you’re this into food. You were definitely the right choice for the company. Have you always known you wanted to be a chef?”

“Since I was young. It wasn’t approved by my parents though. I got decent grades, and they thought that college would be a better bet. They wanted me to get an office job, something where I wasn’t standing all day working with my hands. I can’t blame them though. They worked really hard so I didn’t have to.”

“But you went for it anyways.”

“Yeah. I had a good friend who told me I had to try. She forced me to apply to culinary school even. Maybe you’ll be able to meet her sometime,” she says lightly.

Her eyes are on the road, scanning for a spot. Meeting friends would take things one step closer to a real relationship and I wasn’t sure how to answer her. Luckily I found a spot in that moment on the side of the road. I parked the car, grabbed the umbrella in my backseat, opened it up, and went around to Mikayla’s door. She smiled at me as she took my hand and got out. We walk together down the sidewalk and she points out various places to me. Clearly this is a neighborhood she knows well.

Most of the people on the sidewalk are moving towards the same place we are. The farmer’s market is held in a large, almost warehouse-like space. There’s got to be over a hundred shops here, and despite the rain, it’s full of people. Mikayla drifts toward a stall with a variety of honey products. The smell of food makes my stomach growl.

“Food first,” I say over the din. “Then we can look around.”

“Good idea,” she says. “This way.”

She leads me almost to the heart of the warehouse, where a large cluster of food stalls are set up. There are tables and chairs in a ring around them, chock full of people with their purchases. Lines snake out from the counters. My eyes jump from a classic French bakery piled high with pastries, to an Indian curry shop, to a Panini sandwich place, to a seafood stall. Mikayla leads me over to one of the corner stalls, which has more room for a tiny row of little tables.

“Here we go,” she says. “They get all their ingredients fresh from the market. Everything on the menu is good, I promise.”

“But the omelets are the best?”

“Definitely,” she says with a grin.

Mikayla waves to one of the girls behind the counter and chats while I go over the menu. I’m starving, and I figure I should follow Mikayla’s lead on food, so I go with the Colorado omelet. We order, and head straight for the tiny table at the very back.

“How did you find this place?” I ask.

“My very first teacher in culinary school told us to come, so we could see how real ingredients looked like, not the packaged, Styrofoam stuff in a supermarket. And I just kept coming. I spent a lot of time here after-” she paused for a moment, and something flickered in those light eyes that sent a surge of something like protectiveness though me. That couldn’t be it.

“After things got a bit hard for me. She’s not here today, but Carla, she’s the owner of this place, she’s like a grandma and she was really nice. Let me hang around even though the market packed up in the afternoon. I worked here for a bit too one summer.”