Faking It With the Boss

by Nikki Chase

“Come for me, Claire. I want to feel you gush all over my cock,” he growls.

  “Oh fuck,” I gasp. “Oh—Ben!”

  My whole body convulses as the most intense orgasm of my life rips through my body, and at the exact same time, Ben lets go, his cock exploding hot, sticky seed deep inside me. He thrusts a few more times, frantically filling me up, making me his own.

  While we both gasp and come down slowly from the high, basking in the afterglow, he leans over and kisses me softly on the lips.

  He rests his forehead against me, still inside me, and murmurs, “Holy shit.”

  I nod, grinning with exhilaration. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

  We both laugh a little breathlessly and then he asks, in the sweetest voice imaginable, “Do you mind if I stay over tonight?”

  I arch up to kiss him before answering, “Of course I want you to stay. I make a mean breakfast spread, and I’d hate for you to miss that.”

  Ben

  When I wake up the next morning, I still have a smile on my face, and I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a sleep that restful.

  Every inch of me is relaxed, and I the morning sunlight warming my exposed skin makes me feel even more decadent. I stretch, then slide my hand over to the other side of the bed, the smell of Claire’s hair still all over the bed.

  But the bed is empty.

  I crack my eyes open and look at the roughly Claire-shaped imprint in the sheets, then slowly push myself up, frowning.

  Did she leave so soon? I run my hand through my hair and get up to my feet, looking around with my bleary eyes.

  Right about then, the smell of something wonderful reaches my nose. A smile comes right back to my face. I put on my boxers and let the aroma lead me into the kitchen.

  Inside, I see Claire standing over the stove, dressed in nothing but one of my t-shirts, which is so big on her that it almost entirely covers her ass.

  “Well look at you,” I say in a voice still thick with sleep, “you beat me to my idea.”

  When she turns her head to look at me, it feels like an arrow straight to my heart.

  Sunlight is piercing the window and basking her in light. Her blue eyes catch it and sparkle brighter than Caribbean waters, and her hair looks like it’s enchanted. The playful smile on her lips is icing on the cake. I watch her eyes drift down to the half-mast shaft just starting to tent my boxers, a small, seductive smile on her lips.

  I approach her in slow strides, my cock growing harder between my legs. I swear that look on Claire’s face just slays me.

  “What, you thought you’d let a chef at a Michelin-star restaurant let you start your day without the kind of breakfast you deserve?” she asks as I reach her and take a gentle hold of her hips from behind.

  “When she doesn’t even have a decently stocked kitchen to work with? Yeah, I’d say so.” I let my stubble brush against her cheek as I murmur to her in a thick, husky voice.

  I can feel the smile on her face against my cheek—it makes my heart pound faster. She’s so enticing that I almost don’t notice the food being cooked in front of me.

  I peer down at the contents of the cast-iron skillet and feel my stomach growl. “If I were a gambling man . . . onion and arugula frittata?”

  “You have a good eye.” Turning and pecking me with a kiss on the cheek, she adds, “And a good nose. And a good mouth.”

  “A breakfast restaurant might need to be in order, down the line,” I tease.

  “Don’t say that until you’ve tasted it.”

  “The aroma alone will bring droves of hungry, sleepy people to line up in front of the restaurant,” I say, squeezing her hips and drawing in a slow, deep breath. The scent of her hair drives me wild, and I feel my shaft growing thick against her ass.

  “Careful,” she says, gently pushing her ass back into me. “If we get too excited, I’ll end up burning breakfast.”

  “Sometimes I like making messes,” I say, sliding my hands around to her hips and squeezing them gently. I lean close to her ear and whisper, “If this were my dish, it would already be burned to a crisp, and you’d be on the kitchen table.”

  I feel a ripple of excitement run through her, and she can’t stop smiling.

  This feels nice. I knew that being able to be open with my feelings for Claire would feel good, but this feels refreshing and freeing in a way that’s surprising even to me.

  As she serves what’s easily the best frittata I’ve had in years, I decide I’ll have to arrange a lot more of these stayovers in the near future.

  Later that morning, when the two of us walk into the restaurant together, I sense a sour mood in the air. Both of us are practically floating on our own little cloud with smiles on our faces, but the staff is hurrying around with a stressed-out energy, and I don’t like some of the glances I get from them.

  I make my way into the kitchen with Claire, where Jorge is overseeing some prep work with the rest of the staff. He raises an eyebrow at us as we approach.

  “Ah, you made it,” he says coolly. “Got delayed by another interview on the way to work?”

  Claire and I laugh it off, but I can sense the bitterness in his words. A quick glance around at how pointedly the rest of the staff is avoiding looking our way tells me that Jorge’s attitude has been infectious.

  “I think we’ll survive getting started ten minutes behind schedule,” I say, trying to play it off.

  “Mm-hm,” he replies mildly, glancing to Claire. “I noticed your car was here in the morning—much, much earlier than you. Hope you at least cooked him a good meal this morning.”

  “Yeah, where’s our breakfast in bed?” another cook calls from across the kitchen, and the staff laughs.

  “Alright, alright, let’s cut out the bullshit and act like adults,” I say with more force than was probably necessary. Both Jorge and the rest of the staff seem taken aback by my snapping words. “Let’s get back to work. We can’t lose slack this early in the game.”

  Claire gives me a nervous smile, but the tense energy in the kitchen is undeniable.

  Shaking my head, I make my way out and head into my office, casting a glance over my shoulder at Claire. I hope she’ll be okay.

  Claire

  One Week Later

  I wake up to the soft sounds of light snoring from my immediate left, and a sleepy smile crosses my face.

  I open my eyes slowly and yawn, stretching out and basking in the warm, cozy blanket cocoon I share with the most gorgeous man in my life. Shadows and rays of gentle morning light dance across the ceiling and I turn over in bed onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow to watch Ben sleep.

  For such an ambitious, driven, intense man, he sure manages to look downright angelic when he’s asleep. His eyelashes flutter ever so slightly as he dreams, his lips barely parted and his thick, dark hair sticking out all over the place.

  He has one strong, muscular arm over the blanket, bent across his chest. The faintest hints of his chest hair peek out from underneath the sheets, and I get a little thrill down my spine, knowing that he’s totally naked under there. In my mind’s eye, I can map out exactly how that fuzz leads to the trail that runs down his ripped abs and his big, thick . . .

  A smile plays on my lips. Just being around Ben turns my brain into mud. I wonder if I’ll ever get tired of this, of waking up to see him beside me, looking like he’s just rolled out of a magazine feature for The Sexiest Bachelor Ever.

  We’ve been doing this for the past week or so, spending our nights and mornings together before and after work.

  We haven’t discussed whatever this is that we’re doing, and we haven’t told our parents either. I’ve never felt like this about a guy before, and I’m totally clueless as to how to proceed. I don’t want to ruin things when they’re going so well and I’m so giddily happy.

  I used to think I preferred to sleep alone, citing my need to steal all the blankets for myself and wake up on my own terms rather than someone else’s. But I can’t deny th
at I truly enjoy sleeping over at Ben’s place.

  His apartment is neat, clean, nicely-decorated, and meticulously-organized, exactly as one might expect of a type-A guy.

  We drink wine in the evenings and cuddle on the couch, which often leads to clothes coming off and . . . well, more, before we fall asleep together. In the mornings, we make breakfast when we have time, and grab coffees to go when we don’t.

  My favorite part of the routine is when we shower together in the morning. I’ve already brought over little bottles of my own preferred toiletries, and we have fun lathering each other up and rinsing off together, kissing and caressing under the hot water and steam.

  I love the taste of his clean, soap-scented skin. Feeling his cock grow to full size in my mouth is worth enduring the hard tiles under my knees. And when he returns the favor . . . oh, God. Let’s just say it’s a great way to start my day.

  I glance over him to the clock on the bedside table and realize that the alarm will go off any second now. It’s almost time for our morning shower.

  Careful not to jostle him too much, I sit up slowly and reach over to turn it off, then bend over to kiss Ben on the forehead.

  His eyes blink slowly as he slips out of his dreams and into reality. “Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice adorably hoarse.

  “Good morning,” I reply, smiling. “I turned off the alarm, but it’s time to get up.”

  “Already?”

  I lean in and kiss him on the lips softly. “Yes. Time to shower and get ready for work.”

  The two of us drag ourselves out of bed and into the bathroom, taking our time in the shower, as usual.

  After he devours me with his mouth, he presses me right up against the steamed-up glass enclosure and grabs my hips as he jackhammers into me, tugging on my hair and nibbling on the back of my neck. My moans echo in the bathroom. When we break away, we giggle at the imprints my breasts have left on the glass before we clean each other up.

  We get dressed and head downstairs to grab coffee and make a couple of quick, easy omelettes, then ride together to Ocotillo. There’s a languid smile still on my face when we walk into the restaurant, taking care to walk in separately so that it looks less suspicious to our coworkers.

  Still, no matter how cautious we are, I’m certain they know something is up. Over the past week, I’ve been getting some furtive, judgemental stares from the rest of the staff.

  Waitresses giving me a once-over. Sous chefs whispering under their breath and then clamming up when I walk by. Even Chef Alonso seems to treat me a little different nowadays, like I’m no longer just his student, but that the power dynamic between us has shifted in a strange direction.

  There’s a new sort of distance developing between the rest fo the staff and me, and I don’t know how to stop it.

  I try to just smile and play it off like I’m just like the rest of them. I don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to suck up to the boss or screw my way to the top. After all, it’s not like I intentionally set out to date Ben (or whatever it is we’re doing). It just sort of happened.

  And yet, I know what it must look like to our coworkers. Especially since the restaurant is still getting lots of media attention, and none of it seems especially focused on the restaurant itself or the menu or the chefs in the kitchen. It’s all about the two star-crossed lovers working here.

  Even now that some of the hubbub surrounding Taylor Hersch’s TV feature about us is starting to die down a little, people still seem so weirdly intrigued by my entanglement with Ben. At least once a day, we get a customer who has clearly only booked a table here to people-watch and surreptitiously spy on us, as if they’re just waiting for Ben and I to start making out in the dining room in full view of everybody.

  I know the staff members are all talking and snickering about me behind my back, and while nobody has been rude about it to my face, that’s little consolation.

  It’s clear that Ben is protective of me, in steep contrast to the way he treats the rest of the staff, and that alone sets me apart. It marks me as a target, and I’m worried it’ll get out of hand if we don’t neutralize it now.

  Even worse is the fact that it makes me instantly flash back to my school days, when I was constantly picked on and singled out for being the rich girl in class. I know, I know, no need to take out any tiny violins to play for me. I was born into privilege and I should be grateful instead of whine about some teasing.

  But kids can be cruel, especially when jealousy is involved. I was mocked for being dropped off and picked up in a luxury car, for having designer clothes, for living in a ritzy house. The rumors were out of control. There were whispers that I had a British butler, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a live-in masseuse, my very own Bentley, and a black Amex with no credit limit.

  The truth is, even though I wanted for nothing, my parents didn’t spoil me either. They’ve always been careful to make sure I knew the value of a dollar and developed a strong work ethic.

  That’s what I wish the world could see in me: my ambition, my dedication, the way I never shy away from a little hard work. I want people to know I’ve earned my place in the world, not just inherited it or stumbled into it by sheer dumb luck.

  Now, it’s not so much that the staff think I’m a spoiled rich girl like my classmates thought, but they definitely seem to think I’m getting special treatment from our boss, and that isn’t much better.

  As I clock in and get to work on prepping ingredients for the lunch shift, I make a silent resolution to have a chat with Ben later about all this.

  “Wait, you really think I’m treating you differently?”

  I sigh, sitting on a stool while I wipe down a counter. It’s after work and everyone else has gone home, so I figure it’s the best time to mention it. “Yes. A little bit. And whether you see it or not, the rest of the staff certainly seem to have noticed. They’re talking about me behind my back and I don’t like it. But I also can’t blame them, really.”

  “So, what do you want me to do about it?” Ben asks, leaning on the counter.

  “Well, I’m thinking you should just start treating me like the rest of them,” I suggest with a shrug. “While we’re at work, just pretend I’m any other employee. No special treatment. I know you mean well and you’re just trying to look out for me, but you don’t need to protect me. I don’t mind when they start cracking jokes and teasing me—you don’t have to step in and save me. I can handle it.”

  “I just don’t like seeing them talk down to you.”

  “I know,” I reply, smiling. “But I can deal with it on my own. They don’t mean anything by it anyway. It’s all in good fun. Oh, and the other day you kind of, sort of dismissed my suggestions I offered about the Hersch feature. You wouldn’t do that to any of them, would you? So why me?”

  He winces and nods, thinking it over. “I suppose that makes sense. But why does it bother you so much what any of them think of you?”

  I bite my lip. “Well, truthfully, it just reminds me of being in school and getting picked on for being the rich girl. Everyone assumed I was spoiled and bratty because my parents drive luxury cars and I lived in a nice house. Nobody saw me for who I really am. All they could see were the price tags on my lifestyle. It sucked, to be honest.

  “So when I got to college, I made a conscious effort to blend in better. I stopped accepting as much financial help from my parents and became as self-sufficient as possible. I want people to see how hard I work, not how rich my parents are. I want to make it all on my own, with no preferential treatment. And right now, in this kitchen, it kind of feels like I’m back in high school again.”

  “Huh,” Ben murmurs, looking at me inquisitively. “I’ve never thought about it that way. I’m sorry. If you think it’ll help, I’ll do my best to start treating you like the rest of them. At least while we’re clocked in. Now, when we clock out for the day, that’s another story . . .” he trails off, smiling mischievously as he saunters over and kisses
me on the lips, giving me a smirk that tells me he’s got something wicked in mind.

  Ben

  “Just as long as I can treat you special outside work,” I say, smirking. “Deal?”

  Claire tries to hold back her smile, but then she melts into a flustered laugh, and I wrap my arms around her, hugging me tight into my chest.

  “Deal,” she agrees, squirming in my grasp.

  Feeling so close to Claire like this, both physically and emotionally, slowly awakens something deep inside me that makes me feel alive. My cock stirs in my pants, sending thoughts through my head that are more than welcome after a long day like this.

  She smiles softly up at me, then breaks gently breaks away to start tidying up around the kitchen, like Jorge trains her and all his other sous-chefs to do. I watch her for a few moments as she piles some dishes in the sink, but I start making my way over to her from behind.

  The moment her hand touches the faucet handle, I grab her around the waist, surprising her and earning a little yelp as I hold her against me and start peppering her neck with kisses. She laughs, squirming away from me.

  “I might have a hard time cleaning with your arms around me like that,” she points out with a playful smile.

  “Guess you won’t be cleaning, then,” I say without missing a beat.

  “Someone has to,” she says, raising a challenging eyebrow at me.

  “What, afraid I’m going to fire you for not cleaning up one night, all while I’m the one holding you back?” I ask, my shaft growing against her warm, soft body.

  Her smile fades a little. “Oh, come on, that’s exactly the kind of special treatment I was talking about, Ben.”

  After a moment of thought, I sigh, take a step back, and raise my hand to her chin. I cup her jawline and let my thumb brush over her lower lip while her gleaming eyes watch me carefully.

  She’s not being unreasonable . . . but at the same time, those lips are begging to be kissed. In fact, her whole body is pleading with me to be ravaged.