MY VIRGIN MAID

"Pass me the vegetables," Mariam ordered, pointing toward the end of the counter.

Christina, halfway through stirring a pot of thick, steaming gravy, glanced up. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen, a few strands of hair curling against her temple. She tucked them back with the back of her wrist, then stepped across the tiles to grab the chopped vegetables.

"Here," she said gently, placing them beside Mariam.

The two women stood shoulder to shoulder in the luxurious mansion kitchen, aprons tied neatly around their waists, the soft clatter of cutlery and bubbling pots filling the air.

"You really know your way around spices," Mariam said, stirring the pan of vegetables with a wooden spoon.

Christina smiled modestly. "I learned at the convent."

Mariam raised an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't think they taught much beyond hymns and candle lighting."

Christina chuckled softly. "Every Saturday, after morning mass, the sisters gave cooking lessons. It was part of our 'domestic duty training.' They said it kept our hands busy and hearts disciplined."

Mariam smirked. "I don't know about the disciplined part, but that gravy smells divine."

Christina gave a shy laugh, returning to the chicken she had just finished crisping in the oven. The heat radiated against her face as she bent down to check the tenderness - completely unaware that her skirt had lifted slightly above her thighs, riding higher as she leaned over.

I was unaware that someone was watching.

---

Bryce Callahan hadn't planned to come home early.

He'd wrapped up a brutal meeting downtown, ignored three calls from his lawyer, and driven home with the growing desire for silence - and maybe, just maybe, the warmth of a decent meal. He hated takeout. Hated the sterile, soulless taste of food delivered in plastic boxes.

What he didn't expect to see when he walked into the side entrance of the house was her.

Bent over.

In his kitchen.

---

His steps stopped just outside the threshold.

The first thing that hit him was the smell: roasted chicken, creamy herbs, something with garlic and onion that curled under his skin. The second was the sound of soft female voices. He didn't step in right away. Instead, he let his eyes drift toward the source.

And there she was.

Christina Lane.

Bent slightly, apron tied snug at her waist, cotton dress clinging just a bit too tightly to the curve of her ass as she reached into the oven. She was humming softly - a hymn, maybe - completely unaware of the way her body looked in that moment. How innocent. How ripe.

How entirely not meant for him.

His jaw clenched.

Damn that sexy ass.

---

He didn't know what was more dangerous - the curve of her hips or the way she didn't seem to know she had them. She moved like no one was watching. Like she still believed she was invisible. Like she didn't understand the fire she was pouring gasoline on, one soft movement at a time.

Bryce stepped inside.

His shoes echoed on the tile.

Christina shot upright, nearly knocking the pan off the stove. "Oh-! Bryce!"

Mariam turned, startled, but quickly recovered with a polite nod. "Mr. Callahan."

He said nothing at first. Just looked at Christina. Her cheeks were pink - not from shame but from heat. Her lips parted slightly, unsure what to say. The apron hugged her frame. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her hands were dusted in flour.

She looked nothing like the silk-dressed girl he'd been training himself to ignore.

And yet, right now... she was ten times more tempting.

"Didn't expect you home so early," Mariam added, trying to break the silence.

"I live here," he replied dryly, then turned to Christina. "You cooked?"

She nodded. "I helped. I made the gravy and the potatoes. And the chicken."

He walked slowly to the stove, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Smells edible," he muttered, then reached over to dip a finger into the sauce. He brought it to his mouth without breaking eye contact.

Christina stared, heart pounding.

He licked the gravy from his fingertip slowly.

"Not bad," he said, voice low.

Her knees nearly buckled.

---

Dinner that evening was different.

Bryce didn't sit at the head of the table.

He sat on the side. Closer to her.

He didn't ask her to feed him.

But he did ask her to sit.

Mariam served them both and left the room quickly - claiming she had laundry to finish - though Christina suspected she didn't want to be near whatever was unfolding between her and the boss.

Christina sat quietly, hands folded in her lap as Bryce sliced into the roasted chicken, tasted the potatoes, and sipped the red wine poured just moments before.

"This is very good," he said finally.

She looked up, surprised. "Thank you."

"You've cooked before?"

"At the convent. Every Saturday."

He gave her a slow nod. "They didn't teach you how to dress, though."

Her eyes widened. She looked down at herself, confused.

He gestured lazily toward her apron. "That dress underneath. It hugs you. More than you think."

She shifted in her seat. "I didn't mean-"

"I didn't say I minded," he interrupted.

Silence.

She looked at her hands. The pulse in her neck was visible now.

"Do you know what you do to a man, Christina?"

She looked up again. This time, something in her eyes had changed. The fear was still there, but next to it... something else. Something slow-burning. Something curious.

"I'm just here to help," she said softly.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine.

"Yes," he said. "But help becomes distraction when a maid bends over like that in my kitchen."

She blushed deeply.

"I wasn't trying to distract you."

"That's what makes it worse."

He stood up.

Dinner was over.

He walked behind her, paused, then leaned down - just enough for his breath to touch her ear.

"Don't wear that apron again," he whispered. "Unless you want me to show you how it feels to be bent over that kitchen counter you love so much."

And then he left.

Christina sat perfectly still - trembling, silent, and suddenly aware of every inch of her body.