by Vivien Vale
“Great. Fine. Sure, he’s good looking.” I shrug. “Yeah, hot, I guess. Why does that matter?”
Kate is mirroring my look, a habit of hers when she thinks I'm saying something off. Normally I see this during business related decisions, but her meaning in this moment is not lost on me.
“He’s a super-famous celebrity and that alone equals a ton of attention. Just think about the burst of social media awareness you’d be getting. I bet a hundred or more tweets.”
“And how would I glean from his celebrity, Kate? How?”
“Any fucking way possible.”
I nod at the nearest customers, causing Kate to grimace as she continues.
“All it would take is a couple of dates—”
“Dates?”
“Yeah, public ones. Get people interested in you two, then redirect all the attention back here to the restaurant, Nicole. You know, we could use the business.”
“I want people to come to my restaurant because the food is good, not because…”
Leaning forward, Kate begins to whisper. “Because you’re sleeping with the hottest guy in town?”
“No!” I raise my voice, nearly spitting in her face.
She shakes her head while crossing her arms and leaning back; I can tell she is frustrated with me. She wants to see me find a good man. All she wants is for me to be as happy as she is. But Palmer—yeah—he’s an asshole.
“Fine… Because you and another restaurant owner are battling it out for best of the best.” Yawning, she sarcastically says, “So scandalous…”
I think a moment. I already knew Percy was on my side. “You think the critics would compare us?”
“Haven’t they already?”
Kate is making a good point. But how can I compete with Palmer’s money and celebrity? I begin to wonder. The food. I realize. My food is way better. He might have more Instagram followers, but I’m the better chef.
“You’re right, Kate.” A calmness washes over me. “I’ll go to his restaurant tonight. He can spend all his time and money trying to impress me, because in the end I know what really matters.”
Kate smiles. “And what’s that?”
“The backbone of any good restaurant.” I say retuning her smile. “Heart.”
Now I can’t wait to see Palmer fail.
Palmer
I pace the kitchen, and look at my watch.
She should be here any minute. It's not like me to feel this anxious…especially not over a woman I hardly know. But this woman seems different.
Just as I think this, I look up and see her figure through the glass doors. I walk over and unlock it for her.
"You made it," I say, gesturing her inside.
"I thought I'd give you a chance to redeem yourself," she grins. "How could I say no?"
My eyes travel the length of her body. She certainly didn't dress up for the occasion, but she looks stunning all the same.
She's beautiful, with waves in her hair curvier than macaroni, and she smells like a garden—fruity and floral, like apple blossoms and amber and sliced peaches and sandalwood.
It's intoxicating.
Honestly, I'd fuck her if she wasn't such a smart ass.
"So what's on the menu tonight?" she says, pulling her hair over one shoulder.
"Oysters," I grin.
She rolls her eyes. "You're joking, right? Does this sort of thing usually work on the women you invite over for dinner?"
"Why do women do that?"
"Do what?"
" That ."
"I don't understand," she says, shaking her head. "What do you mean?"
"Always assume a guy's intentions," I say.
"Because men are easier to read than a book," she smiles.
"Not this one," I grin. "And besides, I guarantee you've never had oysters like this before. So, suspend judgment."
She sits down. "Fine. Try me."
Before I bring out the oysters, I pour her a glass of white wine and watch as she brings it to her lips.
She's not admitting it yet, but based on the look in her eyes, she's already impressed.
I bring out a tray of freshly shucked oysters on ice. I watch her eyes light up with curiosity.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she asks.
"I like secrets."
"I've never had oysters like these before."
"Well then, what kind of chef are you?" I say, laughing and giving her a hard time.
"It's true. Glidden Point Oysters, right? They're rare, and I'm a little … nervous," she laughs. There's an innocence hidden in her eyes and it makes my heart kick in my chest.
I want to pull her close to me and allow myself to get drunk on her smell alone. I want to feed her the most expensive foods that money can buy.
I shake my head. What the hell is wrong with me? I need to keep this professional.
I squeeze a wedge of lemon on the oysters and watch their flesh ripple from the acidity.
"You see that?" I say, and Nicole nods. Never eat a raw oyster that isn't still alive.
I reach for her hand. It's delicate for the hands of a fellow chef, and the realization of it makes my cock twitch. "Here," I say, placing a small fork between her fingers.
She grabs it and follows my lead.
"Move it around in its own liquor," I say, her hand still in mine, and together we give the oyster a gentle swirl.
She pulls back for a second. "There are other ways to eat an oyster, you know." It's as if she's trying to prove that she knows her way around food, and doesn't need my lead.
"Trust me," I reply, locking my eyes on hers. "Taste it…and you won't want it any other way."
I take the fork from her hand and replace it with the shell of the oyster.
"Here, hold it." I watch as she grabs it with the tips of her perfectly manicured fingers, the scarlet polish on her nails flashing against the cold grey of the shell. I lean in close, speaking just above a whisper.
"Go ahead," I say.
She begins to part her moist lips, bringing it to her mouth.
"Do you suck or swallow?" I grin.
"Very funny, Palmer."
"Bad joke, I know. But seriously, you really should just take it down your throat," I say, a grin forming across my lips. "It's really the only acceptable way."
She returns the smile, and raises it back to her lips. I watch as her lips part again, and she places the edge of the shell to her mouth.
She tilts her head back, exposing her slender throat to me, and for a second, I imagine dragging my tongue across it and resting it against her pulse. I wonder how fast her heart is beating, and what her pulse would feel like fluttering beneath my tongue.
Would it feel like a trapped butterfly? Or the purr of a sports car?
Fuck, this woman is something else.
She throws her head back and I watch as her throat swells.
"So?" I ask, as soon as she finishes.
She smiles. "That was…pretty good."
" Pretty good? Is that all?"
"Fine. It was amazing."
"I'm glad. Because there's more where that came from," I say, looking down at the chilled platter. "Wouldn't want these to go to waste."
She reaches for another, repeating the process. As she does it, my eyes travel down the length of her body, savoring the deep crevice between her breasts.
"So…tell me," I say. "What's your real motive for meeting me tonight?"
"What makes you think I have a motive?"
"Everyone has a motive."
She considers this for a moment. "Well, your dishes didn't impress me opening night, and like I said, I wanted to give you another chance."
"Have I left you with a different impression?" I ask.
"Very," she smiles.
"Good. Still hungry?"
"You have no idea."
As if my cock wasn't hard enough already, now it's as stiff as steel. And as much as I want to bend her over my kitchen, I know I need to keep it professio
nal.
She takes another slow sip of wine and carefully places the glass down.
There's a slight imprint of her lips left on the rim of her glass from her lipstick. She's relaxing…even her legs are loose and she parts them slightly. She grabs my hand and brings it to the top of her warm, soft, thigh.
"You know what I think?" she says.
"I don't pretend to know," I say, shaking my head.
Her question hangs in the air, thick and full of promise.
"I think that if you want to see real food," she says, "You should come over to my apartment tomorrow."
Nicole
What was I thinking? Inviting someone like Palmer over to my small, cramped apartment? I must be going crazy.
He's going to take one look at this place and come up with an excuse to leave.
I'm sure he owns shoe closets bigger than my apartment…and furniture worth more than anything I own.
This is embarrassing.
I sit back on the sofa and take another sip of my wine. It immediately transports me back to last night—his restaurant, the way he looked at me with those piercing blue eyes, and those oysters…don't even get me started on those oysters.
They were that good. One taste and I was practically throwing myself at him.
How did that even happen? I've never acted that way before. What's wrong with me?
I grab my cell phone and immediately type a question into Google: Are oysters really aphrodisiacs?
Google gives me 128,000 results…and I immediately start reading about Casanova, an 18th century lover who supposedly ate 50 oysters for breakfast every morning to keep up his sexual stamina enough to bed over a hundred women. Can you imagine eating that many in a single day?
Was that Palmer's plan all along…to get me all hot and bothered?
Well, if they worked for Casanova…
Then my eyes continue to scan the screen, and I see articles about oysters linked to increased fertility. The thought of that makes my face flush.
Is my face flushing from the wine…or the thought of my fertile body against Palmer's?
Oh God, I'm a mess.
I shake my head.
Snap out of it, Nicole! Now's not the time to be thinking about fertility… especially not next to the image of Palmer.
If Palmer thinks he's getting into my bed tonight, he's wrong.
Just then, I hear a knock at the door.
Shit. He's here!
I place my glass of wine down and quickly straighten my dress. I take one last look at myself in the mirror, fixing my hair and making sure my mascara isn't smudged.
Then I hurry toward the door, take a deep breath, and open it.
The sight of him almost makes my breath catch in my throat, and I stand there dumbly looking at him for what seems like an embarrassing amount of time.
He bends down to pick up something that he drops, and as he does this, I can see the muscles in his thighs flex and stretch the fabric of his suit.
A new heat flushes across my face.
God , this man is hot.
I have to keep reminding myself that I invited him here tonight to cook for him…and nothing else.
"Come in," I say, opening the door wide enough for him to enter.
He smiles and immediately starts joking with me. "You sure you want to cook for me tonight?" he says. "I'm not easily impressed."
"Well, get ready to be surprised," I say.
He walks into the living room and looks around the apartment. I can't help but feel self-conscious. My place has to be far more humble than the places he's used to.
"Cute place," he says.
"You don't have to say that."
"I mean it," he says. "It's cozy…in a good way."
"Well, the magic is in the kitchen," I say, trying to divert his attention from the mismatched furniture and worn out carpet of the living room, and he follows me.
"Is this the only place where all the magic happens?" he asks.
I know exactly what he's insinuating, but I pretend to ignore it.
"The pasta should be done," I say, changing the subject.
"Is that what we're eating tonight?" he says. "Pasta?"
"It's not just any pasta," I smile. "It's my grandmother's recipe…every bit of it, from the Bucatini down to the Bolognese."
I grab the steaming pot of pasta, carry it to the sink, and drain the boiling water through the colander. I give the colander a shake, to ensure the water is gone, and I bring the pasta to the Bolognese sauce simmering on the stove.
Then, I grab my wooden spoon…the very same one used by my grandmother, and maybe even her mother before that, and I stir. I bring the spoon from the sauce, cup one hand underneath it, and carefully bring it to Palmer's mouth.
"Here," I say. "Taste this."
He places his mouth on the spoon and takes a sip.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head.
"Unbelievable," he says. "That's good—real good."
"Just wait until you try it with the handmade Bucatini."
I grab a plate and place some of the pasta and sauce on top. Then I shave a few fresh curls of parmesan onto the dish.
Palmer grabs a fork, twirls the pasta between the prongs and brings it to his mouth. He chews slowly, considering the flavors and textures. He doesn't say anything right away, and instead goes in for a second bite.
"Stunning," he says finally.
"You like it?"
"Love it," he says. "I've never had a dish like this before. I mean it. You'll have to share the recipe."
"I can't do that."
"You don't trust me?" he says, smiling and stepping closer.
"It's a secret family recipe," I say. "No one outside of the family has it."
He reaches out and brushes my face with the tips of his fingers.
"If anyone can keep a secret," he says, moving his fingers from the side of my face down to my lips, "it's me."
I can't look away. I can't move. I'm drawn to Palmer like a moth to a flame, and the more he touches me, the more I want him.
My eyes are locked on his and he suddenly leans down, slowly pressing his lips to mine.
The feeling is instant and electric. Like I've been shocked by the live end of a wire. I part my lips and feel his warm tongue basting mine. I can feel myself melt into his embrace.
What have I gotten myself into?
Nicole
“I’m sorry,” Palmer tells me, standing up straight and taking one step back. He purses his lips, and then looks at me hesitantly. “I shouldn’t have.”
Slowly, I raise my hand and brush my thumb over my lips, feeling the way the warmness of his lips seems to linger on mine.
“You’re sorry… for what?” I ask him, and the words leave my lips before I can even process what I’m saying. I’m not thinking rationally right now, but how could I? After being kissed by him, it’s almost a miracle I’m still thinking.
Slowly, I get up and go on tiptoe. Grabbing him by his shirt, I press my lips against his, closing my eyes as I succumb to another perfect kiss.
He’s on me then; his lips curl into a grin, his hands find my waist as he kisses me with a gentleness I would never believe he had in him just a few days ago. It’s still hard for me to understand what’s happening right now, but…
Does it even matter?
Our lips have touched, and my body’s telling me all about what I need to do next. And, God, I've never felt anything like this before. I’ve never…Well, I’ve never actually been with anyone before.
No matter—he’s here now, his hands tracing the contour of my curves over my black dress as his cock becomes hard. I feel it against my thigh.
There’s a slow burning ache between my legs, my pussy becoming as wet as it has ever been. God, what’s happening to me?
Without even thinking about what I’m doing, I take one hand to his crotch, pressing against his cock with the open palm of my hand and rubbing over it. Softly, I trace its con
tour with just the tip of my fingers, imagining how it will feel to have his long member sliding inside of me.
He feels so damn big. He’s so huge that I still have a hard time understanding how it’s even possible for something like…this to exist.
His shape is long and thick, perfect, really, and I can’t help but salivate at the thought of having him deep inside of me…
My heart races fast as I try to wrap my mind around the fact that someone like Palmer is here with me, his body burning with lust and desire. He’s one of the most important chefs in the world, a wealthy man, handsome and charming, someone who can have any woman he desires…and I’m just a simple girl from a small town.
How can he even want me?
Whatever. He wants me.
That’s all that matters.
Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, I start unbuttoning his pants, brushing my fingers over his boxer briefs. My heart is drumming anxiously inside my chest, and I slide my hand under his boxer briefs, my fingers curling around his member as if they have a life of their own.
I start stroking him in all his glorious length, going over from his tip to his balls—oh, God , I can’t wait to feel each and every inch of his cock deep inside of me.
If we keep going at it like this, he’s going to ruin me, I just know it. Now that we’ve kissed, it’s just impossible for me to keep my hands off of him.
And that sounds so good. What could possibly be better than having my body completely destroyed by someone like Palmer?
Like every girl, I want the first time to be special. Different, even. I never thought it’d happen in a cramped apartment and with a man I'm supposed to hate.
But being here with him…it feels special.
It feels different.
I caress his balls with my free hand, still grasping his cock tight while I move my hand up and down, from his tip to the base, marveling at his size.
I need it inside me. I need that as much as I need air to breathe and my heart to beat. It would be a sin to waste such a moment…
He nibbles at my lower lip, his hands going down my cheeks and then my neck, to the round mounds of my breasts, grabbing and squeezing gently.
Possessed by what seems like an insatiable hunger for my breasts, he slides the shoulder straps of my dress down my arms and then leans into me and starts sucking on my right nipple, pulling down the cup of my bra and holding it in place with his long fingers. I can’t help but moan as his tongue dances in circles around it, lapping at it endlessly.