Taste: A Bad Boy Chef Romance

by Natalie Knight

  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 professional.

  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."

  Chapter 7

  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 … 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 same utensil used by my grandmother, and maybe 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 t
he 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?

  Chapter 8

  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…what for?” 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 tiptoes; grabbing him by his shirt, I press my lips against his, closing my eyes as I succumb to a perfect kiss.

  He’s on me then; his lips curl into a grin, his hands on 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. I never…I’ve never 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. 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 contour 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 it to exist. His shape is long and thick, perfect in all things, 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, someone who can have every single woman he desires … and I’m just a simple girl from a small town.

  How can he even want me?

  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 length, going over from his tip to his root—oh, 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 neck to the round mounds of my breasts, grabbing and squeezing gently. Possessed by 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.

  Palmer leans into me, his lips against my ear, and he whispers.

  “I have no idea what we’re doing,” he breathes out. “But this feels amazing.”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks as he says it, and I don’t even know what to say. Having someone like Palmer whisper those things at me is better than almost everything I have experienced during my short time here on this Earth. I could spend the whole day in his arms, with him whispering those things at me, and I would never get tired of it.

  Only problem I can see with that is that I would spend the whole day completely wet.

  But then again, that sounds just about perfect.

  I don’t even know how it's possible for me to be so damn wet. It’s completely ridiculous. Of course, my body seems to disagree; every single cell inside me seems to be aching for Palmer.

  “I…I need to tell you something,” I find myself saying, placing my hands on his chest and taking a step back. He looks into my eyes, his lips just a thin line made out of curiosity as he waits for me to continue.

  “I’ve never…been with anyone,” I finally confess, barely believing that I’m telling him this. If I’m saying it, that’s because I want that to change…and I don’t know what to think of that.

  Maybe it’s better I don’t even think. Maybe it’s better I just act.

  “Seriously? Someone like you?” he asks me, and his words are pregnant with surprise.

  “Someone like me?”

  “Nicole…Fuck. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, and talented. How is that even possible?” he continues, reaching for me and tucking a lock of hair over my ear.

  “I guess…I’ve always been busy with work,” I reply, looking down at my feet as I feel my cheeks growing red. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

  “Not tonight,” he whispers, and before I can do anything he sweeps me off my feet. Carrying me in his arms, he walks out of the kitchen and into my bedroom, nudging the door open with the tip of his shoe. He doesn’t even bother with flicking the light switch; he just carries me all the way to the bed, gently sitting me there.

  He pushes me down on the mattress, his hands darting to my back and lodging themselves there. In a sudden movement he is on top of me, our bodies pressed against each other as we kiss.

  Oh, God, is this really happening?

  His lips go from my mouth to my chest then, and as he sucks and licks my nipple, I can’t help but wonder if this is what paradise feels like.

  He squeezes my breasts hard as he sucks on them; then one of his hand goes down my belly and, still over the fabric of my dress, he presses it over my eager pussy, rubbing it slowly with just the tip of his fingers. I grind against his hand, swaying my hips and trying to sate the aching desire my insides feel for him.

  Damn, I can feel every nerve ending in my body yearning for him.

  His hand goes down my waist and he slides it under my dress, his fingers hiking up to my thong; with a flick of his fingers, he pushes the small
string of fabric to the side and brushes one finger slowly against my clit. I shudder and exhale sharply as he presses down on it. It’s like being hit by lightning.

  I can’t see, I can’t speak, I can’t hear—all that I feel is his fingers slowly stroking my pussy.

  I thrust my hips upward against his hand; I can’t handle all this teasing, I really can’t. I’m going to die of anticipation. Then, as if he’s capable of hearing my thoughts, he pushes my hips down onto the mattress, the palm of his hand pressing hard against my pussy. He lets one finger go inside of me in an upward motion and, before I can even let out a heartfelt moan, he has his thumb over my clit again.

  He lets go without a warning, the absence of his touch almost too painful to endure.

  Getting up, he grabs my hand and makes me stand; with a sudden movement, he has me pinned against the wall of my own bedroom.

  I close my eyes as he runs his hands through my hair and pushes it back. We stand there in a silence only broken by the sound of our breathing, our bodies brushing against each other as we just savor that sweet closeness.

  When I open my eyes I see him looking at me, his lips slightly parted as if he’s lost in a daze. My hands go to his chest, my fingertips feeling the rough outline of his muscles with deliberate care. He’s so perfectly sculpted that it’s hard to believe he wasn’t sculpted out of a marble block.

  He reaches for my mouth with his, kissing me in abandonment. My heart flutters as I kiss him back, my lips submitting to one of the absolute best moments of my life. I could stay here forever, lost in this sweet trance.

  His hands go down the side of my body and I tremble in anticipation, feeling his fingers stop at my waist and then make their way under my dress and up to between my thighs. Once again I quiver as he presses down on my clit, the gentle warmness of his fingers making my body feel light and relaxed.

  Softly, he parts my outer lips with a slow flick of his fingers, and I gasp as he slides one inch of his finger inside me. Slowly, he feeds it into me, each inch drawing a trembling moan out of my lips.