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 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."