My mind focuses on Palmer's body.
Biting down on my lower lip, I slide my hand down between my thighs, pressing the tip of my fingers against my pussy. I stifle a moan, and then decide to go all the way; I slide my hand further and then press down on my clit.
Pleasure electrifies my nerve endings all at once, and my eyes roll back as I imagine Palmer back here in my bed, that mysterious smile dancing on his lips. I’d cook him a hundred more secret recipes just for him to be really here again.
I’d just reach for his cock, feeling it harden against my eager fingers…
Oh, God, I can’t stop myself now. I slide my fingers in my wet pussy and, parting my inner lips, slide my middle finger inside. I curl it upward like a hook, driving it all the way in and only stopping when I find my G-spot.
I press hard against it while I use my thumb to stroke my clit. I close my eyes as my brain starts to hum with an electricity all its own.
I imagine the chiseled chest that Palmer hides under his tailored suits and fancy chef coats, and how I'd like to explore the ridges of his abs with my tongue… and with my tongue on his abs, how I'd explore further down between his legs.
I can already imagine his enormous cock sliding in and out of me, taking my pussy…
“Oh, God,” I moan, my quivering voice echoing throughout the darkness of my apartment as I start moving my hand faster.
I slide one more finger inside my pussy and start flicking my wrist fast, my fingers moving in and out of me at a furious pace. I pretend they’re his cock, stretching me wide and driving me insane with a newfound hunger.
I arch my back, moaning loud enough for my cat to dart off—Whiskers must think I've lost my mind, but I don't care. This is too good.
I take my free hand to my breasts, squeezing them eagerly. Images of Palmer's naked body flash behind my eyes. I shut them tight, and a burning need to feel his body on mine consumes me.
In this moment, it's the only thing that matters.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, my inner walls tightening around my fingers, and without warning, I begin moaning through grit teeth as a sudden spasm takes over my body. Every muscle fiber inside me begins to twitch erratically, and I have no choice but to ride the wave over.
When everything subsides and I'm able to open my eyes, I take a deep breath and look up at the ceiling.
Finally, my mind has cleared, and I decide: Having Palmer in my bed tonight was fun, but it was also a mistake.
He's a much better fantasy than he is a reality.
Palmer
I've messed up more dishes in a single afternoon than I have in my entire professional career—too much salt, too little salt, too much flame, not enough flame.
As much as I hate to admit it, I can't get Nicole out of my mind. Everywhere I turn, I'm reminded of her.
I'll never be able to look at another pasta dish without remembering that night at her apartment.
And just when I think the day can't get any worse, it does. Oh, it gets so much worse.
I'm standing in front of a hot skillet, searing a fresh tuna steak and getting ready to squeeze just the right amount of lemon on it when Brit bursts through the kitchen doors.
"Have you seen this?" she says. Her eyes tell me she's wild with frustration.
I look down and see her cellphone in her hand. The browser is open on her screen, and it appears to be a published article.
"Doesn't look familiar," I say, shaking my head.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but read this."
By the look on her face, I know it can't be good. I grab her phone and begin scrolling.
"Among the dishes offered by Chef Palmer's Pearl is a dry fish akin to prison food,” I read out loud. “I was too timid to try some items on the menu for fear of developing digestive problems, and that's putting it mildly. The risotto was inedible—having taken on the consistency and flavor of what I can only describe as wallpaper paste."
I roll my eyes.
"Oh, it gets better," Brit says. "Keep going."
I continue reading it aloud.
"I wouldn't wish for a natural disaster to strike anyone's restaurant, but if it did, then no one would have to eat the food offered by The Pearl on Park, and that wouldn't be such a bad thing.
“There literally isn't a single redeeming dish on the menu, unless you count the glass of ice water that accompanied my food. Chef Palmer's dishes are where hopes and dreams go to die. Hot mush, gummy waste, and lukewarm puddles are all apt descriptions for the food I tasted, which is a travesty.
“Even my salad looked as if someone squeezed an entire bottle of cheap dressing on it just to watch every piece of lettuce drown in its own misery. The steak was so overcooked that it resembled the grey innards of an unidentifiable animal."
My voice is now beginning to shake and I tighten into a ball.
"That's going too fucking far—I know I make the best fucking steaks!"
"This is bullshit," Brit says. "These are all lies. It's as if he's purposely trying to ruin you."
I look back down and continue reading the review. If I've read this far, I might as well finish.
"Chef Palmer's restaurant is a bungled and lack-luster attempt at bringing another fine dining destination to New York City. Even the foods that might deserve mild praise, like the grilled asparagus spears, were under-seasoned and could be procured for cheaper if you simply went to a nearby deli.
“As far as the potato soup goes…well, let me just say that it was as thin, murky, and unappetizing as dirty dishwater. As a kid, I was once dared to eat a worm freshly dug up from the school playground. I recoiled, and got so far as to place its wriggling body on my tongue before spitting it out.
“In retrospect, I'd gladly eat that worm before placing another ounce of Chef Palmer's food in my mouth. In summary: Eat at The Pearl on Park at your own risk."
I knew Percy Whitman was an asshole, but I didn't realize he could sink this low. This is possibly the worst review I've ever read. What the hell does Percy have against me?
"Can we survive this review?" Brit asks. She's visibly worried, and I don't blame her.
But if there's one good thing about me, it’s that I'm not a quitter. I have the resolve of a stubborn bull.
"Of course we can," I say. "We're going to keep making high-quality food, and win customers over one meal at a time."
"Uh—Chef—" she says, tapping me on the arm.
"Leave the worrying to me. I have everything under—"
"No, uh, I mean, the tuna," she says, pointing to the pan. "I think it's on fire."
"Ahhhh, fuck," I say, removing the skillet from the heat. The tuna is ruined. I was so caught up in reading Percy's review that I completely forgot about the dish that I was working on.
"Shit, this was supposed to be for table 7," I say, as a thin line of sweat zigzags down my temple. I can't believe how many meals I've fucked up today.
First, it was Nicole, and now it's Percy. I just can't focus. Even though we're busy, the best thing I could do right now is probably remove myself from this kitchen.
I need to do something about all of this.
I need to get my head on straight.
If I don't, I'll be helping everything Percy said come true, and I can't afford for that to happen.
"Brit, I need you to do me a favor," I say.
"Anything, Chef."
"I need to hand over all kitchen operations to you today."
"To me? Are you sure? It's so busy, and—"
I cut her off. "Look at me. There's no one I trust more."
With that, I unbutton my Chef coat, toss it to the side, and grab my car keys.
There's only one thing that can help me right now.
I need to find Nicole.
Nicole
I remove the mop from the bucket and press it against the tiled floor. Leaning on the handle, I push the fibers of the mop back and forth, and watch as their grey strands leave foamy streaks of soap in
scattered patterns.
Sometimes I like to imagine that I'm a painter wielding a giant mop brush—painting the place in wild streaks.
I'm a firm believer that a restaurant's safety and success hinges on how organized and clean a place is. And judging by the amount of soap I'm using, this floor is going to be clean enough to eat off of.
Not that I'd suggest that, but I’m just saying…
As I push the mop, I perform a mental checklist—disinfect prep surfaces, wipe down the splash walls, clean the grill, pour a drain cleaner in the floor drain, run the hood filters through the dishwasher—check, check, check.
I'm making good progress, and even though it's late, I kind of like how quiet and solitary this place is after hours—when the guests are gone and everyone else is back at home. It's when I do my best thinking.
The quiet, the monotonous movements of cleaning… I can just let my mind wander.
Unfortunately, my mind keeps wandering back to the same thing: Palmer.
It's a tortuous loop.
His charisma. The way he can effortlessly keep a conversation. The way he can make me laugh. The way his eyes pierce me and reel me in. And of course what he can do in bed…
I shake my head. No. Not again.
I can't be thinking about him. It was one night, and it was a mistake.
A big mistake.
But I'd be lying if I said he wasn't constantly on my mind.
I let out a sigh and push the mop back into the bucket, rinsing it of soap and the day's grime.
I decide that the only way I'm going to stop my brain from overthinking is to listen to some music. I grab my cell phone and press my music-streaming app.
Let's see… I think I need to channel my grandmother right now. She always knew how to cheer my up and keep me motivated, and she's truly the reason why I'm in the restaurant business.
I scroll through my music options and stop on Doris Day, my grandmother's favorite singer. I play a song and immediately start dancing around the kitchen.
It transforms me.
"Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future's not ours to see, que sera, sera."
I spin on my toes and reach my arms out, as if I'm giving the world a giant hug. I'm sure I look ridiculous right now, but I don't even care.
I'm loving the music. It lifts me. And it feels as if my grandmother is here dancing with me right now.
"When I grew up and fell in love, I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead, will we have rainbows, day after day, here's what my sweetheart said, que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future's not ours to see …"
Why is it that every song turns to love?
If I didn't love this song so much, I'd change it, but whatever, I'm just gonna continue to dance this out.
I spin and twirl and, yes, I even picture myself doing all of this in the strong, muscular arms of Palmer.
I know, I know… I just can't help it. I don't know what's wrong with me.
It's probably for the best that I'm never going to see him gain.
Sex with him is too good. Is that even a thing? Sex that was too good?
I probably sound insane. Regardless, I'm going to go on record and say it is. I'm living proof.
The chorus of the song comes back on, and in one final move, I run across the kitchen and do a small leap in the air—just like the way Baby jumps into the arms of Johnny Castle in the movie Dirty Dancing… except, it's not like the movie at all, and I don't land in a man's arms—I land in the dirty mop water.
Well, that's not exactly accurate. I bump against it and the brown water splashes into my shoes.
There goes my mood.
I can feel my pulse kick in agitation.
I reach for a towel and try to soak up as much of the water as possible, but now my feet are damp and cold, and I don't want to be here anymore.
I want to go home, soak in a bath, and pet Whiskers.
I want to pour myself a glass of wine, wear seat pants with an elastic band, and maybe even pig out on pizza and binge watch Netflix.
I wipe the sweat from my brow, and then take my ponytail out, letting my hair fall down and cascade around my shoulders.
I start flipping off all the light switches and reach for my keys when I hear something that makes me stop. It sounds like a low rumble… and it sounds like it's coming from right outside of my restaurant.
I take a peek out of the front window and see a motorcycle parked at the curb. A man is unstrapping his helmet.
Who in the hell is parking here at this hour? Doesn't he see the place is closed, and—
But once the helmet comes off, I recognize the man immediately, and my heart beats so fast I feel dizzy.
It's a total body reaction and nothing I can do or say will make my heart mellow out now.
The man is Palmer, and he is walking up the steps to my restaurant.
I unlock the door for him.
I go to open my mouth, but not a single word comes out. And before I can try again, he places both of his hands on my shoulders and pushes me up against the wall. Then, he leans down and his lips crash against mine.
It's the best kiss of my life.
Nicole
This is happening.
It’s not a dream, and it isn’t a hallucination
No, this is really happening.
With my mouth pressed against his, our tongues dance around one another in a frenzy, and my hands go down from his chest to his waist. I pull him into me, eager to have him—to make him have me—but he stops me, yanking on my hair.
“I had to see you,” he breathes out his attempt at an explanation, his voice brimming with desire. No; it’s more than desire or lust. It’s a burning need, one that forces him to relinquish all control.
I’ve never felt something quite like this; it’s a desire so strong, so fierce that now I understand how some women can make the rashest of decisions… I'm just glad it’s Palmer here with me. Somehow I know that with him it will be alright…
“Why?” I ask him, my voice quivering as I lock my eyes on his.
“Because I had to,” he replies, offering me a thin smile. “I had to.”
Our lips touch again, the sweet flavor of his mouth making my skin prickle. I reach with my tongue for his and, finding it, dance in slow gentle circles around it.
His hands go to my lower back, his long, thin fingers brushing against my skin. His touch is gentle and delicate and, behind closed eyes, I can hear how it makes my heart flutter inside my chest.
“I’m glad you came,” I find myself saying, running one hand through his hair, my heart beating so fast that I can barely think straight.
I don’t really know what’s taking hold of me, but I push him back against one of the walls, and press my mouth against his. He doesn’t even hesitate, placing both of his hands on my ass and squeezing it over my dress.
Grabbing him by his collar, I pull him close to me, so close our lips are almost brushing against each other. I truly don’t know what kind of devil got into me, but I no longer know the meaning behind the word control.
“I needed this,” he continues, his lips hovering over mine. “I needed to kiss you, to feel you again.”
With that, he closes the distance between our mouths; our kiss becomes savage, his hands pulling down the shoulder straps of my dress and hungrily looking for my breasts.
He grabs them, but this time gently, his fingers pressing down on my flesh. And then he pushes down the cup of the bra over my right nipple; leaning in, he lays his lips over it, sucking softly. I can feel my nipple hardening even more inside his mouth as he laps his tongue against it, tracing slow and seductive circles.
As he sucks, his hands go to my back and, finding the clasp of my bra, he undoes it, pushing it down my arms.
I shiver, the cool air in the room caressing my breasts. In an instant, his mouth goes from my right nipple to my left one, his lips wrapping themselves around it with care, and at the same time, with a
kind of passionate fury.
I grab his hair, holding his head in place as he kisses my nipples one at a time, his long gentle fingers squeezing at my breasts.
“Wait, wait,” I tell him, placing both my hands on his shoulders and pushing him back.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” He asks me, his blue eyes trying to read the expression on my face.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I reply with a quick smile, and then I turn on my heels and cross the dining room. I lock the door, which I had unlocked to let him in, and then close all blinders, sheltering us from the outside.
As the darkness takes over the restaurant, long shadows caressing both our bodies, I start feeling as if I’m in a dream. A dream where the edges of reality become blurred and sweet, where the real world doesn’t have a say on how things go.
Closing the distance between me and him, I take my hands to his belt. Looking into his eyes, I unbuckle it with slow movements, the metallic jingle of it coming undone sending a shiver up my spine.
I pull his pants hard down his legs, and he takes his shoes off in the process, kicking them off one at a time.
“My turn,” he whispers, and his hands fly to my waist. He turns me around, his hands going up my back, and he pulls down the zipper of my dress. I push the dress down with the tip of my fingers, my bare ass turned to him.
I can feel his eyes devouring the sight of my half-naked body, enjoying the shape of my body and delighting themselves on how only just a small strip of fabric covers me.
Turning back to him, I put my hands on his chest and start unbuttoning his shirt. My fingers work faster, as does my heart, and I feel the tension rising in my body as the tan muscles on his chest come into sight.
I slide one hand down his chest and stomach toward his crotch, and I press it there, feeling him go hard. Turning my hand around, I curl my fingers around his length.
He takes the hint and does exactly what my body demands of him—he presses the palm of his hand between my thighs, his fingers caressing the wetness that has taken over me.
“You have no idea how much I needed this,” he whispers into my ear; with a flick of his fingers, he pushes my thong to the side and feels my naked wetness with his fingers.
Caught On Tape_A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance Page 55
