by Vivien Vale
He’s taking me to the next level, the one where I’ll need to beg him.
I’m trying to avoid giving him that much power over me, but what can I do?
"Tell me you want it," he says, his voice whimsical. Filled with a devious laughter that I can't handle. Should I tell him yes? Scream out for him to fuck me as hard as he can?
"I want it, Palmer. I want you…I want you to fuck me. Hard."
There, I said it.
And now I want him to use every part of my body as if he owns it.
Smirking at me, Palmer turns me around and forces me to lay down on the couch. Moving between my legs, he pushes his cock into my pussy with one stroke.
We are both so close to coming that our bodies slam against each other, our lips crushing hard, tongues dancing as we fuck harder than ever before.
I scream out.
My nails rake down Palmer's back as I come with such force that my mind feels as if its melting inside my skull.
"OH GOD!" I scream at the top of my lungs, the sound of voice filling his whole apartment.
It becomes too much for him.
One more stroke and he explodes inside me. My pussy tightens up around his cock as we both come hard, electric ecstasy wrapping itself around us both.
We stay like that for a long time, his body on top of mine as we try to catch our breaths. By the time he rolls to the side, squeezing himself by my side on the couch, my mind slowly starts to awaken again.
Still silence and the long shadows of his living room tumble over our naked bodies, I let out a deep sigh and run one hand through his hair.
“You okay?” He asks me, his voice cutting through the silence like a pebble thrown into a pond. And, just like that, the softness of his voices send slight waves all over my body.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, not knowing what else to say.
“Just okay?” He asks me, and I can almost feel the smile on his lips.
“No, not just okay.”
“Then what?”
I hesitate for a moment, thinking of the rights words. My fingers keep on running through his hair, caressing him, and then I just smile.
“I feel…happy.”
Palmer
"Look at this place," Nicole says. "It's amazing."
I can't help but smile, as she walks around my apartment wide-eyed. The innocence with which she looks at the world is refreshing. She's soaking it all in, taking nothing for granted.
"This," I say, pointing around the apartment, "is just a collection of things. Don't get too excited. We can't take these things where we're going."
She frowns. "Well, that's kind of a dark thing to think about."
"It's the truth," I shrug. "But… they sure are fun to collect."
"Since when did you become so humble? This isn't the cold, calculated, driven chef I've heard so much about," she laughs.
"You can't always believe what you read."
As soon as I say that, I can't help but think about Percy Whitman and his reviews of my restaurant. That's a prime example of something that shouldn't be believed.
"What's this?" she says, pointing to a painting on the wall. "It looks so… chaotic."
"That's a Jackson Pollock painting."
"A real Pollock?" she says, her eyes widening again. "You own a real Pollock painting? I've heard of him, but have never actually seen one of his paintings in real life."
"You see all of those lines? He created this piece by dripping paint on a canvas that was placed on the floor. Pretty incredible when you think about it… I don't think anyone else was using that technique at the time."
"Couldn't anyone do this thought? I mean, it just looks so… messy," Nicole says, stepping closer to the painting. "I could take a paintbrush and drip a bunch of paint onto the floor."
"It's in the eye of the beholder, I guess, but I think there's something remarkable about Pollock… the way he rebelled, you know? The way he used color. And he wasn't concerned with painting objects that he could see in everyday life, like a traditional landscape of the sea, or of a fruit basket, or a vase of flowers.
“It feels as if he wanted to show action… he wanted to show what was going on in his own emotional interior with all of these lines."
Nicole considers this. "I can appreciate that. I think you have a point," she says, and then laughs. "Who knew Chef Palmer was so… cultured."
"What's that supposed to mean? Did you think I was some soulless brute?" I laugh, giving her a hard time, but she blushes, and I change the subject.
"You hungry?" I ask.
She doesn't answer. Instead, she's walking into the living room, transfixed by the things she sees. And as I follow her around the penthouse, I realize that I'm so surprised by how genuine I am being with her.
Normally, when I have a woman over, it's a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am sort of affair. We fuck. We maybe eat.
And I watch her as she walks out that front door.
But this is different. Nicole is different. She isn't like any of those other women.
"Unreal—you collect pottery too?" she asks, pointing to a vase.
I smile. "That's a Brouwer vase."
"Never heard of it, but I love the colors—the gold and reds and yellows… all kind of swirling together. The more I look at it, the more I think I can sink right into it."
"This piece comes from Long Island, and I like it because of the way it's crafted, using an open firing technique."
She shakes her head. "You're gonna have to speak my language. I have no idea what that even means."
I lean in close, and delicately grab her hand in mine. "Here," I say. "Touch this." I drag the tips of her fingers across the vase, and she follows my lead, feeling the texture.
"The glaze on this has been whipped by flames," I say. "And that creates some really spectacular coloring."
"Incredible," she says, at almost a whisper. "You never cease to amaze me. You have incredible taste."
"They're extremely rare… these vases I mean."
She pulls her hand back. "Then I probably shouldn't be touching it like that."
I laugh. "It's fine. I trust you."
As soon as those words tumble from my mouth, I realize I'm no longer talking about the vase. I'm talking about me. I'm talking about us.
Nicole is the first woman I've ever opened up to… trusted enough to open up to, and if I'm being honest, I should probably tell her my whole story.
"What's wrong?" she says, scrunching her eyebrows.
"Nothing," I say, trying to look away. Is now really the right moment to rip open my chest and hand her my naked, beating, vulnerable heart on a platter?
"I may not have known you that long, but you aren't a very good liar. You're thinking about something… tell me."
She's right. I take a deep breath.
"There's something symbolic about fire that drives me. It transforms things—food, places—but it also symbolizes action and immediacy. I'm so driven to make The Pearl on Park a success because I want to leave my mark on this city.
“I want to show everyone how good high-end cuisine can be… and I don't think I have much time."
She turns and looks at me, holding my gaze in silence.
Then, she finally says, "What do you mean… not much time?"
"It's probably nothing… but a few weeks ago my doctor saw a white mass on a routine scan… in my brain. He told me to come back, so that we could figure out what it was."
"And?" she says, a look of concern washing over her.
"And I didn't go back," I shrug. "I feel fine."
"Are you crazy? Doesn't that seem stupid, to not follow up?"
"Maybe," I say, "but we're all mortal. No one is gonna be here forever, so instead of thinking about that, I'm choosing to live in the present, and focus all of my energy on The Pearl."
There. I said it. I've just served handed this woman the keys to my innermost secrets and desires.
Now let's see if I've scared her off.<
br />
Nicole
I look around Palmer's kitchen, taking stock of the ingredients at hand.
Let's see… he has bacon. That will work; who doesn't love bacon? It goes with everything.
I decide to surprise Palmer by making avocado BLTs for breakfast. The last trip I took to California caused me to fall in love with avocados. Now, I add them to anything I can.
The bacon has been smoked with apple wood and glazed with maple syrup. As soon as I open the package, it smells divine.
I heat a skillet, and once hot, I place each strip on the hot stove. The fat immediately sizzles, and the aroma fills the kitchen. While the bacon is getting crisp, I grab a loaf of country bread and slice thick pieces off. I decide to toast them, and then slice slabs of purple heirloom tomatoes.
Only the best ingredients on hand, which doesn't surprise me. Palmer's a fellow chef, after all.
Once everything is ready, I layer the bacon, tomato, and lettuce on the crusty bread, and top it with buttery wedges of avocado. My mouth is watering just looking at these stacks.
"Something smells good," Palmer says, causing me to jump.
He laughs. "Did I scare you?"
"I was so focused on getting these BLTs just right, I didn't even hear you behind me," I say with a smile. "It's a lot of pressure cooking for one of the world's most famous chefs, you know."
"I see you started early," he says. "Is the sun even out?" I watch as he rubs his eyes.
"Sorry it's so early, but I have to leave soon, and before I leave, I wanted to cook and share breakfast with you."
He walks over and presses his lips to my forehead. "That's thoughtful. I love it."
"I wouldn't say that just yet. You haven't even tried it," I smile. "You might not say that after you've tasted it."
He laughs. "I'm sure it's just fine."
I watch as he brings the sandwich to his mouth and takes a big bite. He chews thoughtfully. "You know what I think?" he says.
I shake my head.
"I think this is a keeper."
As soon as he says it, I smile. There's something about Palmer enjoying my cooking that always makes my mood soar and puts a permanent smile on my lips.
I take a bite. It's a thick sandwich, so I struggle wrapping my mouth around it.
But he's right. It's good. Real good. And it hits the spot.
"Wait … you have something," Palmer says, stepping toward me. "Right… here."
He reaches up and places a finger on the corner of my mouth, wiping off a stray piece of avocado. I'm usually embarrassed when someone points out a piece of food on my face, but right now, the only thing I can think about is his touch, and the way it makes me feel electrified.
I smile, and I think about the way he opened up to me. He's so much more than the hotheaded, womanizing, soulless, chef that the tabloids make him out to be.
He has depth. He's cultured, and likes art, and is so full of information that it makes my head spin. He's like a walking Wikipedia, and I never find myself getting bored in his presence. The truth is, I could listen to him talk forever.
And what was up with what he told me? Is he sick? What did he mean by a "white mass" was found?
As soon as he said it, he wanted to change the subject. It was clear he was trying to get something off his chest, but he didn't want to go any deeper.
Maybe it's nothing. Besides, it's really none of my business.
But I can't help but wish he'd go back to his doctor for a second opinion.
"Someone's a messy eater," Palmer laughs, bringing my thoughts back to the present.
"Look at this thing," I say, pinching the sandwich between both of my hands. "It's thicker than a mattress."
We both get a good laugh at that, and as we're joking around, something catches my eyes. Behind Palmer, on the counter, is a magazine. It's opened to an article written by Percy Whitman.
I can see that he reviewed The Pearl on Park, and it's not good. In fact, the review is downright scathing.
I read one of the headlines: "The Pearl on Park—instead of being a culinary spark for the city—is an unpleasant and placid reminder of high-end cuisine gone wrong."
It feels as if someone has dropped a bowling ball down my throat and its lodged itself into the pit of my stomach.
My heart tightens.
Percy is my friend. Did you write this review because of me?
Am I to blame for this?
Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard on Palmer, and maybe I never should've vented any of my thoughts to Percy. I just feel like this is somehow my fault.
"Everything OK?" Palmer asks.
I smile. There's no way I want Palmer to know what I'm thinking.
"Oh yeah, it's fine," I say, and then lie, pushing these thoughts out of my mind. "I was just thinking how I really should be going. I have a long drive ahead of me."
"Not yet—finish breakfast at least," he says with a smile.
It's a smile that's disarming. It's a smile that makes me yes when I should say no.
He senses my hesitation and he continues to prod me.
"You like this bacon, right?"
"Who doesn't?" I say.
"Want a strip?"
"Very funny," I smile, placing my hand on his. "I see what you did there."
God there's nothing I wouldn't give to play a game of striptease in this kitchen, with this man, but my family will kill me if I don't show up today.
"I'd love to," I say, "But I have to leave. Rain check?"
"If you have to leave, at least me drive you."
"No, that's not necessary."
"I insist," he says.
"Seriously, it's far, and a pain in the ass—"
"Fuck no—forget all of that," he smiles, dismissing every excuse I'm throwing his way. "I'm driving you."
Palmer
I must be going insane. First, my restaurant is under attack by some asshole critic, and now, here I am, volunteering to drive some girl to her parent's place.
Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with me?
I should be going to the Pearl. I should be rallying my staff, and countering Percy's review with a PR blitz of my own. But am I doing any of that? No.
What's going on? Am I falling for Nicole?
No… it can't be. I don't just fall for women. And I have a plan for my life, and this scenario isn't a part of that plan. Not even close.
Falling for Nicole is impossible.
But as we're driving, and the music is blaring, and my fingers are tapping the steering wheel, and Nicole's hair is dancing in the wind that's blowing across my open convertible, she looks so happy… and I feel so happy…
And I can't help but wonder.
Isn’t it true that sometimes life is unpredictable, and no matter how well you plan it out, sometimes plans change?
I shake my head. I can't get ahead of myself.
I'm the kind of guy that writes everything down and plans it out. And I'm even talking writing lists for the lists I already wrote.
Do you see what I mean? Everything is organized. This isn't on any of those lists.
So right now I just need to recognize that I'm simply spending time with Nicole. We're having fun. It's nothing more than that.
"There it is," Nicole says, pointing to a small house on the side of the road.
I haven't been outside of the city in ages—has it been years?—so to be driving through the suburbs feels weird.
"This is my childhood home," she says. "Nothing fancy, and as much as I couldn't wait to leave it, I have to admit… I still miss it sometimes."
"It's nice," I say, and even though it looks like every other suburban home I've ever seen—a flower garden, a tree in the front yard, a driveway, and a white fence—I mean it. It is nice.
It's kind of refreshing to not be walking into another crowded high rise. This is somehow more… personal.
As soon as I get out of the car and open Nicole's door, a large dog runs out of the house barkin
g. Its shaggy red coat is getting lifted in the wind.
"It's OK," she says. "He doesn't bite."
The dog recognizes her and immediately wags its tail. She pats his head, scratches behind his ears, and gives him a playful pat on the back. He licks her hand in excitement.
"That's a good boy, Rusty—a good boy," she says, leaning down and showering him in playful kisses.
"You're quite the animal lover," I say.
I've never owned an animal. It's not that I don't like them, it's just that I've admired them from a distance.
"I love them," she smiles, her eyes still fixed on the dog. "If I didn't go to culinary school, I think I probably would've become a vet."
"I can see that," I smile.
As she finishes petting Rusty, we walk up to her parent's house and before we reach the door, Rusty is all over me. First, he's jumping on me with his two front paws, and I'm trying to pet him, hoping that'll calm him down and he'll get bored with me, but it doesn't seem to work.
"Get down, Rusty," Nicole urges, but the dog only listens for a few minutes before going right back at it. Then, when no one's looking, I feel him shoving his nose in the crotch of my pants, sniffing for God knows what. I shoo him away, and luckily he listens this time, taking the hint.
"Baby, is that you?" a woman says, approaching the door.
Nicole embraces her in a hug. "It's good to see you mom."
Immediately, her mother looks over at me. "Oh, and who do we have here?" she smiles.
"This is Palmer," she says, introducing us. "He's my… um, he's my friend."
Her mother eyes me suspiciously, wondering if I'm a friend as her daughter says, or if I'm something more.
"It's a pleasure," I say, extending my hand.
"Palmer is a chef, mom," Nicole says. "He owns The Pearl on Park."
"Well, isn't that nice," her mom says. "Come in, come in."
We walk in and immediately to our right is the living room. A game of football is playing on the TV, and people are shouting.
"C'mon—make that catch!" someone yells, and another says, "Did you see that? That was almost a QB sack!"
"This," Nicole says, pointing to one side of the room, "is my dad, and this over here is my brother."
