It was freezing in Paris. Wearing stockings and ridiculous high heels had turned out to be a fortuitous decision on the train when it had meant attracting a gorgeous stranger and giving easy access to a particularly eager prick, but now Jenna's thighs were numb with cold. She had a headache that suggested the early stages of a cold, and that glorious fuck in the Eurostar toilet was just a distant memory as she practically fell through the doors of a non descript hotel in a side street near Gard du Nord. Cheapskate bloody magazine, and its obsessive-compulsive editor. She'd barely started her assignment and she was cursing him to hell. And where was that photographer? He should have called her by now.
She wheeled her suitcase across the lobby, eager for a hot shower to find the desk clerk in the midst of a very French standoff. There was a great deal of gesticulating and shoulder shrugging going on. The man in front of her was clearly angry about something, she knew enough French swear words to know that, but the clerk wasn't giving an inch.
"Va te faire foutre, encoule!" the big man in front spat, slamming his fist down on the counter, which whatever it meant was obviously extremely rude because the clerk looked like he was on the verge of forgetting the customer is always right and punching him.
Jenna took a step backwards as the man angrily spun round and nearly slammed straight into her. He steadied himself and looked down his nose at her. He was at least six inches taller than her, even when she drew herself up to her full height in her three-inch heels. She still tried to stare him out though. She didn't let any man intimidate her, even if they were this tall and broad and dressed in a duffle jacket and big biker boots and had rough five o'clock shadow on his square jaw and a buzz cut and were French.
He had unnervingly knowing eyes, rimmed with very dark long eyelashes that studied her face and then slowly skimmed down her body. Even though she was wearing a thick down jacket it made her shiver.
"You don't happen to be called Jenna Adams by any chance?" he asked in a strong Northern English accent.
She was so surprised she was actually speechless for a moment.
"Cat's got your tongue?" he asked rudely.
"I'm Jenna Adams," she said, grabbing hold of her case, and pulling her jacket tighter around herself. "And who might you be?"
"I might be Sean Lynch."
Shit, the photographer.
"Come on," he said, stalking off. "We're on the seventh floor. That frog bastard has put us in one room, and the cunt claims there aren't any others. And by the way," he added, "the fucking lift isn't working."
Oh great, she thought as she started to haul her case up seven flights of stairs, I'm traveling across Europe with Prince Charming.
Thankfully, he left while she was in the shower. She heard the hotel room door slam and she was left alone to spend a blissful half hour under the hot water, running her fingers through her recently pleasured lips, imagining what it would be like to share a hotel room with the fragrant smelling and well endowed business man on the train rather than the barely civilized Sean Lynch.
He must have returned at some point in the night, because she woke in the morning to see his big bulk in the neighboring bed, his boots lying abandoned in the middle of the room, the air smelling of stale booze and cigarette smoke.
Their first assignment was quite an exciting one; well Jenna thought so at least, but Sean didn't seem quite so impressed.
"Who's this arsehole anyway?" he asked as the taxi took them to an address in the Marais.
"He's a chef," she said.
"Oh that's original," he snorted. "We're in France so we interview a fucking chef."
"The magazine wants me to interview a man in each capital city, someone who embodies the spirit of the place."
"I can see why they sent you," he said, looking her up and down.
"What do you mean by that?"
He smirked and gestured along her body with his hand as if that were enough explanation.
"You are an asshole," she said enunciating each word carefully.
He just laughed.
The chef was a surprise. He was young for a start, very young. And he seemed to go against all the usual stereotypes. He was extremely polite, very well educated and a total gentleman. He welcomed them both into the empty restaurant, clearly well prepared for their visit, sat with them at a table, and had them served with the most delicious meal Jenna had ever eaten. Even Sean seemed a little charmed. He spoke his best French, and as far as Jenna could tell managed not to swear at all. By the end of it all, Jenna was feeling quite relaxed and even a little tipsy what with the two glasses of wine she had inadvertently drunk. The interview gradually turned into a conversation, she was even began to tell him a little about her life in the States while Sean wandered around the restaurant taking photographs. He was very sweet, this chef, and very cute in his white jacket and checked trousers, and had the nicest smile and the loveliest blonde hair, and the sexiest French accent. And oh my God, his hand was on her knee!
She glanced over at Sean, but he was preoccupied with fiddling with his camera. The chef's hand was running further up her leg now and his smile was becoming wider.
"Maybe you'd like to see the kitchen," he whispered in the sexiest voice she had ever heard.
She thought she just might, but what the hell was she going to do with Sean? She didn't think he would fancy a threesome. He didn't look the type. Then he abruptly stopped fiddling with the camera and looked over at her.
"I'm done here," he said. "Got an appointment somewhere else."
She could have kissed him.
The minute he was out of the door, the chef was on his feet and taking Jenna by the hand was leading her into the deserted kitchen.
"We are closed on Mondays," he said. "It's my personal prep time," and Jenna's pussy clenched as she realized exactly who was about to be prepped.
He ran his hand slowly along the spotlessly clean stainless steel work surface. "I like to spread everything out on here."
Oh boy. And just in case she was a little slow he pulled her towards him and kissed her, deliciously slowly, threading his hand through her hair and pulling her head against his mouth. He sighed with pleasure then releasing her, took hold of the bottom of her sweater and tugging it over her breasts clamped his mouth over one of her nipples through the lace of her bra. The tugging pressure went straight to her core, and she reached down to feel his cock in his chef's pants. It appeared to be lying free and untethered. He obviously liked to go commando.
He pulled her sweater off and taking her breasts in his hands said, "Let's get you properly prepped."
The bra came off, followed by her pants and her panties and shoes, and she was standing in his kitchen completely naked.
"Qui a bon gout," he sighed, "Delicious!" and then holding her by the hips he lifted her up onto the table and helped her to lie down. The steel surface was cold but her skin was steaming hot.
He spread her legs and she nearly came just from the anticipation as his fingers moved up her thighs towards her core.
"Shaved and ready," he murmured, his mouth hovering just above her. " Just how I like it."
Then his fingers gently pulled her lips apart and his tongue licked her tentatively once and then again more firmly.
"Oh God yes!" she cried, and he took that as an invitation to lower his whole mouth onto her and suck.
Her hips bucked wildly and he held her thighs apart, as he sucked her into his wet mouth and then lashed her with his tongue, over and over again until she was squirming and shaking against him and gripping handfuls of his hair. As he felt her orgasm approaching he thrust two fingers inside her and she was helpless against the combined assault of fingers and tongue and she threw her head back and came and came and came. But before she had even recovered he had flipped her over and he was lapping at her from behind, his fingers deep inside her pussy, his tongue playing with her asshole until she was seeing stars again. And he wouldn't even let up this time. He kept going. His fingers kept caressing her, slipping in her juices, his mouth kept sucking at her until she thought she might pass out, and she lay slumped on the cold stainless steel, not a sensible thought in her head.
He turned her over onto her back again and she lay drowsily looking up at him, her pussy still thrumming with pleasure, still on the edge of yet another orgasm, as he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth. What the hell was he doing to her?
He reached down to his pants and opened the fly, releasing his ridiculously erect cock, then rubbing it across her slick wetness, sank it in and then hammered it home. It only took him a few swift pumps before he had pulled out and fired a sticky load across Jenna's belly. But watching him come like that had her on the verge of yet another orgasm and seeing how her whole body had begun to shake he eased two fingers into her recently stretched pussy, a thumb pressing on her clit, and he watched her squirm and scream out on his prep table with a look of utter delight on his face.
Sean came back to the hotel room when Jenna was dozing in bed, her laptop on her knee. He had the look of a man who had been up to no good. His lips were slightly swollen, and he had what looked distinctly like a love bite on his neck.
He took one look at Jenna's exhausted face and said, "You fucked him didn't you?"
She didn't even have the energy to answer him.
"You dirty bitch," he smirked. "Maybe next time, you'll let me watch."