Chapter Text
Even if she hadn’t known who he was beforehand, it would have been impossible not to notice him: Jean Girardi was a mountain of a man, capped with a peak of snowy hair, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. And as though his looks weren’t imposing enough, there was something about his sheer presence that commanded the attention of everyone around him.
It certainly commanded Chloe’s, and not just because she had been assigned to his table.
Jean and his associates had leased the entire venue for their dinner. Throughout the week preceding the event, the restaurant manager had been in a state of perpetual nervous breakdown. The way they acted, one would think their life was on the line if everything wasn’t absolutely perfect. And, well, now that Chloe saw Jean in the flesh, she wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t the case.
It wouldn’t have surprised her if he was the kind of man who’d casually commit arson if the entrees weren’t to his taste.
Still, try as she might, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. It wasn’t just that his looks were striking. Jean carried himself with a poise that belied his size, and wore his expensive suit with the ease of someone whose entire wardrobe was full of bespoke clothing. Though his deep voice carried, he was never loud or boisterous. There was an economy of movement to him that suggested he was perfectly in control, and yet he never appeared stiff. He simply made every gesture count.
The effect was magnetic, and Chloe was mesmerised. Enough so that her trepidation at serving him melted away, to the point where she kept stealing glances whenever she attended his table. Once or twice he caught her looking at him, and she felt her cheeks heating with a blush. She’d quickly avert her eyes and go about her business, and if he reacted at all, she never saw it. She merely hoped that he wouldn’t complain to her manager about the staff ogling him.
The meal drew to an end. From what Chloe could tell, it had been a success. At the very least, Jean and his colleagues had enjoyed the food, and she was certain she had done an excellent job as their waitress — save for the accidental looks, that was. Having cleared Jean’s table of empty dessert dishes, she served him (and his associates, but they very much faded into the background) coffee, and made to leave.
Jean’s hand closed around her wrist, and he pulled her to him. “Not so fast,” he said. It was the first time he’d addressed her directly. His hand was warm and improbably large, palm rough against the skin of her forearm.
Chloe squeaked something. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and finally managed, “I— I’m sorry, sir, was there anything else you needed?”
“Yes,” he said, without elaborating.
Jean’s eyes were locked on hers. They were a curious golden brown, almost glowing in the muted light of the restaurant. She wanted to look away, but found herself trapped like an insect in that amber gaze. His hold on her arm was firm, but not so hard as to hurt.
Then his other hand found the back of her thigh, and moved up underneath her skirt.
“Sir?” Chloe gave him an uncertain, almost apologetic smile and stammered, “I’m— Uh— I need to get back to work, please, sir—”
The slightest of smirks. “I think you’re fine where you are.”
Chloe was no stranger to being groped. As a waitress, it was practically part of the job description. But this wasn’t some drunken idiot inexpertly fondling her ass on a dare. This was one of the wealthiest — and thus most powerful — men in the world, slowly and deliberately sliding his hand along the inside of her thigh. Watching her face intently as his fingers reached the gusset of her panties, moist with sweat and perhaps something else. His smirk widening a fraction as he ran one thick digit along her cleft and her lips parted around a gasp.
For a brief moment, she forgot entirely where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Jean’s presence eclipsed everything else. She was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. He smelled of cologne and cigar smoke, and she could see the play of light in his eyes as he studied her reactions.
Whatever he saw in her expression, it seemed to make his mind up about something. Abruptly, she was pulled into his lap. Chloe was brought back to the here and now, to the very public circumstances of this … whatever it was that was happening. She squirmed nervously, acutely aware of how she could now feel his growing erection between them. And it was doing things to her subconscious, things she absolutely did not want to acknowledge.
“Sir, please—” she tried again. “You— I can’t— Please, you have to let go now, sir—” One flailing hand found the table, the other his chest, and she tried to push herself up and out of his lap.
Jean simply hushed her, wrapping an arm around her and gathering her wrists into one hand. With the other he was pushing her skirt up, slipping his fingers between her squirming thighs and pressing them against her cunt. A startled little moan slipped past her lips as she thrilled to his touch, forbidden pleasure coursing through her like wildfire, shame hard on its heels.
This— This couldn’t be happening. Desperately, Chloe looked around for help. Somehow the restaurant seemed completely empty of staff. Where the hell were her colleagues? She glanced at the other men around the table, and was met with indifference. What the hell was going on?!
One of the men chuckled. “Got a mind for second dessert, huh, sir?”
Jean gave a good-natured grunt in reply, and pushed Chloe’s panties aside. She whimpered, cheeks flaming as his fingers found her slick folds. “Naughty,” he rumbled against the shell of her ear.
She should probably be screaming. She should, at the very least, be telling him to let her go. She absolutely should not be parting her legs for him, yet that was what was happening. Not by a lot, mind, but at the sound of his voice, the whisper of his breath against her ear, Chloe’s thighs relaxed by their own accord. It was as though her body had entirely escaped the control of her conscious thoughts and now only responded to Jean’s touch, opening to him despite her mind’s protestations.
Jean gave a low, appreciative hum, and she could feel the vibrations of it in his massive chest. He was sliding his fingertips along her slit, teasing at the opening, and she whimpered again. When he slipped a finger inside her, she was mortified to hear herself moan, to feel her walls clenching around him.
“Gonna be a tight fit,” he murmured. The way he spoke, it sounded more like a general remark than something aimed at her.
A second finger joined the first, and he started pumping them slowly, deeper and deeper. He scissored his fingers inside her, twisted his hand slightly from side to side, stretching her in new ways with every careful thrust. There was something methodical, almost business-like about the way he touched her, yet it felt good. So, so good. Her eyes fluttered closed, her hips tilting to welcome his hand as he fucked her open.
Because that was what he was doing, she realised belatedly. It came to her when he withdrew his hand, shifting her on his lap so that he could reach the buckle of his belt. He was actually going to—
“Sir!” she gasped, once again squirming. It didn’t feel like he was holding her very tight, but fighting against him was like trying to move a mountain.
“Hmm?”
His beard brushed her neck as he pulled her back against his chest, lifting her up. The sensation sent a new wave of shivers down her spine.
“You— You can’t—”
“That so?” Jean sounded faintly amused. Because obviously, he could, and he would.
Between them, his hand worked at his trousers and freed his cock. She could feel it brush against her thigh as he brought it forward, and then it was resting against her slit, thick and hard and as improbably large as his hands. Glancing down, she caught a glimpse of throbbing veins, a gleam of precome.
There was a breathy, urgent sort of noise, and Chloe was distantly aware that she was the one making it.
Lips brushed her ear: “I think you want it.”
Chloe tried to protest. But even as her mouth shaped the word ‘no’, her hips rocked, rubbing her sex against his length, coating it with her juices. Jean chuckled; something she felt more than heard. He let go of her wrists, sliding one hand underneath her thigh to lift her while he lined himself up with the other … and then he paused.
There was an endless moment of stillness. Panting raggedly, Chloe pitched forwards, bracing herself against the table as her mind fought itself. He had let her go. She could, technically, get up and leave. Cover herself up, make up some excuse to run home, and pretend none of this ever happened.
It should have been an easy call to make: Under no circumstances should she want to get railed by a virtual stranger. In full view of his colleagues. And her colleagues. This was her workplace! But what she should want and what she actually wanted were apparently completely different things, because the plain fact of it was that she had never been this turned on in her life. And right then and there, it felt entirely plausible that if he didn’t finish what he started, she might spontaneously combust. Or throw a fit. One of the two.
Somehow, that felt like a far more embarrassing outcome than simply letting him fuck her. Consequences be damned.
Chloe twisted, looking back at him. She searched his face, not quite sure what she was looking for. Warm golden eyes met hers, and Jean gave her a smile. His features seemed to soften somehow, like they were sharing something private. Whatever unspoken question had made her turn around was settled.
And so she found herself pushing off from the table to once more sit back against his chest. Bracing her hands on his muscular forearms, she eased herself down on him. The crown of his cock parted her folds and slid inside, and she bit back a moan, her head falling back onto his shoulder. The stretch of him felt impossible, like she ought to split in two, but she stubbornly kept working herself down his thick shaft. The pain was nothing to the almost unbelievable sensation of fullness .
Another chuckle thrummed in Jean’s chest. “Good girl,” he said, and then, “Easy now…”
His words made Chloe blush even deeper, if such a thing was possible at this point. Good girl — like she was a child or a pet performing a trick — and yet she wanted more. She wanted more of his praise, more of his cock inside her, more of his hands on her.
She did in fact get more of the latter. When she’d impaled herself as far as she thought it was possible for her to go, Jean held her steady against his chest while he unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse with surprisingly deft fingers. Then he slid those fingers along the cups of her bra, pushing the fabric out of the way to allow her breasts to spill out. She felt him throb inside her as he cupped her, thumb brushing gently against her nipple, and she squeezed him in return.
They sat like that for a moment, Jean humming approvingly as he fondled her, Chloe panting and quivering with desire. She felt overwhelmed, delirious almost, like this wasn’t quite real. Through half-lidded eyes she could see the other men seated around the table; a couple of them were having a conversation and seemed to take no note of them at all, those who did look appeared disinterested, as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on.
Then, Jean nudged her into action. He helped her lift herself a little, no more than an inch or two, and slowly. And then down again. It still hurt a bit, and it still felt amazing. Every gentle roll of her hips came easier than the one before, her juices flowing, walls stretching to accommodate his girth. Jean himself was still except for aiding her movements, helping her into a steady rhythm, letting her fuck herself on his cock — or perhaps he was masturbating inside her? The distinction was lost on her. All she knew was that he filled her in a way she’d never experienced before, that she could feel her breasts sway with every movement, that she was on full display to the entire restaurant and that the shame that should be killing her buzz simply made her burn hotter.
While Chloe did her best to stifle her moans, one of Jean’s associates offered him a cigar. She was aware of him accepting it, heard him exchange a few words with the other man. One hand still at her side, supporting her, while the other held the cigar to his lips as it was lit. He leaned back in his seat, smoking as they fucked, chatting amicably (and incomprehensibly) while she was rendered a quivering mess in his lap.
Her breath was coming in ragged bursts; sweat beaded her neck; thighs strained as she tried not to let gravity pull her down too hard. His cock shoved up against her cervix with every thrust already, she didn’t think she could possibly take any more of it inside her. Yet when her whimpers rose in pitch and her body started tensing up, Jean’s hand slid down to her hip, asserting a gentle pressure that suggested she sit on him. And so she did, keening quietly, while he held his cigar between his teeth and slipped his other hand around her waist and down her belly. Two thick fingers rested along her clit, and then his hands were moving, guiding her into rolling her hips while he stroked her, gently, insistently.
Chloe’s mind went blank, her body tensing until she thought it might snap, like she would burst and splinter into fragments right there in Jean’s lap. Her breath stuttered as she hovered at the brink, and then she heard him mumble around his cigar: “That’s it, come on girl…”
And she came.
He held her steady against him as she shook with the force of her orgasm, a strangled groan escaping her throat, her hands fisting the sleeves of his suit jacket. Her cunt quaked around him, and Jean made a sound that was almost a moan, hands now on her waist and once more urging her to move. Chloe whimpered in vague protest — all of this was already too much — but made no attempt at stopping him when he picked up the pace. She was lost in a daze of pleasure, sex-scented and wreathed in cigar smoke, her body loose and accommodating as Jean had her ride him to his own climax. He grunted, stiffening, and shoved her down hard on his cock, and when she felt him throb she squeezed, milking him as he spilled inside her.
“Good girl,” she heard him say, somewhere far away right next to her ear. And she was surprised, somehow, to find herself smiling.
“Miss Byrd?”
Chloe almost fumbled the last step down onto the pavement outside her flat, so deep in thought had she been when the voice broke her reverie. She came to an abrupt halt and looked up to see a man in a dark suit giving her a bland look. Unconsciously she lifted the folder she was carrying (full of copies of her resume, as it happened) and clutched it to her chest. Being approached by strange men on the street generally wasn’t a positive experience. But — he knew her name..?
Hesitantly, she said, “Um. Yes?”
“We’re here to take you to your appointment with Mr Girardi.”
“A-appointment?” Chloe’s mouth fell open. She quickly snapped it shut again, squeezing her folder. She couldn’t possibly have understood him correctly. “Mr Girardi?”
Not quite a week had passed since That Night.
That was how she thought of it. That Night when she’d … met Jean Girardi. Which had turned out to be the last shift she’d ever work at that restaurant, as she was summarily dismissed for ‘improper conduct toward customers’ the next day. And which night had been playing out in her fantasies ever since, making it unreasonably difficult to focus on finding herself a new job.
She had decidedly mixed feelings about Mr Girardi. And she most certainly did not have an appointment with him. Not so far as she knew, anyhow.
The man appeared to take no note of her discomfiture, but simply nodded and said, “He wishes to see you at your earliest convenience.” He gestured at the enormous, gleaming black car waiting on the street. Another man — a chauffeur judging by his uniform — had been leaning against the hood, smoking, but straightened and discarded his cigarette when he noticed her looking. Apparently, her ‘earliest convenience’ was assumed to be right now. “If you please, miss?”
Well … fuck.