France is … well, France is fucking lonely, actually.
Coming back after Christmas is hard, even though she loves him, even though she wanted to live here. She just didn’t know it would be *so* damn hard. She makes plans with her friends for them to come and visit and she trawls the papers for a job.
Working will help.
Adam agrees – it will. He likes his colleagues, has even joined the five a side office football team – he plays on Thursday nights and then a few of them grab a beer in the cafe down the road.
‘Bring them here this week,’ she suggests. ‘We have beer. And pizza.’
‘Sure,’ he agrees. ‘But it’s the sixth on Thursday. I guess some of the guys will be heading home for la galette.’
‘Shit, I forgot! We could do that here though? With beer. It’ll be cool … right?’
‘It’ll be cool.’ He kisses her forehead. ‘Every party you’ve thrown has been damn cool. Right?’
He holds up a hand, and she high fives him, grinning. ‘Right.’
The three guys he ends up bringing back adore her. He’s not surprised. Everyone adores her when they get to know her – she thinks her snark is a barrier, but it just endears her to people even more.
Drinks poured, he pulls her aside. All of these men are single – they’re the ones who don’t have girlfriends, wives or families to head home to – Epiphany is a big deal for the French. They’re hot, and charming and they have a plan.
‘You know your New Year’s Resolution?’ he asks. ‘Were you serious about it?’
‘Is this a dare?’ she asks. ‘Because I’m competitive, remember?’
‘Oh, I know,’ he says. ‘Which is why I’ve upped the stakes. You wanted to go down on a stranger. How does tonight sound?’
She’s learnt so much with him. He makes her want to try stuff she’s never tried before, makes her believe in herself. She clinks her beer glass against his. ’You’re on.’
She’s a stickler for tradition, and it works well with this plan. Tradition dictates that the youngest person gets under the table and decides who gets each slice of the cake. As luck would have it, she’s the baby of the room.
Beneath the tablecloth, she flirts. More than flirts, in fact. She takes her time calling out their names, stroking their stiffening cocks through the denim of their jeans, running her hands up their thighs, stoking the anticipation.
By the time she crawls out from under the table to claim her own dessert and see who the victor of the spoils is, every dick in the room is rock hard.
Nobody speaks, and when Xav digs his spoon into the cake, the clink of metal on porcelain is audible to them all.
She smiles; lets him finish his dessert. Then she fetches the paper crown, ceremoniously places it on his head, and tugs him in the direction of the sofa.
The other guys gather round – there’s no way they’re missing this. Xavier opens his fly and frees his cock, and she kneels, takes his hands and puts them on the back of her head. He gets the message.
‘You want it rough, huh?’ he says, and she nods, eagerly. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sure enough, she takes him deep and she’s vocal in her pleasure – she slurps and whimpers while Xavier pulls her hair and arcs upwards, forcing even more of himself into her mouth. When he comes she swallows, licks her lips and turns to face Adam and the other two guys, all of whom are wanking unabashedly.
She lifts her skirt, slides her knickers down. ‘As far as I remember,’ she says, grinning wickedly. ‘The three kings all brought different gifts. Fancy showing me the other two?’