Mrs Jackson and Her Kinky Chef - Blurb & 1
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Come on in and enjoy her steamy encounters, edited and shared here first.
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Mrs Jackson and Her Kinky Chef - Blurb
A beautiful billionaire widow, and a rising star young chef get hot and creamy in his kitchen
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Mrs J
As a billionaire business woman I work hard, and deserve to play hard. I know you have to grab life by the balls.
Younger men have more energy, curiosity and optimism and I’m happy to teach them a thing or two about how to please a woman.
Simon’s got both old school English manners and youthful enthusiasm. He’s also hot!
He knows what he’s doing in a kitchen, so I had to see him at work, and find out if he preferred to play with his food or me.
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Mrs Jackson, a fifty something, beautiful businesswoman. A cougar MILF, hot, rich and ready to play with guys half her age.
She lives the billionaire cougar lifestyle and enjoys playdates, you get the idea!
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Book Eleven - Mrs Jackson and Her Hot Studs - Stand-alone short story series
Older woman, younger man, OWYM, contemporary, no nonsense MF sizzling scenes.
Daizy Dennis Books - Delicious Desires
Mrs Jackson and Her Kinky Chef - 1 - First Impressions
Simon Atherton-Smith brought together a gorgeous combination of old school English manners and youthful enthusiasm.
When I first met him, I imagined him as a long-lost brother of Prince William and a young Brad Pitt. Tall, chiselled jaw, aquiline nose, beautiful steel-blue eyes and that voice.
A high paying public school in the English countryside had taken years to perfect that accent.
Although he could have been a lawyer like his high achieving parents, he entered catering. I doubt his decision went down well, but he was on the way to achieving a dream and who was I to stand in his way?
I first met him on his home turf, so to speak. His kitchen.
Despite him only being twenty-two years old, he had earned responsibility for the kitchens at my golf club. Quite an achievement, as their standards were high.
A place where the membership list is by invitation only. If they relegate you to the mythical waiting list, you will die of old age before being admitted. It’s an exclusive gig, and he was making the most of the opportunity.
That first meeting, after I’d played a round, was over a bowl of the best gazpacho I’d tasted. He rarely came out of the kitchen to chat with the regulars, but it was new to the menu and he wanted feedback.
I watched as he dropped to his haunches at the side of the table nearest the door. His height, easily over six feet, wasn’t an issue for him, no hunched shoulders or bowed head.
He obviously knew the chosen diners. As they complimented his food, his casual posture, chatter, and smiles epitomised a genuine demonstration of pure joy.
I envied the woman as Simon placed his hand on the woman’s arm. The woman blushed. Her husband didn’t notice, but I did. Interesting reaction. His interaction with the woman had intrigued me. She was happily married, my age, but it looked like she and Simon had a story and I was curious to know more.
I continued to watch from behind my wineglass, as she edged her arm away, laid her hands on her lap, and looked away. Simon stood, looked hurt, said his goodbyes and walked to the next table.
Just one more before he arrived at mine.
I tried to continue my meal, but felt a familiar heat rise through my body as he sauntered closer. I sipped my cool white wine, watched him as he chatted more formally with the next table. Leaning in, asking questions, listening to the answers.
Or so it looked to the casual observer. I caught him looking back at the woman twice. She ignored him, but reached out to her husband, took his hand. Made overly affectionate gestures across the table. Yes, they had history, but by the look of it, whatever had happened was over, or that’s how she wanted it, at least.
I shuffled in my seat, fanned away a flush to my neck and cheeks and looked up, a smile ready on my lips as he turned to walk to my table. Smiling as he approached, the maitre’d waved him back to the kitchen.
He nodded to me, an attractive half-smile on those lush lips. Then a shrug of an unofficial apology and he walked away, through the double doors to sort out whatever crisis required his immediate attention.
Fuck!
I had plans.
I took my time over a blissfully light dessert to plot out my next steps.
Simon had sparked something, and you know me, I’m not one to miss an opportunity.
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