Summary: After a hard day at London’s top television studio, you return to your hotel to be greeted by a very, very sexy concierge – The Night Manager. You request a turndown service. Spoiler: It’s not respectful.
Pairing: Jonathan Pine x Female Reader
Words: 2,000
Contains: Cunnalingus, hand kink, foot job.
***
“Room 305, please.”
You tapped the desk rapidly and rubbed your neck. You cast a look back out to the cool London streets, the sun already set. In the sweet spot between summer and autumn, you found yourself on set all day at the main television studio in the city. The moment to kick off your heels, take off your make-up and lie down couldn’t come a moment too soon.
Now if only this concierge would turn around and give me my damn key.
The suited hotelier turned to face you, gave a megawatt smiled and a honeyed, “Certainly ma’am.”
The tone of his voice sent shivers down your bare arms. You looked up.
Tall. Blond. Blue eyes. Oxford accent. You are a cool drink of water, sir.
Your lips parted, glancing him up and down as you took the key from his hand. “Thank you.”
He cast his eyes down to the piece of heavy card stock in front of him. The guest list.
“My pleasure, Mrs. Ainsworth.” He nodded his head politely, his eyes fluttering closed for a millisecond. “Have a lovely evening.”
You turned to leave and walked two steps, before stopping. You looked over your shoulder.
“You… don’t happen to offer a turn-down service, do you?”
“Yes of course, ma’am.”
You turned to face him. London men were notoriously striking, but this one was a rare breed.
“And what would that entail, exactly?” You practically purred the words at him.
“The turn-down service involves peeling back the Egyptian cotton linens at one corner.” He smiled warmly, before dropping the tone of his voice to a thick, rich timbre. “And placing a mint on the pillow.” His eyes narrowed. Ever. So. Slightly.
She is striking. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Like my Sophie.
“Book that in for me. At eleven.”
“In fifteen minutes. Yes, Mrs. Ainsworth.” He nodded again. This time his tongue poked out and wet his bottom lip.
“It’s… Ms.”
You caught his grin. It lasted a millisecond before the professional mask returned. He held his hand over his heart, fingers spread. “I am so terribly sorry, ma’am. Please forgive me.”
“You are forgiven.” You eyed him up and down, no longer caring for subtleties.
Saville Row suit. Tailored within an inch of his life. And within an inch of something else…
“And book a wake-up call for me. 7am.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I require a bespoke service.”
He raised an eyebrow. Oh of course you do, you naughty little mix. He cleared his throat. “Yes ma’am. Kindly relay your request to me. I endeavour to… deliver.”
“What do you usually say, in the morning?”
He glanced down at the desk and place his hands behind his back. “It sounds something like…” He looked up. His cheeks flushed ever so subtly. “Good morning, Ms. Ainsworth. This is your 7am wake-up call. May I wish you a very pleasant day.” The last part was manufactured on the spot, created solely for you.
“It’s good. I like it. But… I need more.” You voice dripped with intent.
“Yes of course, ma’am. What did you have in mind?”
“Oh I don’t know…” You gestured in the air dramatically, your voice overflowing with theatrics. “Good morning, Ms. Ainsworth. You are looking radiant and beautiful. Now you are awake, I would like to formally thank you for getting out of bed to grace us mere mortals with the presence of such a magnificent goddess. Thank you, Ms. Ainsworth, from the depths of my heart and my soul.”
You dropped your hands down to your hips. “You know, something like that.”
He grinned, before cheeks flushed furiously. He realised your implication. “And you… you are requesting me to say this, now?” He paused. “Ma’am.”
You grinned. You could make him. But it was too cruel. “No. But I do want that turndown service. Promptly. Delivered by you personally.”
He glanced at his watch. “Expect a knock on Room 305 in 12 minutes sharp.”
You sashayed away and called the elevator. When the doors closed, you leaned against its cool walls, looking into its mirror.
“Fucking hell.”
You had no sooner kicked off your shoes and slipped into your silk nightdress when you heard a knock at the door.
Three knocks. Sharp. Firm. Respectful.
“Ms. Ainsworth.” You opened the door. He stood in front of you, hands clasped behind his back. “Your turndown service, ma’am.”
Your jaw gaped. Your eyes took him in. You were certain he had, inexplicably, become more attractive in the twelve minutes since you last saw him. You stood back and allowed him to enter, gifting yourself the view of his rear as he strode in.
Good fucking God.
Barefoot now, you walked to the foot of the bed and watched as he peeled back the sheets, folding it, forming a perfect right angle. His right hand smoothed it down. Slowly. Carefully.
God. His hands. Look at them.
He delved into his lapel and pulled out a single chocolate, wrapped in red paper. He placed it gently on the plush, crisp white pillow.
He turned to you, clasping his hands in front of him now. He gave a respectful nod.
“I thought you said it was a mint on the pillow.”
He swallowed down on the recent taste of London’s finest imperial mints. “Yes, ma’am. I took the liberty of sourcing a Belgian chocolate for you this evening. I trust it is to your taste and… satisfaction.” His voice lingered on the last word.
“Let’s see, shall we.” You held out your hand.
He licked his top lip, looked at his feet and attempted to prevent his smile from forming. He turned to the pillow, picked up the chocolate and placed it in your hand. You looked at it, and decided to toy with him.
“Unwrap it, would you?”
He followed your instructions and placed the bare chocolate in your palm. You placed it in your mouth and savoured it. It was exquisite.
“Thank you, Mr…”
“Pine. Jonathan Pine.”
“Mister Pine.”
He paused before he spoke. There was a sadness in his tone. “Will that be all, ma’am?”
You sighed. “You know, I’ve had a very long day, and I need something to help me sleep. What do you recommend?”
Orgasm would be a great suggestion, you thought.
“May I suggest a lovely cup of chamomile tea, Ms. Ainsworth?”
God you’re boring. But at least you make tea sound sexy.
“Yes. Yes, Mr. Pine. Thank you.”
He picked up the phone beside your bed, presumably to call the kitchen. You rushed forward and pressed down the receiver.
“I would like you to make it.”
It was a ridiculous request. You both knew it. The tea was freely available in the room. Boiling a kettle wasn’t tough. You could make tea yourself. And frankly, you had always scoffed at the very notion of a turndown service. But you both knew this wasn’t about asking for assistance.
You sat on the bed as he filled the kettle. Resting your back against the pillows, you observed as he positioned a china mug on the tea stand just perfectly, opened the royal blue tin and pinched the chamomile flowers within his long, slender fingers before placing them into the cup. You watched as he poured the boiled water expertly. He turned with a steaming hot cup of tea in his hand.
“On the nightstand, please.”
He nodded, obliged, then returned to the foot of the bed.
“Is there… anything else you would suggest to help me sleep?” Your voice was a whisper now. You leaned forward. “If not, you are, of course, free to go.”
You were keenly aware of the power dynamic at play between you, and respectfully wanted to ensure he was aware of his choice to leave at any time.
“I believe a foot massage would be very relaxing, ma’am.”
Oh, you beauty…
“The spa is closed, isn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am. But with your permission, I would gladly offer my services.”
You could barely believe your luck. “Consider your permission granted.”
You moved half an inch towards the foot of the bed and he placed his hand up to stop you. “Please. Allow me to come to you.”
He came round to the side of the bed and knelt, one knee up. You simply swung your legs off the bed, and placed one foot on his raised thigh. He placed his large hands over your feet and started. The first touch felt like heaven. You moaned.
“You’ve had a long day, ma’am.”
“Mmmmm.”
He certainly didn’t short-change you, and massaged each foot for a solid five minutes. At certain points, he caressed your ankles. During another moment, he placed a warm hand on the back of your calves. “May I?” You nodded. He massaged the tight muscles. When the massage was complete, he kneeled fully, bowed his head and placed your feet on the tops of his thighs. He looked up at you coyly.
“Is there anything else, ma’am?”
You leaned forward, placed a finger under his chin and tilted his head to look directly at you. “Why don’t you continue. Continue… as far as you would like.”
He gulped. You manoeuvred his head and whispered directly into his ear. “If at any point you want to stop, you must tell me. That’s an order.”
“Yes ma’am.” He was the one whispering now.
“Your safe word, please.”
“It’s… umm…. It’s raspberry.”
The Oxford accent inexplicably made fruit sound erotic.
“Good.” You sat back and looked at him. Your foot roamed over his thigh, up and down. His mouth fell open and he inhaled slowly. You didn’t plan to, but gifted him with your foot over his crotch, moving up and down his length. He was already half hard. “Continue with my massage, Mr. Pine.”
“Yes ma’am.” He cleared his throat and worked his hands up from your feet over your calves, and up to your thighs. He kneaded the tired muscles there, placing kisses on the inside of your leg as he did so. His beautiful hands reached your hips, sliding down your knickers all the way down your legs. He kissed at your inner thighs again, and used his free hand to toy with your clitoris. You gasped at the contact. He snaked a finger inside of you as his mouth met you. He started off slow. Languid. Alternating between one finger and two. Licking and lapping and sucking at your center, humming his moans through his ministrations. When you started to climax, he placed one hand on the mid-section of your back, his fingers spread wide, steadying you. You came with a delicious, throaty moan.
In your post-orgasm bliss, he guided you to lay down, pulling the covers back and positioned them over you. He placed a kiss on your forehead.
“Goodnight, Ms. Ainsworth.”
***
You woke with a jump.
Why the bloody hell is the phone ringing?
Second by mortifying second, it all came rushing back to you. The room key. The flirtation. The loosely-veiled ask for a turndown service. The chocolate. The tea. The massage. The…
Oh, God…
That’s him on the phone isn’t it…
Fuck.
Serves me right for taking advantage of an innocent concierge.
You looked at the cold cup of over-stewed chamomile tea on the end table, breathed in deeply, and picked up the phone.
“Yes?” Your voice was croaky.
“Good morning, Ms. Ainsworth. You are looking so radiant and beautiful today. May I take a moment to thank you, for choosing to wake up and grace us all with your magnificence on this cool London morning. We are surely not worthy, yet we remain unreservedly grateful, to be in the presence of a goddess.”
Fuck. Me.
Jonathan felt a figure in front of him and looked up. An mature lady. Grey hair. Chanel blazer. Pearls. Looking at him with a glint in her eye. Well that certainly wasn’t on the website, she thought.
He took her room key from her hand and smiled politely, the phone still pressed to his ear.
Meanwhile, in your bed… you were very much awake now.
“Tell me, Mr. Pine… what time does the night shift end?”
“7am, ma’am.”
“Well. It’s 7:01. I wonder if you have a moment to… help me to wake up?”
“Certainly, Ms. Ainsworth.”
***
Author’s Note:
I’m not going to write a part two.
However, my headcannon is:
He goes up to her room, they do their little dance again, she asks what he suggests to help invigorate her and he gives it the coy, “A full bodied Guatemalan medium roast, ma’am.” He makes her coffee, then they have rigorous sex. The end.
OH! And maybe she takes him shopping around London like he’s Julia Roberts. I dunno. Unless he needs to sleep and maybe he sleeps in her bed. Choose your own adventure! X
