April in Paris

By Tinnean

It was April in Paris. Chestnuts were in blossom. The tender green of their leaves was a splash of joyous color in contrast to the stark branches of deepest brown.

Events had been set in motion. Two men, who never should have crossed paths, were about to meet.

////

Clark Palmer was highly annoyed. It was supposed to be a simple mission: fly to Berlin, get to Prague from there, and seize the man known throughout the intelligence community as the Cardinal. Somehow, it had turned to shit. A good man had suicided, and another, pushed to the edge of his control, was now a resident of a government funded mental facility.

His superior had been not been pleased, for it was a DSD man who was dead, and Palmer had not liked the way his authority had been flouted. Nepotism was rearing its ugly head in the rogue agency, and someone's son had been bumped to a position he hadn't the experience to command.

And Palmer watched in helpless rage as his men died and the target escaped with sickening ease.

The head of the DSD was no fool. His senior agent was not a man to fuck with, and *he* didn't have much time to correct the situation. He had the young hothead transferred to another division and gave Clark Palmer two weeks in Paris to regain his perspective.

////

It had been a bitch of a mission.

Intel extracted by the premier interrogation team of Section One had the Cardinal surfacing in Prague, and Operations reacted as Red Cell hoped: he had sent his senior cold op to infiltrate and cancel.

Only, the intel was faulty, a ruse designed to pull Michael away from the real location; the Cardinal was not where he was supposed to be, and Michael had lost half of his team, including a former lover, barely getting the rest out alive.

Madeline, head of psych, had taken one look at his rigidly controlled demeanor, his stare more blank than usual, and had ordered him to take some much-needed downtime. Operations would have protested, but for once his second-in-command overrode him.

"Paul," she said in her softly modulated voice. "If you don't give Michael a chance to sort out his emotions, he will be of no use to us when Birkoff finally breaks the encoded directive we were able to secure from that DSD courier."

Operations watched her mouth as she spoke, paying scant attention to her words, wondering only if it was possible to lure her to the Tower and tempt her with a special meal prepared by Christopher. It was still early days in their affair, and at this moment he wanted to slide his aching arousal into her more than he wanted to exercise his authority as head of Section.

"Very well, Madeline. See that he has whatever he needs. When you're finished, meet me on the Observation Deck." His mouth was motionless, but his blue eyes held a fire of passion usually reserved for his work.

Madeline permitted a small smile to crease her lips and turned back to the level 5 operative. "Come with me to Supplies."

His emotions cloaked in ice, Michael followed her down to one of the many sub-levels housed in Section One. Madeline made sure he had clothing, money and identification solid enough to pass scrutiny anywhere in the world.

Then she sent him on his way and hurried to meet her lover, anticipation fizzing in her veins. Paul was inventive, to say the least, and she looked forward to seeing what he had in store for her, as a woman, as well as a woman in her position.

****

Michael knew that the powers that be would not let him slip away from Section without implanting some manner of tracking device in his body. He also knew that he was not about to allow that, not this time around. Adrenaline had flooded his system, and he had not yet descended from that high.

To put it succinctly, he was horny as hell.

Although the affair ended when his lover went deep undercover, he was still fond of the operative who had suicided, and would miss him considerably. Claude had been his material; he had trained him from a raw recruit.

Michael needed the time to mull over that relationship and see what he could glean from it. He did not want to invest that much emotional and physical energy into someone who was not going to survive.

If that was how it was destined to be, the next time he would know better. He would no longer permit himself to grow attached to whomever Operations gave him.

Having been in Section One for a number of years, Michael knew the best ways to exit without drawing attention to himself. He slipped out a door most operatives had no idea was there. Perhaps Walter, the only operative who had been at Section longer than Michael, knew, but he was busy in Weapons, and no one thought to ask him.

****

So Michael was gone, and Section would be unable to find him until he was ready to return on his own. He vanished into the crowd of tourists that unwittingly provided daily cover for the antiterrorist organization's headquarters in a major European city.

It was easy to lose oneself in Paris, especially if it had been one's second home. The cold op wandered over to the Left Bank. He was more tired than he realized, and decided his first priority was finding a place to safely go to ground. He took a room at a pension. It was a quaint little building that reminded him of his days as a student, before he had joined L'heure Sanguine. The bathroom was even down the hall.

He sighed wistfully as he thought of those days; of the idealistic youth he had been and gave his landlady a look etched in sadness. She gazed into his green eyes and immediately fell in love with him.

"Go up to your room, chou chou, and I will have a nourishing meal waiting when you have rested!"

"Merci, maman." He had the audacity to kiss her cheek, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

Michael was coming down now from the rush of adrenaline and he dragged himself up the three flights of narrow stairs to find his room. He threw himself on the neatly made bed and sank into a restless slumber.

****

By the time he awoke, some hours later, he was little refreshed. As promised, Madame Maintenant provided him with a meal that was just as mother used to make, if she ever cared enough to cook. He ate methodically, mopping up the last of the ragout with a heel of bread still warm from the oven.

Idly he twirled the stem of the wineglass between his fingers and contemplated the ruby glow reflected in its depths. According to Parisian ways, the evening was still young, and his afternoon nap had left him too edgy to spend a quiet night with Madame.

Deciding abruptly to see what the night offered, he drained his glass and rose to his feet, bidding his landlady bonsoir. The mature woman watched with soft eyes as the lights of street lamps caressed his athletic figure, and she thought with regret of what might have been.

The next morning, Michael was in a surly mood. He had not found what he was looking for although he had cruised the bars until long after midnight, finding fault with one prospective lover after another. Disgruntled, he left the pension, unable to tolerate the sheep's eyes Madame was making at him.

Always, his looks drew women. Sometimes that was useful in his line of work, but his days as a valentine operative were past, and while he enjoyed the female of the species, right now what he needed was the male.

He needed to be fucked. It had been too long since the last time, and the stress of the failed mission left him with an itch that badly needed to be scratched.

He needed to be fucked, *hard*!

****

Clark Palmer always enjoyed breakfast in Paris; it was such an adventure. He sat, alone in the small crowd, sipping his cafe au lait and perusing the Paris Match, when something at the periphery of his vision drew his attention. The sight of the lean figure striding toward him had him holding the mouthful of coffee for a beat before he swallowed carefully.

The young man approaching the cafe was dressed in unrelieved black, the trousers hugging his legs and emphasizing the slight bulge at his crotch. Clark Palmer was familiar with the restless look that examined one man after another, but could seem to settle on none of them, and licked his lips in anticipation.

It had been too long since he had been laid, and he found his cock was suddenly standing up and taking notice. Hmm, most interesting!

The DSD agent went back to reading his newspaper, but kept an unobtrusive eye on the other man, watching as he ordered cafe complet and began tucking into the runny eggs that were finally brought to him.

Palmer curled his lip. As often as he was in Europe, he could not bring himself to enjoy the cuisine of any of the NATO countries. This was an annoying idiosyncrasy, but his superior was too wary of him to object too strenuously.

Meanwhile, Michael scooped up the eggs, unconcerned with their quality. An indifferent gourmand, the operative ate what was put before him caring little for its appearance. He had felt the pair of eyes on him, and maintained his facade of ordinary Frenchman.

He surveyed the area surreptitiously and located the man who watched him without seeming to watch him. Brown hair, intriguing eyes almost more green than brown, rangy build. When Michael was ripe for this kind of thing, he liked men who were taller than his own average height; it made him feel...defenseless. He let his tongue sweep over his lips and slowed the pace of his meal.

Finally he allowed his green eyes to tangle with the hazel ones lifted above the newssheet. For a beat the stares held, and then Michael raised a brow and indicated the seat opposite him.

Clark Palmer was chagrined. One of the best that the DSD had ever turned out, he was disconcerted that this young Frenchman had been alert to his surveillance. And then the other man smiled, his lush lips parting to reveal even, white teeth. Clark's cock quivered and swelled even more. He snapped the paper shut and held it casually shielding the front of his trousers, where his urgent arousal marred its normally smooth line.

Michael sat back as the shadow fell across his table. He was caught in the lust that burned in those eyes, and intrigued by how rapidly it was controlled. "Join me, m'sieur?"

Clark Palmer smiled into that face with its rugged jaw, covered with a hint of stubble. "Enchante," he responded, deliberately making his accent atrocious. "Je suis Clark."

"Je m'appelle Michel." Introductions concluded, the other man sat down and Michael began a rambling, inane conversation with him. Clark sipped his own coffee and listened in silence.

Hiding a smile behind a slice of toast, Michael drew out more and more platitudes, waiting for the neatly dressed man to lose patience.

To his surprise, Clark set down his cup and bared his teeth, and suddenly Michael felt a frisson of unease. Who was this man, with the shark's grin?

"Enough of the game playing," Clark murmured. "Name your price."

"Pardon?"

Clark sighed impatiently. "I don't appreciate being played for a fool. Tell me how much you think you're worth. If I agree, I'll take you back to my hotel."

Michael could hardly catch his breath. The idea that this well-dressed man thought he was a hustler excited him more than he imagined possible. He named a figure, and the man across his table looked taken aback.

Incredibly intrigued, and so hot he was afraid he would come where he sat, Michael said in his soft voice, "I am worth it. If, however, this is too much...?" He let the question hang in the air between them prepared to lower the price, even though he had no intention of accepting any francs for what he wanted so desperately to do.

Clark's hard stare hid his dismay that the young man really was nothing more than a hooker, and agreed to the exorbitantly high price. He threw a handful of bills onto the table and took Michael's wrist between his long fingers, pulling him to his feet. "Now, m'sieur?" Michael asked, pretending to be surprised.

"I'm paying you the equivalent of a thousand American dollars, so I'd say, *yes*, now!"

The agent strode across the boulevard, dragging the younger man after him, both of them easily dodging Paris' impossibly insane taxi drivers.

****

Clark had not felt on the edge of such sexual excitement in too long. He made sure they were the only ones on the elevator in the hotel where he was staying. The American couple who had been about to enter on their heels changed their minds when both men turned cold stares on them, and decided that really, the stairs were much more healthful.

The door slid shut and Michael found himself up against the wall of the elevator, an incredibly hot mouth ravaging his own. He couldn't prevent a groan from escaping his lips. His hands were imprisoned by his head, and the other man rocked his hips forward demandingly.

Michael sought to respond, but Clark pushed his knee roughly between the other man's thighs, spreading his legs wide and keeping him at his mercy. "I'm going to fuck you until you won't remember what it was like not to have me inside you!" Clark whispered in perfect French as his lips traveled over Michael's throat and found the erratically beating pulse. "I'm going to strip you bare and toss you on your back!" His mouth began sucking strongly; he was determined to mark the young man.

Michael was gasping, fighting to remain on his feet as tremors of passion rippled through him. "What will you do then?" he could barely whisper.

Clark thrust hard with his hips. "I'm going to make you beg and plead for me to give you every inch I have, to fuck you so long and so hard you won't be able to walk for a week! Or want to!"

"A week?" Michael could not believe that thready sound was his voice.

"A week!" Clark affirmed. "That's at least how long I'll have you in my bed!"

With a soft moan, Michael Samuelle, valentine op extraordinaire, came in a Paris elevator.

The End (but might be continued...)