Rue des Quatre-Vents. Six floors. No elevator. City buzz below. My thighs burn climbing. Stay fit for this. Anatole ahead. Second-year student. Sharp jaw. Effortless style. Twenty. I’m forty-five. Reason screams: turn back. But his grip at the cafe. Electric. ‘Let go, Leonore. You want it.’ Damn right. His letters. Pure lust. No love bullshit. Addictive. Pulled me here.
Fourth floor. Last chance. Curiosity wins. Door opens. Tiny F2. Cozy chaos. Leather couch cracked. Vintage posters. Eames rocker flashes dirty thoughts. Shake it off. He brews real tea. Union Jack mug. Fingers brush. Spark. We sip standing. Eyes locked. Tension coils like Paris streets at dusk. He sets mug down. Advances. Predator eyes. Takes my mug. Pins me to bar. Lips crash. Tongue soft, then demanding. Breath quickens. Hands lift hair. Neck caressed. Shiver. Hips gripped.
The Mutation: Dropping the Mask
‘I knew I’d love kissing you.’ Heart skips. Jacket off. Sweater. Shirt. Bra unclasped like pro. ‘Beautiful.’ Back of hand on breasts. Nails tease. Desire flares. I strip him slow. Chest hair coppery. Firm abs. Apollo’s belt. Killer. Sniff his skin. Nails rake back. He trembles. Kiss deep. Knee between thighs. Control slips. But I pull back. Couch. Straight posture. No slouch.
‘Anatole. Pause. Think.’ He grins. Sits close. ‘You want me. I want you. Adults. No issue. Fuck, you’re hot topless.’ Eyes devour. Past profs? ‘Only the ones who ignite.’ Fingers trace skin. Goosebumps. ‘Your eyes scream slutty fire. Let go.’ Hypnotized. Body betrays. Jeans undone. Kneels. Kisses belly. Legs bare. Tongue dives. Grip hair. Arched. Waves crash. Squirts flood couch. He rises, face slick. ‘Fontaine? Real?’ Grins feral. My turn. Unzip. Cock thick. Straight. Salty pearl. Suck deep. He groans. Pulls away. ‘Your eyes reek of sex. Want to fuck you hard.’ ‘Do it. Or die trying.’