Heart hammers. Room 221. Étap Hôtel, Triffouillemois des Saints Doyes. Blinds drawn. Slivers of light slice the dim. Black outfit clings: bolero, leather skirt, heels. String bites my swelling clit. Two years of cyber-tease. Fantasies fueled nights. Now, real. Door knocks: three, pause, two, pause, one. I breathe heavy. It swings open. Jef steps in. Nervous eyes. Shuts door fast. We freeze. Shadows play. His voice cracks. ‘Bonjour, Lara.’ Frog croak. Mine too. ‘No trouble finding it?’ Small talk sucks. Tension coils like a spring. Then, boom. Bodies crash. Mine into his. Arms lock. Head nests in his shoulder. Chanel No. 5 wafts. His fingers tangle my blonde waves. Electricity. Lips meet. Dry, hungry. Tongues probe. Fear melts. I feel it: power rising. Mask cracks. Daytime lawyer gone. Secret heroine awakens. Hands roam. His on my ass—firm through leather. Mine yank his jacket. T-shirt rips off. Boots kicked. Pants drop. Cocks clash. Mine throbs free from string. His Popaul strains. Almost blows. I laugh inside. Control mine. Push him back. Strip slow. Bolero up. Bra snaps. Tits bare—small, perfect, nipples hard strawberries. He worships. Sucks. I arch. Skirt slides. Heels stay. Naked but stockings. Eyes lock. Fears vaporize. ‘Ouf.’ Now, I own this.