48.8867° N, 2.3431° E Montmartre, Paris. A night that will never be forgotten. 2 of 2

48.8867° N, 2.3431° E — Montmartre, Paris 2 of 3

Paris — 11:58 PM.

He hadn't moved yet.

But his hands had already started speaking.

Slowly, his fingers traced up along her hips, grazing the silk of her dress as if memorizing every curve of her body by heart.

She closed her eyes.

Not to escape the moment.

To feel it more.

— Do you want to stop ? he murmured against her temple.

A short breath escaped her.

— No.

That word — she didn't hesitate.

He tilted his head, and his lips found the curve of her neck.

A place she never knew was so sensitive!!!

A shiver ran all the way through her.

She pressed her hands against his chest — not to push him away, never that — but to hold onto something solid while the floor slowly disappeared beneath her feet.

He smiled against her skin.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

And somehow, that made everything even more intense.

His hands moved up her back.

Found the zipper of her dress.

A silent question.

She answered by stepping back half a pace — just enough to look him in the eyes.

And in that look, there was no ambiguity.

The dress slipped onto the old wooden floor.

He paused.

Took the time to look at her.

Really look.

Her lips, the curve of her breasts, the delicate lace still resting against her hips.

The kind of look that feels like a caress before any touch!!!

She reached for him.

Unbuttoned his shirt slowly.

Let her palms slide across his chest, his stomach, lower — his desire evident beneath her touch.

He guided her toward the bed.

White sheets. Soft, dimmed light.

She lay back.

He started at her lips.

Then her neck.

Then lower — slowly, deliberately.

His hands everywhere at once.

She drew him closer, exactly where she wanted him. He took his time, prolonging every moment of anticipation — his lips tracing the inside of her thigh. Her breath grew heavier with every passing second.

Because this kind of night doesn't rush.

This kind of night is savoured.

One breath at a time.

One orgasm after another.

And when his fingers slipped beneath the lace.

When she felt exactly what she had been waiting for.

The nervousness from before had completely disappeared.

Replaced by something far more powerful.

That calm, burning certainty.

That deep, slow wave building from within — rising and taking everything with it.

She held nothing back.

Not the breath.

Not the sound.

Not the name she whispered without thinking into the dark.

Outside, Paris carried on.

Indifferent. Beautiful.

Voices on Rue Norvins.

An accordion somewhere in the night.

And here — in this little apartment with its ancient floors — a night that had just proven that some things don't need a tomorrow to be perfect.

She smiled in the dark.

Eyes closed.

Heart still racing.

Because some nights are not meant to last.

They are meant to be unforgettable.

And this one was.

— The End —

48.8867° N, 2.3431° E Montmartre, Paris. A night that will never be forgotten.