Last week, pure magic unfolded. I slipped into an exclusive little concert in the city’s hidden jazz bar. Friends ditched for exams—only Sylvie tagged along, bailing early. Musicians? Virtuosos, pimply but brilliant. Thirsty post-show, I lingered at the polished mahogany bar. Next to me, Valérie, 22, sharp eyes, solo. She knew the bartender; we bonded instantly. Christelle, 21, sociology elite, rubbing shoulders with power circles. Affinities sparked over cocktails. Bar closed. She invited me to her top-floor hideaway in a historic mansion—mere steps from my pied-à-terre. On the walk, we mocked the band’s acne-riddled charm. Her door opened to velvet shadows. Supple Italian leather sofa cradled me. She dimmed to three golden spots, city lights twinkling through floor-to-ceiling glass like a private penthouse view. Ambient CD hummed seduction. Champagne chilled in crystal—rich bubbles burst on my tongue, crisp luxury. We lounged close, gossiping men, breakups. No boyfriends. Her celibacy vow after heartbreaks. Late hour. She pleaded, face inches away. ‘Stay, please.’ Lips brushed mine—not cheek, mouth. Shocked silence. Finger to lips: shh. She tested, smiling. Then pounced, body pinning me down. Tongues invaded. Heat surged, dizzying.
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