He was American.
So was I.
But in that moment—midnight, corner bar, rain on the window—I could’ve sworn we belonged to the city, not the country.
We met over whiskey.
Talked about jazz.
Laughed about the cigarette smoke curling around us like ghosts.
I told him I’d been alone for a long time. He said he could tell.
When he reached for my hand, I let him hold it.
When he asked if I wanted to keep talking somewhere quieter, I said yes before he finished the sentence.
The hotel room was small, old, romantic in the way only Paris could pull off. A tiny balcony overlooked the cobblestones. The Eiffel Tower glowed somewhere in the far distance, like a forgotten promise.
He kissed me gently at first. One hand in my hair, the other at the curve of my spine.
Then firmer.
Then harder.
He lifted my dress with both hands and knelt between my legs like he was praying.
The sex wasn’t perfect.
It was too rushed. Too desperate. Our teeth knocked once. My heel kicked over a lamp.
But god—it was alive.
His mouth on my nipples.
My fingers tangled in his hair.
The wet sounds of my arousal echoing in the room like music we didn’t know we knew.
I rode him with the balcony door open.
Paris watched. I didn’t care.
He came with his hands gripping my hips like I was all he had to hold onto.
Maybe I was.
We didn’t exchange numbers.
Didn’t promise to write.
But when I walked through Charles de Gaulle the next morning, I felt full for the first time in months.
And in my pocket, I found a matchbox from the bar. Inside was a note:
You tasted like rain.
And I’m still thirsty.
