22

The bathroom mirror reflected a handsome man. He pulled out his mascara, the sole bit of makeup that he allowed himself, to lengthen his eyelashes. The glam look accentuated his dark and shadowy gaze. It was provocative. The eyes and the naturally angelic smile were a winning combination. And the party was tonight. His libido was at full throttle.

Tight jeans, a black polo shirt, Italian leather shoes—Clément looked good. He slipped his wallet and a condom into his back pocket, grabbed the car keys, and shut the apartment door behind him. He wanted to drink water and dance the whole night, to just have a grand time. A few bumps, a few caresses, a deep kiss, and his desire would become uncontrollable. He would get laid tonight.

And if he was lucky, he’d find the right person. Maybe someone to actually spend time with, someone to see every day. A partner? He dreamed of slipping under the sheet with the same person every night, of waking up with that person each morning. Someone he could love. Someone who would love him in return. What a blissful thought.

He came around to the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie and the Rue du Temple. He loved this neighborhood; it was one of Paris’s prettiest and trendiest areas. And the nightclubs were wonderful.

The bouncers at his favorite club—two magnificent specimens of testosterone, one black and the other white—let him in right away. He gave them a quick kiss, a “hey there,” and a laugh. Then he was pulled into the supercharged atmosphere of the club. He felt a few glances sweep over him, most likely cast by lovers of fresh meat. A guy brushed against his ass; Clément arched his back and bit his lip in a suggestive pose. He was a mix of innocence and ferocity, a male in rut. His eyes paused on the bare torso of a server. It was going to be a good night.