Jet-lagged, I swipe the mag keycard at my sterile transit hotel near Bataclan. Beep. Door swings. Roller suitcase thuds by the bed. City skyline glimmers outside, distant runway lights pulse. Anonymity hits hard—no one knows me here. Flight out tomorrow. My love Roger texts: ‘Dance wild, skirt flying, think of me as your accomplice.’ Heart pounds. Quick shower. Classic knee-length skirt, white blouse hugging tits, one button loose—tease for sharp eyes. Heels echo in empty corridor. Elevator dings down. Street hums. Bataclan neon beckons. Free for women Fridays. Check jacket at vestiaire. Scan the floor: pros, creeps, dreamers. Grab table by piste. Gérard spots me—50s, polished dancer. ‘Missed you.’ We glide into rhythm. ‘Stunning tonight.’ I arch, tits forward, Roger’s voice in head: ‘Own it.’ Partners spin me. Mind drifts to photo shoots—me nude, Alain and Didier’s hands. Midnight tangos. Eyes on me. Bump into him turning—Gérard, blue eyes piercing. ‘Dance next?’ Slows roll. Cologne rich. ‘Alone?’ ‘Christine. Partner skips dance.’ He closes in. I press tits to chest, then retreat. Game on. Avignon sales boss, fresh divorce. I spill on charm shots. ‘Nude?’ ‘Depends.’ ‘With guys?’ ‘Hottest: two friends.’ He gulps. Daniel interrupts—40s, slick, smiles like Didier. Gérard huddles him. Back: ‘Finish at his villa? Us three.’ Power surges. Call Roger: ‘Two charmers, trustworthy?’ ‘Go if vibe right. I’m your shadow.’ Dance both—Gérard’s arms, Daniel’s scent. Hour gained. Spot Roger’s shadow lurking. Whisper: ‘Let’s go.’ One car. His villa edges fields, five minutes out. My tail light follows discreet.