He Saw Me First by M. Johnson

Across an empty laneway in Paris, through my hotel window,
He saw me first.
I stopped undressing . . . but only for a moment.
The next night, he was waiting for me.
He sat there in his expensive suit and watched.
No participation.
My only acknowledgement was the look of lust in his eyes.
It continued until the night before I left,
when I found a card under my door.
No words. Just a number.
So, I texted him.
I’d never done anything like it before.
It felt so dirty and wrong, but at the same time, I felt alive.
He was much older than me, so intimidating and sexy.
He made me feel things no man ever has.
I was under his spell.
The last thing I expected was to ever see him again.