The Parisian Angel.

'Passion makes idiots of the cleverist men, and makes the biggest idiots clever.'
- Francois de La Rochefoucauld.

I had never before visited France. It's a very lonely place, but their red-light district is exceptional.

Some violet-eyed blond worked me out of my tie and shirt with quick, elegant fingers. Over the buzz of the engine I had asked him briefly, during our ride to the hotel, why he had chosen to get involved in such a business. He had told me weakly that sometimes looking after your family means more to you than having respect for your body.

Now here we were in Le Meurice, a famed luxury hotel in Paris. The room was decorated heavily in a majestic red, the sheets were silk, and the view was a phenomenal flashing of city lights and La Louvre. I hoped he appreciated my wealth as much as I appreciated his warm mouth on my collar bone. He kissed and bit over my neck and whispered to me in fluent Japanese while I silently thanked his heritage for giving him such a beautiful gift; that wet, smooth tongue of his.

The sirens rang through the streets far below. I rested my head back on the soft, fluffy pillow and let go of everything, disconnecting. In Japan I would never dare to do such a thing, but I felt very safe around this man. His weight on my crotch was comforting, and the way his gentle fingers made light work of my belt put me at ease. Experienced and absolutely charming. A work of art. I reached my hand up and caught his jaw, and he became still. I smiled to myself and examined him through glazed eyes.

"Beautiful." I told him, stroking my thumb roughly over his cheek, if only to watch his soft skin move beneath mine.

"Why are you here tonight, Mr. Ootori?" He asked me as he pulled off my black work trousers. Everything became heavy and solid again. I sat up and looked at him, expressionless now.

"That's none of your concern." I told him coldly. He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a warm smile, his melodic laugh filling the room.

"Suit yourself. Only, I like to know my clients before I work with them. It makes the experience more personal." With that, he took my face in his hands and forcefully kissed my lips. I kissed him back fiercely, but he easily matched my passion and pushed my rising shoulders down against the sheets again. The blond's hands ran soothingly up my sides, as if to calm me. I wasn't sure why; that wasn't his job, after all. Though, similarly myself, it seemed as if he was willing to go above and beyond for his clients.

I watched him climb swiftly off me and gracefully make his way over to the radio. He flicked on some French music with a strong beat and a powerful bass, turning it up loudly. And then he turned out the lights.

"My name is Tamaki Suoh." The Parisian boy purred to me as he walked back over and straddled me. "And I am the best at what I do in all of Paris." He declared with a wild and delighted smile that lit up his eyes. The violet dimmed as he looked back down at me, and I saw clearly what that look said.

'But what a job to be the best at, hmm?'

I looked back at him, sympathetically at first, and then more sternly.

'Yes, and neither of us had much choice. None of us do. Perhaps never will.'

It was a simple, yet deep understanding that passed between us.

I looked at my work clothes on the floor. He smiled sadly and nuzzled his head into my shoulder, beginning to undress himself. I found my own hands stilling him, and I began to free him of his shirt. My lips sought his as actively as he had sought mine, and as the useless white material fell around his hips, I locked my fingers in the small of his back and stroked over his gentle curves. He was beautiful.

I caught onto his shoulders and rolled over, pushing him firmly down. I heard his breath hitch with surprise, and then a light laugh burst from his lips. I chuckled quietly, resting my forehead against his. Of all my sexual encounters, this somehow felt the most intimate, although I had only known the boy an hour or so. Perhaps it was the openness of his eyes, the tenderness of his lips, or the way a broken man could hold himself with so much dignity. Or perhaps it was none of that. Perhaps it was that in another time or place, he and I could have worked.

I laughed bitterly at myself. This damned country was turning me into a romanticist. I stripped him down bare, and I loved him. Every inch of his body reminded me of something angelic, and indeed, there was something celestial about it. In my mind, I would (from then on) remember him as 'the Parisian angel boy' in my fondest, private recollections.

I reached beneath my bed and pulled out a small bag, taking out some lube; this wasn't my first night in France. I heard him breathe a gentle sigh of relief.

Time slipped. It was one of my angel boy's powers. I amused myself with the title.

My long fingers eased out of him, wet and aching, but the lower half of my body ached far more demandingly and longingly. Through the faint light that poured in through the window, I could see his illuminated cheeks burning with a blush, his sweet lips parted. I leaned back up, wiping my fingers across the sheets and locking my hand against Tamaki's shoulder, my lips by his ear. The other hand supported me and trembled slightly from the tightness of my muscles.

The blond nipped my ear and I thrust into him. Tight. Tight? Was he new? Not broken? We didn't make love, we fucked. Perhaps I broke him... We fucked.