“I’d like to see how you give love to a girl,” Étienne* said. “What do you mean by that?” I asked, thinking my French lover had made a charming grammatical mistake. Then again, he did know I was .
With a mischievous smile, Étienne closed his eyes and stretched his tattooed, muscled bulk out on the bed where we were lying naked. We may have been dealing with a language barrier, but his body said it all: I had no idea where to start, but damn, did I want to try. The windows were open and we’d both just showered, but somehow we were still sweating.
We seemed to have a thing for hot places, having met a month earlier in sweltering Seville. I came down the stairs of my hostel one morning and stopped in my tracks. There, standing shirtless next to the turquoise pool in the courtyard, was the most masculine human being I had ever seen in my life: broad shoulders, barrel chest (with the perfect amount of hair, of course), and powerful thighs.
Étienne, who was charmingly vain, kept his brown hair at a luxurious length and sported a thick but well-groomed beard. A wicked-looking tattoo snaked along his ribs. He looked like a young David Beckham, but with bigger muscles.
Victoria Beckham I am not, but, by some miracle, after a few days of sheepishly running into each other all over the hostel, I found myself straddling those powerful thighs on the terrace and wishing, as the kissing got hotter, that I had booked a private room instead of a bed in a ten-person dormitory.
