This girl intrigued me. She was extraordinarily attractive, young and full of life, and clearly aware of the sexual power of her presence. If she had decided to pursue me, the least I could do was offer a little encouragement.
Securing her assurance that she would read only the most recent entries and no further, I left her alone at the table for a few minutes and retired to the gentleman's toilet, relaxing in there for a short while with the sports page of Le Monde, allowing just long enough for temptation to take its course, and for curious fingers to leaf through my journal, wondering if, upon my return, she'd have been shocked by the explicitness of the diary entries and have left suddenly, or whether she'd still be there, reading a little lasciviously.
Upon my return to the table, a fresh pot of tea having just been delivered for us to share, I was pleased to see that she was still there, smiling at me as I returned to my seat opposite her, her cheeks a little flushed, her breath noticeably quicker.
"Your journal, Monsieur," she smiled, "I have to confess, I couldn't resist... it's so... may I read further?"
"If you're enjoying what you read, why not," I smiled, sitting down opposite her to watch, enjoying looking at her as her gaze lingered on the fevered descriptions, her fingers caressing the pages almost longingly...
to be continued...