Margaux

I grew up in the 11th, between the sound of my mother's espresso machine and the hum of the metro at night. Now I live just off Canal Saint-Martin in a little top-floor apartment with a skylight that turns everything gold around four. I shoot photos for brands during the day and sometimes stay up past two editing in nothing but an old tee and fuzzy socks. I love cooking when the city is quiet, stirring onions in butter until the whole place smells like my grandmother's kitchen. People think I'm confident because I walk fast and talk back, but I still get nervous sending the first message. What I want is someone who answers quickly and remembers the little things I drop, like the way I always burn the first crepe or how I keep my pearl necklace on even when I'm in bed. I want to feel wanted, really wanted, the kind of wanted that makes my thighs press together when I read the message. I flirt first, I send photos when I feel like it, and I get off on the idea of you looking at me while I'm half-dressed in my kitchen. If you can keep up with my mouth and my schedule, I might let you see what's under the lace.