It all started when John invited me to dinner for Valentine’s Day. Midway through the meal, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. On his way out, he slipped an email printout onto the table with a wink. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.”
I opened it. It was from a single man named Paul—mature, confident, with a deep voice I’d soon discover—and included his number. When John returned, I raised an eyebrow. “Your fantasy,” he said with a smile. “Call him when we get home if you want to make it real.”
A few glasses of wine later, I did. Paul sounded even sexier than his photo suggested, and just hearing him speak had me squirming in my seat, thighs clenched, already wet. We agreed to meet the following weekend at a discreet hotel bar. If the chemistry was right, we’d see where the night led.
The evening came. I chose a miniskirt, a nearly invisible lace thong, sheer stockings, and a silky top that clung to every curve. When I spotted Paul across the bar—tall, broad-shouldered, with silver streaks in his black hair—I thought: Yes, you’ll do very nicely.
We talked, laughed, flirted shamelessly. John kissed my cheek and quietly slipped away, leaving us alone.
Paul’s fingers drew lazy circles on my hand, then crept higher along my thigh beneath the table. Every touch sent sparks straight to my clit. I was dripping before we even finished our second drink.
“There’s a room upstairs,” he murmured. “The vibe’s right. Only if you want to.”
I kissed him—slow, filthy, promising—then went to find John. My husband’s eyes darkened with desire the moment he saw my face. “Go,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll be at the bar when you’re done.”
Back at the table, I whispered: “Room 109.” Paul’s smile could’ve melted steel. He left to check in while I waited, heart racing, pussy throbbing with anticipation.
The text came: 109. I kissed John one last time—deep, grateful, vicious—and nearly floated to the room.
Paul opened the door wearing only his half-unbuttoned shirt. The moment it closed, we were on each other, mouths hungry, hands everywhere. He walked me backward until my knees hit the bed, laid me down, and began trailing kisses along my neck as his hand slipped under my skirt.
When his fingers brushed the soaked lace between my legs, he groaned. “Fuck, you’re already dripping for me.”
He pushed my thong aside and thrust a thick finger inside me. I arched, a whimper escaping me. I fumbled with his belt, freed his cock—hot, heavy, rock-hard—and stroked it until he hissed my name.
Clothes vanished in a frantic rush. He stood naked before me, slowly stroking himself as he drank me in. “I’ve been hard since the second you walked in wearing that sexy little skirt.”
I dropped to my knees, licked his length, then took him deep. He tasted clean and salty, pre-cum already beading at his tip. I worked him with my mouth until his thighs shook, then pulled off with a wet “pop”—I wanted him in me, not down my throat.
Paul flipped me onto my back, spread my thighs, and buried his face between them. His tongue was relentless—long sweeps through my lips, tight circles on my clit—until I ground against his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair, coming so hard the room spun.
He crawled up my body, kissed me so I could taste myself, and growled: “Need to be inside you now.”
I pushed him onto his back, straddled him, lined his cock with my entrance, and sank down inch by delicious inch until he was buried to the hilt. We moaned together. I rode him slowly at first, savoring the stretch, then faster, chasing clit friction with every roll of my hips.
His hands gripped my ass, spread me open, a thumb circling my tight hole until I begged. “I want all of you,” I panted. “Fuck my ass, Paul. Please.”
He didn’t need telling twice. I got on all fours, arched, offered myself to him. He lubed his cock with my wetness, pressed his tip against my tight ring, and pushed in—slow, steady, perfect. The burn melted into pure pleasure as he bottomed out.
He began moving, shallow thrusts building to a ruthless pace as I pushed back to meet him, crying out with every drive. When I came again, clenching around him, he pulled out and painted my ass and lower back with thick ropes of cum.
We collapsed, breathless and laughing, trading lazy kisses until we could move again. Finally I dressed, thighs still trembling, and walked out wearing the widest, most satisfied smile of my life.
John waited in the lobby, eyes blazing the moment he saw me. I didn’t even make it to the car before kneeling on the passenger seat, sucking him deep as he drove. He nearly swerved off the road when he exploded down my throat—thick, hot, delicious. I swallowed every drop.
We barely crossed the threshold at home before he bent me over the couch, then again on the bed, until he finally came deep in my ass just before dawn.
We fell asleep tangled together at sunrise. When I woke the next afternoon, I still had to pinch myself to believe it really happened.
The best Valentine’s gift ever.