It was Sunday night, the sort where honestly I’d rather curl up at home with a glass of wine than be heading out again. But work doesn’t care much about moods, and this time it was a booking in Paddington. He hadn’t told me much beforehand — which usually means nerves or some secret kink he doesn’t want to put in writing. I’m fine with that, usually, though if I’m honest I was hoping for something slow, nothing too complicated.
He spotted me the second I walked into the hotel restaurant. Tall, polite, the kind of man who’d probably hold a door or fetch your coat before daring anything else. Not striking, not forgettable either — just steady. Gentlemanly to the bone. We sat, ordered, and to my surprise he seemed in no rush at all. With only two hours, most men hurry. He wanted to talk, linger, as if he didn’t want the night to start properly.
We spoke about art, about work, the little things that light up someone’s eyes when they forget themselves. Eventually, almost awkwardly, he admitted he was nervous. Something about past failures, about not being able to… well, perform. I reached for his hand, smiled the way you do when you want to take the pressure off. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow.” And I could see the relief, like he’d been waiting for permission to breathe.
Upstairs, I took the lead without making it obvious. A brush of my fingers along his arm, leaning in for a French kiss that lingered long enough to melt the air between us. He asked, so quietly, if he could move my dress strap. I liked that — the asking, the hunger laced with hesitation. One strap fell, then the other, his eyes chasing every shift of fabric like it might disappear if he blinked too fast.
The second kiss was different, firmer, as though the first had unlocked him a little. We laughed between touches, between lips, and when I teased him, he asked if I liked giving. I raised a brow — after what I’d been doing for the last while, wasn’t that obvious? Then he asked, in that almost clinical way, about mutual oral. Sweet, clumsy phrasing, but I blushed anyway when I admitted I did.
What followed wasn’t hurried. His mouth traced its own slow rhythm, tongue working with a kind of care that made me grip the sheets and forget the nerves he’d confessed at dinner. It wasn’t just what he was doing, it was how — listening, adjusting, wanting me to lose myself.
And when he finally pressed above me, pausing one last time for permission, the fear was gone. He kissed me deeply as he moved inside, my arms curling around his neck. It wasn’t perfect, it didn’t last forever, but it was tender, unforced, exactly what I hadn’t realised I needed that night.
Afterwards he looked at me, almost sheepish. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
I laughed, gave his arm a playful smack. “How many smiles, how many sighs do you need to believe me?”
He laughed too, pulling me back into another French kiss, softer this time. And so a Sunday night in Paddington ended not with fireworks, but with something gentler, sweeter — and somehow more intoxicating for it.
Nights like these remind me why the work is never predictable. One evening it’s nerves melting into tenderness in a Paddington hotel. Another, it’s pizza boxes and playful teasing, like in Keith Brings Pizza, I Bring the Passion. And sometimes it’s all about slow, lingering intimacy, as in A GFE Date Filled with Kisses. Each encounter has its own rhythm, its own strange little story — and the truth is, I never really know what’s waiting behind the next hotel door.