It was the third night in a row with the same client, this time at a discreet hotel in Kensington. I usually wouldn’t book so close together, but something about him intrigued me — the way he balanced restraint with sudden flashes of hunger. Until now, our evenings had been playful, yes, but fairly safe. Tonight he hinted at something different, something more adventurous. I said yes, almost before I’d thought it through.
The door had barely closed before his mouth was on mine. He pressed me back against the wall, not rough, but insistent, and kissed me with a heat that was hard to ignore. I let him lead, my lips yielding, my breath catching as his tongue teased mine. His hand traced up my thigh, slow and deliberate, and I felt that shiver of anticipation that only comes when you surrender the tempo. For a moment we just breathed into one another, lips swollen, eyes locked, the air between us weighted with what was about to happen.
He unfastened my blouse with a kind of frustrated determination, tugging fabric aside as though patience was impossible tonight. I almost laughed at the clumsy speed of it, but then his mouth reclaimed mine — harder, almost bruising — and the thought vanished. A fingertip drew a wet line down my skin and I shivered, startled by the way dominance can feel both shocking and addictive.
I crossed to the window, half teasing, half testing him, and lifted the hem of my skirt. I knew he liked me that way. He followed, hands firm, guiding me down until my palms rested on the cool ledge. His presence behind me was overwhelming, pressing close, controlling the moment. I turned my head just enough to see his face, to catch the flicker of concentration and hunger mixed together. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought of all the little guides about understanding a man’s hidden pleasure and realised how different it feels when theory becomes living, breathing practice.
When he finally took me, there was a sharp edge to it — not cruel, but daring. My body tensed in that involuntary way when pain and pleasure blur together, and then slowly began to melt into the rhythm he set. He kissed the back of my neck, grounding me as his movements grew steadier, more certain, and I let myself sink into it.
I tried to hold back but couldn’t. The intensity overcame me and I gave in, trembling against the window, lost to the sensation. He buried his face against my shoulder, fighting his own control, until he too surrendered. For a moment afterwards we simply leaned into each other, both breathless, both quiet.
As much as I enjoy adventurous play, this felt different. More than indulgence — almost a lesson in what happens when you stop second-guessing and just let go.
If this taste of daring nights excites you, you’ll want to read what happened next in Imperial Wharf Escort and the Steamy Encounter.