This blog is written by Kate – a true account of an unforgettable evening—raw, real, and filled with moments that will linger in your mind. Enjoy! .
I knew from the moment he opened that door that the evening would feel different. He was younger than I’d expected, yes but it was more than that. There was a raw energy about him, a kind of unpolished desire that settled in the air the second our eyes met. A quiet inhale. A shift of weight. A flicker of nerves mixed with unmistakable hunger.
Inside the our Birmingham hotel room, the lighting was warm, soft, almost golden. It cast shadows along the mezzanine stairs and brushed his jawline in a way that made him look even more striking. He offered me a drink, and though his hand shook slightly, his gaze never left mine. That gaze alone created the first current between us, subtle but strong enough to make my breath slow just a fraction.
We sat together on the sofa, not touching at first. I could feel the distance between our bodies like something alive. His knee was so close to mine that every small movement brought us nearer. The heat from him radiated in little waves, his breath shifting whenever I spoke, as if he was trying to absorb every sound I made.
“Are you nervous?” I asked gently.
“A little,” he admitted, but his voice had already deepened. There was a warmth rising in it, something instinctive.
I moved closer not dramatically, just enough that our legs brushed. The way his breath caught, sharp and unguarded, struck directly through me. I slid my fingers through his hair and kissed him softly, deliberately slow. His lips were warm, hesitant at first, then firmer, surer. The kind of kiss that grows in layers, each one a little deeper, a little more certain.
“You’ll enjoy this,” I whispered. “Just let yourself.”
When he told me he was twenty-five, I hid my shock well, but inside, something in me tightened, curled, warmed. Twenty-five, looking at me the way he was? Wanting me with that kind of urgency?
“You like older women?” I teased.
His answer wasn’t verbal at first, it was the way his eyes travelled slowly from my hair to my mouth, the way his chest rose a little too sharply, as if desire had just pressed against his ribs from the inside.
“I like you,” he said finally. “A lot.”
The electricity in that moment felt almost physical.
Upstairs, in the bathroom, as I slipped into my lingerie, I felt the anticipation build. I could almost feel his pulse waiting for me downstairs. I finished adjusting the lace, smoothed my stockings, sprayed perfume along my collarbone, and when I opened the door and stepped toward the stairs, I could already hear his breath shift in the silence.
Walking down the stairs, every step slow and deliberate, I watched his reaction change surprise, awe, hunger, and something softer beneath it… admiration.
His eyes moved over me like warm hands.
“You look…” His voice faltered. “You look incredible.”
I didn’t sit beside him this time. I moved onto his lap, straddling him, feeling the way his body tensed beneath mine, a quick, involuntary reaction he couldn’t hide. His hands hovered at my hips at first, unsure, as if he was afraid to touch me too quickly. I guided them where I wanted them, and the way he exhaled, deep, shaky, almost relieved, made a delicious warmth spread through me.
His kissing changed then. It became deeper, slower, as if each one was pulling something out of him. His breath mingled with mine, warm and urgent, and every time my fingers grazed his neck, he reacted, a quiet sigh, a tightening of his grip, a subtle roll of his hips beneath me he didn’t seem aware he was doing.
I took his hand and led him upstairs. His fingers intertwined with mine tightly, his thumb stroking the side of my hand as if to ground himself. That small touch sent a shiver down my spine, slow, electric, sensual.
In the bedroom, we stood close, breathing each other in. I unbuttoned his shirt, one slow button at a time, feeling his breath quicken with each inch of exposed skin. He touched my waist lightly, reverently, as though memorising the shape of me through his fingertips.
There was no rush. No scramble. Just long, slow moments where we explored one another through breath, through touch, through the warm tension of bodies leaning closer and closer until there was no space left at all.
Everything unfolded in waves, intense, tender, hungry, slow, then hungry again. His reactions were intoxicating, the way he held his breath when I kissed his neck, the way his fingers trembled slightly when they traced along my back, the way his voice lowered into a quiet, desperate whisper when I pressed closer.
There were moments where time seemed to stretch, our breaths syncing, our bodies pressed together, heat pooling between us in a way that made everything inside me tighten with slow, burning anticipation.
By the time we finally lay together afterward, the room felt thick with warmth and quiet satisfaction. He looked at me with a glow I rarely see, something between adoration and disbelief.
“That was… amazing,” he said softly.
The softness in his voice made my chest warm.
When I left later with the perfume gifted to me, and the memory of his hands on my skin; I felt pleasantly undone, as if part of that slow-burning heat was still humming inside me.
Lisa’s message the next morning — the generous tip only made me smile.
Something about him lingered.
And if I’m honest…
I hope Mr. J returns.
