My new boyfriend

It all started when John took me out for dinner on Valentine’s Day. Midway through the meal, he excused himself to the bathroom. As he walked away, he slid an email across the table with a wink. “Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”

I opened it. It was from a bachelor 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 grin. “Call him when we get home if you want to make it real.”

After a few glasses of wine, I did. Paul sounded even hotter than his photo suggested, and his voice alone had me squirming in my chair, thighs clamped together, already soaked. We agreed to meet the following weekend at a quiet hotel bar. If the chemistry was there, we’d see where the night took us.

The evening arrived. I chose a short skirt, a barely-there lace thong, sheer stockings, and a silk top that clung to every curve. When I spotted Paul across the bar—tall, broad-shouldered, silver streaking his dark hair—I thought, Yes, you’ll do perfectly.

We talked, laughed, flirted shamelessly. John kissed my cheek and discreetly vanished, leaving us alone.

Paul’s fingers traced lazy circles over my hand before creeping under the table to my thigh. Every touch sent sparks straight to my clit. I was dripping before we finished our second drink.

“There’s a room upstairs,” he murmured. “The vibes are right. Only if you want.”

I kissed him—slow, filthy, promising—then went to find John. My husband’s eyes darkened with lust the moment he saw my face. “Go for it,” he growled. “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 disappeared to check in while I waited, heart pounding, pussy throbbing with anticipation.

The text came: 109. I kissed John again—deep, grateful, naughty—and practically floated down the hallway.

Paul opened the door wearing only his shirt, half-buttoned. The moment it clicked shut, we were all over each other, mouths ravenous, hands everywhere. He walked me backward until my knees hit the bed, laid me down, and began kissing his way lower along my neck as his hand slid beneath my skirt.

When his fingers brushed the soaked lace between my legs, he groaned. “Christ, you’re already drenched for me.”

He tugged my thong aside and pushed a thick finger into me. I arched off the mattress, a moan escaping. I fumbled with his belt, freed his cock—hot, heavy, rock-hard—and stroked him until he hissed my name.

Clothes vanished in a frantic rush. He stood naked above me, slowly stroking himself as he drank me in. “Been hard since the moment you walked in wearing that slutty skirt.”

I dropped to my knees, licked a stripe up his length, and took him deep. He tasted clean and salty, already beading at the 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 wide, 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 in his hair, and came so hard the room spun.

He crawled over me, kissed me so I could taste myself, and growled: “Need to be inside you now.”

I pushed him onto his back, straddled him, angled his cock at my entrance, and sank down inch by delicious inch until he bottomed out. We both moaned. I rode him slowly at first, savoring the stretch, then faster, chasing friction on my clit with every roll of my hips.

His hands gripped my ass, spread me open, a thumb circling my tight back hole until I begged. “I want it all,” I panted. “Take my ass, Paul. Please.”

He didn’t need to hear it twice. I got on all fours, back arched, offering myself. He slicked his cock with my juices, pressed the tip to my clenched hole, and pushed in—slow, steady, perfect. The burn melted into pure lust as he seated himself deep.

He began to move, shallow thrusts building to a punishing rhythm as I pushed back, screaming with every stroke. When I came again, clenching around him, he pulled out and painted my ass and lower back with thick ropes of cum.

We collapsed, gasping and laughing, trading lazy kisses until we could move. Eventually, I dressed—thighs still trembling—and walked out wearing the widest, most satisfied grin of my life.

John waited in the lobby, eyes blazing when he saw me. I didn’t even make it to the car before I was on my knees in the passenger seat, deepthroating him as he drove. He nearly swerved off the road when he came down my throat—thick, hot, glorious. I swallowed every drop.

We barely made it through the front door before he bent me over the couch, then took me again in bed, finally burying himself in my ass just before dawn.

We fell asleep tangled together as day broke. When I woke the next afternoon, I still had to pinch myself to believe it had happened.

Best Valentine’s gift ever.