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. As he left, he slid an email across the table with a wink. “Happy Valentine’s, love.”

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 smirk. “Call him when we get home if you want to make it real.”

After a few glasses of wine, I did. Paul’s voice was even sexier than his photo suggested, and just hearing him talk had me squirming in my chair, thighs clenched, already wet. We arranged to meet the following weekend at a quiet hotel bar. If there was chemistry, we’d see where the night took us.

The evening arrived. I chose a short skirt, a nearly invisible lace thong, sheer stockings, and a silk top that clung to every curve. When I spotted Paul across the bar—tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair streaked with silver—I thought: Yes, you’ll do just fine for me.

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

Paul’s fingers traced lazy circles on my hand, then slipped under the table to my thigh. Every touch sent sparks straight to my clit. My panties were soaked before we even finished our second drink.

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

I kissed him—slow, filthy, promising—then went to John. My husband’s eyes darkened with desire the moment he saw my expression. “Do it,” he rasped. “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 racing and pussy throbbing with anticipation.

The message came: 109. I kissed John again—deep, grateful, wicked—and nearly flew down the hallway.

Paul opened the door wearing only his shirt, halfway unbuttoned. The moment the door closed, we crashed into each other, mouths ravenous, hands everywhere. He pushed me back until my knees hit the bed, laid me down, and trailed kisses down my throat while his palm slid under my skirt.

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

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

Our clothes disappeared in a frenzied shuffle. He stood naked before me, slowly stroking himself as he devoured me with his eyes. “I’ve been hard since the second you walked in wearing that sexy little skirt.”

I knelt, licked his full length, then took him deep. He tasted clean and salty, with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. I worked him with my mouth until his thighs trembled, 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 laps along my folds, tight circles on my clit—until I was grinding 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, “Now I need to be inside you.”

I pushed him onto his back, straddled him, lined his cock up with my entrance, and sank down inch by delicious inch until he was fully seated. We both moaned. 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 back hole until I begged. “I want you everywhere,” I panted. “Fuck my ass, Paul. Please.”

He didn’t need telling twice. I dropped to all fours, arched my back, offered myself. He slicked his cock with my juices, pressed the tip to my tight entrance, and pushed in—slow, steady, perfect. The burn melted into pure pleasure as he bottomed out.

He started moving, shallow thrusts building to a brutal pace while I rocked back to meet him, screaming with every drive. When I came again, clenching around him, he pulled out and painted my ass and back with thick ropes of cum.

We collapsed, breathless and laughing, exchanging lazy kisses until we could move. Eventually I dressed, thighs still trembling, and walked out with the biggest, most satisfied smile of my life.

John waited in the lobby, eyes blazing the moment he saw me. We barely reached the car before I was on my knees in 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 hardly made it through the front door before he bent me over the couch, then the bed, fucking my ass again until he came just before dawn.

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

The best Valentine’s gift ever.