The message was short, polite, and unmistakably familiar:
"Hi Mika. I don't know if you remember me, but I saw you about a month ago. The hotel room with the red velvet headboard. You wore that soft silk robe. Would you be open to seeing me again?"
– D.
Mika read it twice before responding.
Of course she remembered. He was older — early fifties, maybe — with salt-and-pepper hair, a voice like warm bourbon, and a mouth that knew how to make her forget everything. He had paid for two hours and used every minute.
There was something else about him, too. The way he looked at her after making her come. Like she was more than just a hired body.
She replied simply: "Yes. When and where?"
The suite was tasteful, discreet, and dimly lit. A bottle of wine waited on the coffee table. D was already inside, wearing a crisp button-up and no tie, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He smiled when he saw her. "You look exactly as I remember."
"You didn't ask for anything specific."
"I didn't want to."
That made her pause. Most men had a request: wear red, bring heels, act like this, call me that. D never did. He just… watched her. Let her be.
They sat. Talked. Ten minutes, maybe more. His voice was calm, assured, but not arrogant. When he finally leaned forward, touched her knee, and whispered, "Can I kiss you now?" — her thighs clenched.
She nodded.
The kiss was slow. Not rushed. His lips were warm, patient. He kissed her the way a man kisses when he wants you to remember it tomorrow. When his hand slid up her thigh and under her skirt, her breath caught.
"You're already wet," he murmured into her mouth.
"I was before I knocked."
He undressed her slowly. No tearing, no ripping — just care. Her bra slid down her arms. Her panties followed. When he stepped back and took in her full body, Mika flushed under his gaze.
"You're even more beautiful than I remember."
She sat back on the bed, legs open slightly, inviting.
He dropped to his knees.
No hesitation.
D leaned in and kissed her inner thigh, just above the knee. Then higher. And higher. His lips brushed against her folds before he opened them with his fingers, exposing her slick, sensitive center.
Then his tongue pressed flat against her clit — warm, firm, deliberate.
Mika exhaled sharply.
He didn't rush. He used long, slow licks, circling her clit before flicking it lightly, again and again. His hands held her hips down as she started to move, arching into his mouth.
"Oh… fuck…"
His tongue dipped lower, parting her lips, lapping into her — savoring her taste like it mattered. He alternated between soft suction and fast, focused pressure. Her legs trembled. One hand gripped the sheets. The other found his hair and pulled.
He groaned against her, tongue pressing deeper.
"God… don't stop—"
She came with a cry, thighs clamping around his head. He didn't pull back. He held her there, kept licking, gently, drawing it out. Her body shook in waves, twitching as her orgasm rolled through her like an aftershock.
Only when she finally gasped, "Okay… okay," did he lift his head. His mouth was slick, his eyes dark.
"You taste even better than last time," he said softly.
She pulled him up and kissed him hard, tasting herself on his tongue.
When she unbuckled his pants, he let her take the lead.
His cock was thick, heavy, already hard. She wrapped her fingers around it and stroked slowly, teasing him with a smile. Then she leaned down and kissed the tip — soft and wet.
Her tongue swirled around the head. She kissed down the shaft. Then back up. She made eye contact — dark, slow-burning — and slid her mouth over him.
He groaned, deep in his chest.
Her lips were soft. Her throat welcoming. She took more of him each time, using her hand at the base, sucking rhythmically. Every time she pulled back, her tongue flicked across his slit. Every time she swallowed him again, she moaned — just enough for him to feel it.
"Jesus, Mika…"
His hips moved, shallow thrusts into her mouth. She let him. She wanted it. The taste of him, the weight of him on her tongue, the way he struggled to stay in control — it made her wet again.
She deep-throated him slowly, letting her saliva drip down his cock, coating it completely.
"Don't come yet," she whispered. "Not until you're inside me."
He flipped her gently onto her back, guiding his cock to her entrance, sliding in inch by inch.
She gasped.
The stretch. The pressure. The fullness. Every time was new, even with someone familiar.
He started slow. Deep, rhythmic strokes that made her toes curl. His hand slid under her back, pulling her closer. Their lips met again.
It wasn't just sex anymore. It was something else — slow, mutual unraveling.
She came again on top of him, grinding down hard as he moaned into her shoulder and finally spilled inside her.
They didn't say much after. Just lay there, tangled in silence.
But when he left, he kissed her knuckles softly and said, "Next time, I want to taste you first too."
She smiled.
Because she already knew there would be a next time.