I Learned to Love a Man Who Loves Differently

That night at the restaurant I felt different, as if I finally fit into my own skin. I was wearing the woven skirt that hugged my body like a second layer and a blouse embroidered with roses that made me feel delicate and powerful at the same time. I didn’t need filters or heavy makeup to shine; it was enough that I knew how he looked at me.

Andrés was sitting across from me. The atmosphere was warm, lit by dim lights that blurred into the back of the room. On the table, the aroma of the meat just served and the reflection of the red wine in the glasses were the only witnesses to our dinner.

He looked at me with that intensity of his, the one I sometimes find hard to decipher but that night felt closer than ever. His face, almost always serious and restrained, seemed to soften in the candlelight. We lifted our glasses in a silent toast. No words were needed to cover up the doubts that sometimes surrounded us.

—You’re very pretty, Lucía —he told me.

And for the first time in a long while I felt that his eyes saw exactly the woman I had discovered in front of the mirror that afternoon, while I was trying on the new clothes. A whole woman, without ornaments.

Amid the clink of glass and the warmth of the place, I understood that my heart was right to ask me for patience. Andrés didn’t love me like other men. He loved me in his own way, and that night I was the only protagonist in his world.

While we ate, I noticed how at times he tuned out the noise from the nearby tables, focusing only on the shine of his glass and on my face. That’s one of the things I learned to love about him: the way he ignores the superficial and focuses completely on what truly matters to him.

Sometimes the silence between us could seem endless to someone on the outside, but to me it was a language. He didn’t need to fill the space with empty phrases. His mind worked on another frequency, cleaner. When he looked at me steadily, I knew he was studying me with the precision of someone admiring a work of art.

—Lucía, the rose embroidery on your blouse has a very interesting symmetrical pattern —he remarked suddenly, with that direct, almost technical honesty that is so typical of him.

For any other woman, that might have sounded strange. For me, it was his way of telling me he couldn’t stop looking at me. Loving someone who loves differently forced me to let go of my own filters. I learned to value truth without wrapping. That night I understood that, even if he didn’t know how to declare anything to me with poetry, he was proving it by choosing to be there, sharing his time and his space with me.

Dinner went on amid restrained laughter and a connection you could feel in the air. We focused so much on each other that, without even noticing, we finished all the meat, perfectly cooked, juicy, just the way we both like it. We drank a couple of bottles of red that I didn’t bother to count. The wine loosened our tongues and, along with that, our desire too. Under the table I was already soaked through my panties, and every time I crossed my legs I felt the fabric rubbing against my swollen cunt.

As the minutes went by, I noticed him getting restless, as if his mind were already one step ahead, in a much more private place. His gaze, fixed and deep, grew impatient. With that absolute frankness only he has, he took my hand and told me straight out.

—We’re leaving now, Lucía. We’ve got very important things to do in bed. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.

There were no games or hints. It was the direct declaration of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and couldn’t wait another second to have me alone. I got up from the table feeling that my new clothes had done their job, ready for that “important work” to begin. On the taxi ride back he slipped his hand under my woven skirt and stroked my cunt over my underwear, checking how wet I was. He said nothing. He only smiled, brought his fingers to his mouth, and sucked them slowly, staring straight at me. I pressed my thighs together and held back the urge to scream.

***

In the soft half-light of the room, the white silk sheets seemed to wrap us in a cocoon of calm, far from the restaurant’s bustle and the complications of the world. Andrés’s urgency, the one he had so bluntly let out over dinner, now turned into a deep, almost reverent stillness.

I lay down beside him, my head on his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. In the intimacy of the bed, his nature showed itself differently. There were no evasive glances or tense silences to decipher anymore. Here, physical contact was his purest language.

His arms, strong from so much time at the gym, wrapped around me with a firmness that made me feel completely safe, completely his. My fingers slowly tangled in his hair. It was in those moments, when the skin spoke more than words, that he allowed himself to be more vulnerable, more tender than anywhere else in the day.

—Lady Lucía —he murmured in his deep voice, the sound vibrating against my ear like a caress that raised goosebumps on my skin—. It’s so good to have you here with me. I’m going to do whatever I feel like to you tonight.

That peculiar way he had of calling me always melted me. It was a nickname only he used, a secret between us. He liked saying it while imitating the accent of my homeland, because I was born far from here, across the sea, and he loved dragging out the words the way I do when I get excited. He turned any moment into something sacred. In his embrace there were no fears, no doubts, no problems. Only the certainty of his body next to mine, in that bubble of desire we built every night.

Andrés ran his hands over the white silk that barely covered my body, that body I had learned to admire in the mirror and that he now devoured with his eyes. He tore off my blouse with the embroidered roses in one yank, not bothering with the buttons, and pulled my panties down my legs with that restrained impatience thrumming in his hands. He left me naked, open for him, my tits hard in the air and my nipples pointing at him like two arrows. He bent down and bit one, then the other, sucking hard, marking my skin with his teeth until he left me panting.

He lowered his mouth down my belly, slowly, leaving a wet trail of saliva, and spread my legs with both hands. I was trembling even before I felt his tongue. When he placed it on my cunt, a jolt shot up my spine. He licked me all over, from bottom to top, stopping at my clit to suck it slowly, tracing circles with the tip of his tongue. He slipped in two fingers and started moving them inside me while he kept sucking, curling them upward, finding that spot only he knows how to find.

—You’re soaking, Lucía —he murmured against my thighs, his chin shining with my juices—. I love how you wet my face.

I couldn’t even answer. I grabbed his head with both hands and pushed his mouth deeper, rubbing my cunt against his lips while I moaned without shame. I came like that, with his tongue buried inside me and his fingers fucking me slowly, arching my back against the rumpled silk. A long, filthy orgasm that left my legs shaking and my chest rising and falling like I couldn’t breathe.

Before I could recover, he was already kneeling in front of me. I sat up and took his cock with both hands. It was hard, thick, pointing at the ceiling, with a bright drop on the tip. I licked my lips and took it all into my mouth. I felt it hit the back of my throat and held back the gag reflex, sucking it hungrily, working his skin with my tight lips. He grabbed my hair and started moving his hips, fucking my mouth at the pace his body demanded.

—That’s it, my love, suck me like that… —he growled, eyes closed and jaw tight.

I licked his whole length, from his balls to the tip, and took his balls into my mouth one by one, while I stroked his cock with my hand. When I felt him throbbing too close to the edge, he pulled me away by the hair and laid me back on the pillows.

In one decisive movement he leaned in, ending up almost on his knees on the mattress. I could admire his worked torso, his firm abdomen, all of him taut with need. He was hard, erect, dripping from the tip, and that was irrefutable proof that the “important task” he had mentioned at dinner was his only priority in the world.

I didn’t wait. I reached out and wrapped my fingers around him, feeling his heat and strength. With a confident stroke I caressed him and guided him slowly toward my entrance, where desire had already made me ready for him. I was drenched, soaking down my thighs, from the restaurant, from the moment he said we had things to do.

He understood my guidance. Despite the urgency vibrating through his body, he started to push gently, slipping inside me centimeter by centimeter, letting my cunt swallow him slowly. Andrés knows that even when passion consumes us, I like to feel it enter all the way, to feel how it opens me up inside. I needed to feel every centimeter of his surrender in a slow, deep way, like someone who isn’t in a hurry to get anywhere because he’s already where he wants to be. When he was all the way in, he stayed still for a few seconds, letting me feel the throbbing of his cock inside me.

—Lady Lucía… —he moaned, eyes closed—. You’ve got me so tight.

And at the same time he was kissing me with overflowing passion, his tongue inside my mouth with no rival, his mind wholly surrendered to the sensation of being inside me. All that focus of his, the one that sometimes isolates him from the world, that night was poured into me. Into no one else. Into nothing else. He started moving, pulling almost all the way out and then thrusting back into me to the hilt, with long, precise strokes that tore a moan from me with every push.

The way he inhabited the world so differently dissolved into that steady rhythm. He wasn’t analyzing patterns or looking for logic. He was simply melting into me in a dance of skin and wetness. Every thrust was a word of love he didn’t know how to say with his mouth, but his body was shouting it against mine over the sheets. The splashing of my wet cunt echoed through the room, mixed with our panting and the rustle of the sheets.

He put me on my knees, facing away, and made me lower my face onto the pillow while he lifted my ass. He grabbed my hips with both hands, digging his fingers into my skin, and rammed into me again with a hard shove that made me scream. From that angle I felt him even deeper, hitting me in a new place with every thrust. He yanked my hair back, arching my spine, and fucked me like that, harder, faster, never stopping saying my name under his breath. He slid one hand along my side, reached my clit, and started rubbing it in circles while he kept pounding me from behind.

We were immersed in the rhythm of our movements, a dance of energetic but gentle impulses, exactly the way I like to feel him. With every second I felt him completely inside me, claiming every corner of my body. Andrés leaned toward my ear and, breathing hard, whispered words that set me on fire inside.

—You’re wetter than ever today, my love… I adore it. I’m going to fill you up completely, do you hear me? I’m going to fill your cunt with cum.

He turned me to face him again, put my legs over his shoulders, and drove himself into me all the way once more, folding me in half. From there he stared at me steadily, never looking away from my eyes, fucking me with thrusts that grew deeper and more desperate. I dug my nails into his back, feeling the muscles tense beneath my hands, noticing how his cock swelled even more inside me, warning me that he was close.

At that instant the intensity was so great I couldn’t take any more. It was as if for one second I detached from my own body. I came to see us from the outside, as if I were floating in front of us while we fucked. I saw the exact moment he finished, felt him emptying inside me, shot after shot, a thick warmth running through me from the inside. His cock throbbed against the walls of my cunt, emptying itself completely, while he groaned low against my neck, biting my shoulder.

That sensation drove me into a huge orgasm, that little death that took me straight to heaven. I clenched around him, milking him with the spasms, soaking the sheets too, feeling his semen and my juices mix and run down my thighs. For a moment we were two souls inside one body. Then, little by little, the world fell back into place. He collapsed on top of me, still inside, his breath pressed against my neck, and we stayed like that for a long while, until he slowly pulled out and lay down beside me on the rumpled, stained silk.

I kept looking at him up close, watching him rest peacefully, with that calm only he gives me. I thought about all the times people told me what we had was hard, that a man like him wouldn’t know how to love me the way I deserved. And there was the proof of how wrong they all were.

He doesn’t love me with the phrases everyone else expects. He loves me with the truth, with the fixed gaze, with the hand that reaches for mine without asking permission. He loves me by choosing me every night, in silence, in his own frequency. And I learned to hear that language as if I had been born speaking it.

With a smile of fullness, I fell asleep pressed against his chest, his semen still leaking between my legs, sunk into a dream I didn’t want to wake from. This is my confession, without ornaments, just as he taught me: I love a man who loves differently, and I wouldn’t change him for anything.