I Met My Best Lover on a Dating App

I woke up that Saturday morning feeling both excited and nervous. At last I was going to meet Adrián in person, the man I’d been writing to for almost a month on a dating app. We’d put off meeting again and again because of his work trips, or so he told me, and the wait had only made my curiosity grow into impatience.

He was forty-nine, with fair skin that contrasted with a very neatly trimmed gray beard, and from the photos you could tell he had a well-kept body without being obsessive about it. But what had truly hooked me wasn’t his looks. It was the way he wrote.

I love confident, well-mannered men, the kind who make their intentions clear from the first message without ever slipping into vulgarity, not even as a joke. I’d been through a bad streak: distracted men, rude men, incapable of the slightest bit of eroticism or tenderness. Adrián seemed to be the exact opposite, and I needed to believe men like that still existed.

As soon as I saw him standing in the small square where we were meeting, I knew the wait had been worth it. He was dressed with understated elegance: a dark double-breasted suit, a thin black sweater, and spotless leather shoes. I had chosen a long olive-green skirt — I’ve been convinced ever since that it brings me luck — a cream silk blouse, a black leather jacket, and my favorite ankle boots, medium-heeled and as comfortable as any I owned. We greeted each other with two kisses, and at last I heard his voice.

“Hi, Lucía. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I was afraid you’d lose patience with my impossible schedule.”

“Don’t worry about that now,” I replied, almost hypnotized by that deep, calm tone.

The evening was promising. We had dinner at a Japanese restaurant he’d chosen with my tastes in mind, based on what I’d told him. That detail, as silly as it seemed, melted me a little more.

“You know something?” he said halfway through dinner. “You’re better in person. The photos you posted don’t do you justice.”

“Same goes for you,” I replied, winking with my left eye.

The conversation flowed effortlessly. We talked about our jobs, but also about films, travel, and books neither of us had finished. At no point did I feel this man was going to disappoint me. When dessert arrived, he looked at me over the rim of his wineglass.

“What do you feel like doing after this? Shall we go to the movies?”

“Honestly, I don’t feel like it,” I said, surprising myself with how quickly I answered. “There’s nothing playing that interests me. How about a drink at your place?”

My boldness seemed to catch him off guard. But he smiled and agreed without hesitation.

“All right.”

He insisted on paying for dinner, saying he’d just wrapped up a great month at work. He was a consultant at a tech company with clients all over the world, which explained his constant absences. When we got to his apartment, I was stunned. He lived in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city, with a view straight out of a magazine. Tastefully chosen furniture, an open kitchen full of details, and a huge sofa that, as I was about to find out, swallowed you up without mercy.

He took off his jacket and asked for mine so he could hang them on the coat rack by the door. I sat down while he made us a couple of drinks: a vodka with lemon for me, a gin and tonic for him.

“What a place you’ve got, Adrián,” I told him, looking straight into those hazel eyes that had me fascinated.

“I can’t complain,” he replied, sitting beside me. “Like I said, things are going well for me. The only thing I regret is not having someone to share all this with. Women get tired of me spending half my life on a plane.”

A few minutes later, already comfortable and loosened by the alcohol, I stroked his thigh while I listened to him. I couldn’t stop looking at him the way you look at something too beautiful to be real. He leaned in slowly and kissed me on the lips. It was one of those slow kisses, as if giving me time to pull back. But pulling back was the last thing I wanted. I wanted that kiss and a thousand more.

With every second our bodies pressed closer together. His hands searched through my hair, my cheekbones, the lobe of my ear, with a tenderness that made my skin prickle. I was more impatient: after stroking his chest through the sweater, I asked him to take it off. I wanted to see that man’s torso. And not just his torso. I wanted to see all of him.

We kept kissing, now with real urgency, and he dared to do more. He touched my breasts exactly the way I like, not roughly, squeezing them only lightly, trying to fit my nipples into the palm of his hand. I took off my blouse and bra as fast as I could. And then he did something that sent a shiver through me: he went still, his eyes fixed on my breasts, and a smile appeared on his face that took twenty years off him.

God, the way he looks at me.

I’m no model, though I have no reason to complain about my body, especially not my breasts. But that look lifted my spirits and my desire in equal measure. He made me feel special. Truly desired.

He leaned over me with softness and determination at once, and began to trace the areola of my right breast with his tongue. How was it possible that this man, on our first date, knew so well exactly what drove me wild? The intensity built little by little. When he caught my nipple and sucked it, I was already wet, but I wanted it to last. A gentle bite made me cry out his name.

His hand started climbing up my thighs, pushing my skirt aside, searching for what I so wanted him to find. He moved my underwear aside and, in seconds, found the exact spot. Without stopping his play with my breasts, he pressed my clit with a precision that left me breathless.

“Fuck, Adrián,” I panted. “Tonight do whatever you want with me. Anything — I know you’ll be amazing.”

He looked at me again, smiled, and made me stand up.

“Show me that body. I want to see everything.”

I stood slowly, unfastened my skirt, and let it drop. Then my underwear. He still had that expression of fascination that had me at his mercy. Without being asked, I turned around so he could see my ass. When I faced him again, he was already standing and taking off his trousers. Then his underwear. And what I saw was the closest thing to perfection I had ever had in front of me in my life: a body with not an ounce of extra fat, no exaggerated muscles — I’ve never liked those — and between his legs, a semi-erect cock that was a thing of beauty.

I was going out of my mind. I pushed him onto the sofa, made him lie down, and took him into my mouth. I wanted to give him pleasure, wanted to return even a fraction of what he had made me feel a minute earlier. I put in more effort than I had in a long time.

For years, oral sex wasn’t something I especially enjoyed; I experienced it as a formality, an exchange. But that night, for the first time, I did it with genuine desire, savoring every moment, attentive to his little movements and those rough sounds of approval. Then I turned myself around on top of him, offering him my sex in case he wanted to taste that too. And did he ever.

While I kept my mouth busy, he started stimulating me with his tongue and slipping in one finger, then two, never losing rhythm. In just a few minutes I was already on the edge.

“Adrián, you’ve got me. I’m so close.”

He answered with a grunt of approval, unable to speak, and urged me to let go. When I started trembling, I felt one of his fingers leave my insides and gently stroke my ass, helped by all that moisture. That was what made me explode.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

He kept stimulating me until the last shudder. When I was done, I collapsed onto his body, spent. He slowly pulled his finger out, and I would swear I heard him put it in his mouth.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured.

“You’ve left me with no strength. I don’t think I’ll be good for much else tonight.”

“Of course you will,” he said with a confidence I loved. “You’re a woman, and from what I can see, a very sexual one.”

I smiled, thinking he was absolutely right. I wanted to do everything with him that night, as if the world were going to end at dawn.

I stretched out beside him, kissing him, caressing him, enjoying that body without hurry. I had never felt such connection, such trust, with someone I had just met. I felt like a teenager rediscovering pleasure.

“Shall we go to bed? We’ll be more comfortable.”

I nodded. He took my hand and led me to his bedroom. It was perfect: spacious, with a huge bed and a mirror on the wardrobe door reflecting the soft light of the bedside lamp. I sat on the edge while he took a box of condoms from the drawer. I made him lie down and began running my hands over his body, from his legs upward, never stopping smiling at him. I could feel the shameless woman inside me demanding her turn. I took that marvel back into my mouth, hard again already.

I could have stayed like that for hours. But when he was ready, he put on the condom and I sat on top of him. I needed him inside me. I lowered myself onto him slowly, savoring every centimeter. I braced my hands on his shoulders and began moving in semicircles over his pelvis, searching for just the right friction on my clit.

“Do you like it like this, Adrián?”

“I like it,” he gasped. “I like your body and the way you move.”

“Tonight I’m yours,” I told him, moaning without stopping, speeding up.

I tried to put into practice the pelvic floor exercises I’d learned weeks earlier in a session my friend Marta had recommended. And they absolutely worked.

“Mmm, Lucía, what are you doing to me?” he said between laughs and moans.

We were two experienced adults enjoying sex without hang-ups. We kept at it for a few minutes, until I reached back to stroke his testicles and check how my wetness had soaked everything. Then, without leaving me, he made me stretch out my legs and, with a quick movement, rolled us over so he was on top.

“Wow, you’re good at this. Like that, fuck me now.”

He began thrusting with passion. His cock went in and out almost completely, making me tremble like a leaf in the wind. With my legs crossed over his waist, I pulled him even closer to me. Sometimes he pulled all the way out, provoking a delicious frustration, and then he’d brush me with the head before entering me again. Every time he did, I begged for more.

“Put it deep inside me. I want to feel you. Give me more.”

“All yours, Lucía.”

And he plunged into me again, each time with more hunger. Then he decided to change positions. He put me on all fours, kissed my ass cheeks, and entered me again. With my right hand I started touching myself while he drove into me hard, alternating tugs at my waist with caresses and the occasional soft slap on my ass.

The thrusts turned almost violent and my fingers did their work, the same work they had done so many times alone.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, come on, do it!”

Seconds later I felt him unravel, emptying himself in an intense, almost convulsive orgasm. We let ourselves fall, me onto the sheets, him onto my back. Carefully, I felt him withdraw slowly to remove the condom.

We lay there in silence for a while, catching our breath, until I turned to kiss him.

“Do you realize what you just did to me?”

“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “I gave you pleasure, the best way I know how. And you gave it to me.”

We laughed, we kissed, we talked late into the night. I stayed over, and the next morning we had breakfast together as if we’d been doing it for years. I felt absurdly happy. Over the months that followed, we had three more meetings, all equally intense. And then, just like that, he disappeared from my life the way he had come into it. I miss him. He was, by far, the best lover I’ve ever had.