Many years ago, jetlagged and weary, I stepped off the plane and into the vibrant pulse of Madrid. I had spent the flight devouring Ali Hazelwood’s The Love Hypothesis, Back then “Head over Feet,” drunk on its intoxicating narrative. There’s something about her men—their tender arrogance, their brilliance, their devotion—that leaves me yearning, even wistfully wishing such characters existed beyond the page.
By the time I arrived at my hotel, nestled in the heart of Plaza Mayor, the city was alive with a nocturnal hum. The air was balmy, the night luminous, and despite my exhaustion, sleep eluded me. After a smooth check-in, I luxuriated in the ritual of a steamy shower, letting the warmth unknot my travel-weary muscles. Wrapped in the hotel’s plush robe, a towel coiled around my damp curls, I sank onto the bed. Tomorrow promised exploration, family reunions in the countryside, and perhaps—just perhaps—a reason to extend my stay beyond the usual few weeks.
But tonight? Tonight, curiosity had other plans. I reached for my phone, Tinder beckoning like an illicit lover. Within moments, a cascade of messages from Spaniard men flooded my inbox. Their broken English and generic compliments amused me; the crude ones, with their graceless proclamations about anatomy, earned an instant swipe left. Maturity is an aphrodisiac, and I had no patience for juvenility.
Just as I prepared to surrender to sleep with a glass of Rioja in hand, a new profile caught my eye: José Manuel. His photo radiated a smoldering confidence—sharp cheekbones, sunlit skin, and green eyes that seemed to promise stories untold. And then, the buzzkill: 22. Too young, I thought dismissively. But his message appeared before I could close the app.
“Enjoying the night?”
I hesitated, then replied. “I just landed. Took a shower. Finished a book. Quite productive, though I’m exhausted.”
His response was immediate, playful. “Castellano o inglés?”
“Perfect castellano,” I typed back, slipping into my mother tongue.
His confidence was palpable even through the screen. “We can do English, Spanish, or French—whichever you prefer.”
For the next fifteen minutes, our conversation danced between languages, each exchange smooth, tantalizing. Beneath his youth was an intellect I couldn’t ignore. “José, it’s late,” I finally wrote, feigning a yawn. “I’ll start a new book and drift to sleep.”
His reply came swiftly. “I could tell you a story instead.”
I rolled my eyes, smirking at his audacity. But something kept me glued to the screen. “I could be your mother,” I teased.
“I wish,” he shot back.
My smirk deepened. This boy was trouble. “The Rioja tastes better than I remember,” I wrote.
“I bet it tastes better if I drink it from you,” he replied.
A thrill shot through me, low and insistent. My body betrayed me, a warmth pooling where restraint once resided. “What are you doing tomorrow?” I ventured, my curiosity slipping past my resolve.
“I’m free now,” he countered. “Close to Plaza Mayor, too.”
I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Didn’t your mother warn you about stranger danger?”
“There’s something thrilling about meeting someone in the middle of the night, don’t you think?”
He had no idea how right he was. “José Manuel, it’s three in the morning. Hardly the hour for strangers from sex apps.”
But even as I typed, the thought stirred a delicious rebellion within me. His youth, his boldness, his confidence—they were a dangerous cocktail, one I found myself savoring. “Go to sleep,” I wrote finally, my better judgment prevailing. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Coffee?”
“Drinks,” he countered. “My university is nearby. I’ll show you the Royal Houses.”
I resisted the urge to tell him I’d been there countless times. Let him play the guide; his enthusiasm was charming. Then came his next question, typed with shameless confidence: “What’s this mother figure wearing to sleep?”
I glanced down at the robe, my towel discarded. Underneath, there was nothing but bare skin. “Nothing,” I replied, emboldened.
His response came in French. “Then let me come keep you warm.”
Switching to Spanish, I fired back, “Who said I needed you to keep me warm?”
Ever quick, he replied, “I’m simply offering. My mother raised me to be a gentleman.”
A sly smile spread across my lips as my hand, unbidden, began tracing forbidden paths. What was this boy doing to me? “Why is your hair curly?” he asked suddenly.
“Because I have slave blood in me,” I replied, curious how he’d react.
There was a pause—a moment of hesitation—and then he answered, “The only slave here is me. I’d surrender to you, your curls, your blood.”
I smiled, my fingers pressing harder, my breathing shallow. “I don’t usually indulge in exchanges like this,” I admitted. “They’re so crass. Yet here I am, touching myself because of you. I should punish you for that.”
His reply came like lightning. “Then let me come over. You can sit on my face and punish me however you like.”
At the time, I had better restraint and manners—youthful but wiser than I perhaps gave myself credit for—so I didn’t let José Manuel into my hotel room at three in the morning. But that didn’t stop my thoughts from lingering on him all night. His absurdly handsome features haunted me, an almost ethereal blend of rugged masculinity and artistry. He looked like an elevated version of Timothy Chalamet, his angles sharper, his smirk more devastating.
When I finally stirred from a deep, jetlag-induced sleep at one in the afternoon Madrid time, I woke to a stream of messages from him. I had given him my number after our exchange where he’d expertly described, in vivid yet respectful detail, how he’d touch me if he were with me. There was no vulgarity, no unsolicited photos—just an intoxicating combination of words, sentences crafted with care. I admired that. Respect lies in taking the time to communicate, even in a text. José understood this, and it disarmed me.
His messages that morning were simple yet charming: a wish for a good day, a photo of the morning sky over Madrid, and another of his coffee cup perched on a café table. It was endearing, this glimpse into his day. He proposed we meet at Plaza Mayor for afternoon drinks. I agreed, curiosity and attraction entwining to pull me toward him like a moth to flame.
When we finally met, I was unprepared for the sheer physical presence of him. Towering, lean, and impossibly charismatic, he was almost too beautiful to be real. My voice failed me at first. “How did you get all the way up there?” I joked, offering the traditional two kisses on the cheek.
He smiled, a dimple flashing in his left cheek. “I blame my parents,” he quipped, and we both laughed.
We walked together, his long strides slowing to match mine as he guided me through Madrid’s storied landmarks. His voice, low and rich with confidence, wove tales of the monarchy and Spanish history. There was a pride in his tone, an almost arrogant reverence for his colonial heritage, though it was tempered by his Midwestern American roots on his father’s side. He was studying law, still at the cusp of his ambitions, and I could already see the faint glimmers of the arrogance that comes with privilege and intellect.
“This is hierbas,” he announced when we paused at a cozy bar. He ordered two drinks, placing one in front of me with an expectant smile. “You’ve never had it before? Impossible.”
The drink was sublime—sweet and herbal, warming in a way that made my cheeks flush. He watched my reaction closely, clearly pleased. One drink became two, then three, and soon I lost count. The conversation flowed as effortlessly as the hierbas, loosening us both.
“Do you like younger men?” he asked, his gaze steady, the edges of his smile teasing.
“Do you like older women?” I countered, meeting his eyes.
He nodded without hesitation. “I do.”
I tilted my head thoughtfully, the alcohol making me bold. “I think I do too. I’m not sure.” At the time, it was true. Now, I know better.
A breeze swept through the plaza, and I shivered. “I need a sweater,” I murmured, rising. “And I’d prefer not to use the bar’s restroom.” I glanced at him, adding almost absentmindedly, “My hotel is just a stone’s throw away. Let’s stop by.”
He followed without protest, a quiet satisfaction in his expression. In hindsight, I realized how my suggestion must have sounded like a move, though at the time my intentions were genuinely innocent. At least, that’s what I told myself.
The moment we stepped into my hotel room, however, all pretense of innocence unraveled. I excused myself to the restroom, hoping the distance would quell the growing heat between us. It didn’t. If anything, I wanted him more. When I returned, he was standing near my bed, his fingers lightly skimming the pages of my journal.
“Curious?” I asked, stepping toward him.
He looked up, unflustered. “You write beautifully.”
“Come here.” My voice was low and commanding, and when he obeyed, I climbed onto the bed, standing to be able to reach him, pulled him up by his face, and kissed him. It was profound, deep, our tongues meeting in a dance that tasted of hierbas and desire. His hands cupped my face as though I were precious, but the hunger in his kiss betrayed his restraint.
“Finally,” he whispered against my lips, his voice breathless.
“Fóllame, José Manuel,” I murmured, my Spanish accent sharper now, sultry.
His pupils darkened with need. “Pero me tienes que hablar en español todo el tiempo,” I demanded, my voice thick with want.
British and Spanish accents had always had an inexplicable effect on me, but his—his was devastating. “But I want to practice my English,” he teased, the corners of his mouth twitching.
I shook my head, running my fingers through his hair and pulling him closer. “No,” I said, my tone firm. “You will fuck me hard. En español. That’s an order.”
He was so tall, towering over me in a way that made me feel both vulnerable and utterly exhilarated. At five feet six inches (yes, I refuse to adopt the European metric system—go google it if you must), his six-foot-four frame was an overwhelming presence. And I wanted to feel that way. I wanted to feel small beneath him, consumed by his size and strength, and yet part of me craved the opposite—to make this towering figure yield to me.
The summer dress I wore was thin and airy, a piece meant for breezy afternoons, but now it served another purpose: ease. His hands roamed over my body, deliberate and hungry, and it was all too easy for him to push aside the straps and expose my breast. His mouth descended without hesitation, his breath hot and uneven against my skin. Then, with a swift, possessive tug, the fabric tore. I would’ve cared if I weren’t just as reckless, just as violent in my own fervor. My hands clawed at him, pulling at his shirt, digging into his hair to press his face harder against me.
“Joder,” I moaned, my voice loud and uninhibited. The word fell from my lips like a prayer, reverent and raw.
He bit down on my nipple, not hard enough to hurt but with just enough pressure to send shocks of pleasure coursing through me. My back arched, my fingers tangling in his hair as I gasped. I couldn’t help myself; I loved it, craved it. I’m incapable of reaching the edge without my breasts being touched, and somehow, he knew this, or maybe he just knew how to listen to the rhythms of my body. Either way, he was relentless, his lips and tongue dedicated, his hands rough but skilled.
“Joder,” I gasped again, louder this time. My eyes fluttered open, meeting his as he lifted his head, his lips wet and slightly swollen. The intensity in his gaze pinned me in place, even as his hands continued to roam. He pushed me back onto the bed with a strength that made my heart race.
He didn’t bother removing my dress completely; instead, he lifted it, exposing me in a way that felt both thrilling and primal. The weight of his body pressed against me, grounding me, and yet his hands were everywhere, claiming me, driving me wild.
“Anoche…” he began, his voice low and deliberate, each syllable dripping with intent. His hands moved to his waistband, sliding his pants down with an easy, confident grace. My breath caught as he stood before me, gloriously aroused, his right hand wrapping around his length as if to tease both of us. He stroked himself slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine. It was intimate in a way I hadn’t anticipated, the vulnerability of his movements paired with the unapologetic confidence in his gaze.
“Te tocaste mientras hablábamos…” he asked, his voice thick with the memory of our conversation.
I nodded, unable to lie, my eyes fixed on him. His anatomy was breathtaking, every inch of him perfect in my eyes. A fleeting thought crossed my mind—what would become of him as he aged, this young man already so effortlessly exquisite? Would time make him even more irresistible?
“Abre para mí,” he commanded, his Spanish rich and melodic, his accent sending shivers down my spine. There was a power in his voice, an irresistible authority that left me no room for hesitation. Slowly, I parted my legs, my soaked underwear still clinging to me, betraying the depths of my desire.
He leaned down, his breath warm against my inner thigh, and pressed his face to the damp fabric. The moment was electric, his mouth hovering, teasing. He inhaled deeply, almost reverently, as though committing my scent to memory. Then, his tongue flicked out, pressing against me over and over through the thin barrier, driving me to the edge of madness.
Without warning, his hand gripped the fabric and tore it away, the sound of it ripping echoing in the room. I gasped, both at his audacity and the thrill of being laid bare before him. He looked up at me, his dark eyes shimmering with mischief and hunger.
“Are you always this rough?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, a playful smile tugging at my lips.
He grinned, leaning in closer, his face inches from me. “Only with women I know can take it,” he replied, the confidence in his words igniting something primal within me.
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