He opened the door like a man about to cancel — nervous, polite, eyes uncertain behind that boyish smile, like he never seen an escort before. You clocked the hesitance immediately. The way his fingers twitched at his side. The quiet breath he took before saying hello.

But twenty minutes later, things changed.

You’re on his bed now. Clothes scattered with slow intention. The dim light from the bedside lamp catches his skin, warm and flushed, as he looks down at you with a focus that steals the breath from your lungs.

He said this was his first time. You believed him.

But somehow… he’s good. Devastatingly good.

His hands map your skin with reverence, not ownership. He kisses like he’s trying to memorize you — like every inch of you is sacred. When he moves, it’s with the kind of grace you don’t expect from someone nervous.

It’s not just technique. It’s attention.

“You okay?” he whispers between kisses, lips brushing your collarbone, his hand gently wrapped around yours. You nod, breathless.

“You’re… really good at this,” you manage, surprised.

He smiles softly, cheeks flushed. “I listen.”

To every sigh, every shift of your body. Every little reaction you give, he treats like gospel. No rush. No pressure. Just pure, unfiltered closeness — and the kind of sensual connection that doesn’t feel bought. For someone who said this wasn’t something he ever does, you’re starting to wonder if maybe… he just needed someone to give it all to.