He Asked Me Nothing and Somehow Knew Everything
He didn’t come with questions. He just came with presence. Some men don’t want to talk. They want to feel seen and I know exactly how to listen.
He didn’t ask what I offer. He didn’t ask for my real name. He didn’t even ask how long I’ve been doing this.
He asked me nothing.
But somehow, it felt like he already knew everything that mattered.
His booking was quiet just a name, a time, and a note: “I don’t want anything complicated.” That’s how I knew he wasn’t new. Men who are new usually want details. Men like him want something they can’t define.
The doorbell rang just before 9 p.m. I opened it in silence.
He was tall, dressed simply. A linen shirt. No watch. No cologne, but he still smelled expensive like hotel air and clean skin. He smiled with his eyes, not his mouth. And I liked that.
I stepped aside. He walked in without speaking.
I let him take the lead. Some men need direction. Others just need space.
He stood near the window, looking out at the city view of Business Bay, softened by warm lamplight and velvet shadows. I poured two glasses of water. No champagne. He didn’t seem like the type.
We didn’t talk for ten minutes.
He sat beside me, close enough to feel the heat from my legs, but not touching. Just breathing. Just being there.
Then, without a word, he reached for my wrist.
Not to pull me in. Not to guide me. Just to hold it.
It was one of the most intimate things I’ve ever felt.
His thumb brushed along the inside of my arm slowly, absently. I didn’t need to ask what he wanted. I knew. He wanted softness. Slowness. Stillness. No act. No performance.
Just real. Just me.
He kissed me like it was his first time again. Not inexperience just reverence. As if he’d waited years to be with someone who didn’t pretend.
We didn’t undress quickly. We undressed like we had all night.
And in the dim light, he touched me like he didn’t want to finish anything only begin. Every movement was deliberate. Every breath between us mattered.
Sometimes, the sex isn’t the point. Sometimes, it’s the quiet just after. The way skin clings to skin. The silence when two strangers stop being strangers.
When it was over, we didn’t speak. He pulled his shirt back on slowly, brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, and placed a folded envelope on the edge of the table. Cash. No words. No need for any.
Before leaving, he turned at the door, met my gaze, and simply nodded.
I nodded back.
He didn’t ask me anything. And yet, he gave me something most men never do, space to just be. With him. For him. Without explanation.
And I know he’ll be back.