I’m 30, working in tech, constantly flying between New York and Shanghai.
This time I was back in Shanghai for a week-long conference. I checked into the Bvlgari Hotel, a riverside suite perched so high above the ground, it felt like desire and the crowds had nothing to do with me.
I’ve tried almost every dating platform. From Tinder to domestic apps I’d rather not name—most have turned into performance stages of filtered photos and scripted lines. I’m not short on money, or company. I just wanted to meet someone who wouldn’t lie to me.
She appeared on a platform that required real-name and asset verification—I honestly forgot why I even signed up there. Her photos weren’t the most glamorous. Just a white shirt, damp hair, like she had just stepped out of the shower.
Her bio had only one sentence: “I’m not afraid of your money. I’m afraid you think everyone only cares about it.”
I replied: “So what do you care about?”
She took a whole day to respond: “I want to be genuinely liked. Just once.”
We talked for three days.
It wasn’t fast-paced flirting—it was slow, almost old-fashioned conversation. She’d just graduated, interning at an ad agency, living in a shared flat near Xujiahui. “I don’t like plastic roses and spinning carousels,” she said. I said I didn’t either.
That night, I came back from the venue around 11 p.m.
I told her I hadn’t eaten.
She replied, “Me neither.”
I said, “Wanna drop by the hotel? The river view is great.”
Five minutes later, she messaged: “What’s the address?”
She showed up at my door in a simple black dress, her hair half-dry, no purse in hand.
“You actually came.”
“Didn’t you say the view was worth it?” she smiled.
She took off her shoes as she entered, stepping softly onto the carpet. She walked to the window, placed her hands on the glass, turned back and said: “It’s really quiet here.”
“So are you.”
She sat down on the couch. I poured her a drink, which she accepted, sipping gently.
“You seem less nervous than in your pictures,” I said.
“That’s because you look less dangerous than I expected.”
She leaned closer. When she sat, her shoulder brushed against my arm. She smelled faintly of soap, and just a trace of Chanel No. 5. Not the overpowering kind—just enough to feel like it belonged to her, like the kind of scent you only notice when it’s pressed close against your skin.
I looked at her. She looked at me. We didn’t speak, but the atmosphere shifted.
“Do you always stare at people like this?” she asked softly.
“No. I just don’t know how to pretend.”
She set her glass down and slowly climbed onto my lap. Her movements were soft, but deliberate.
“You can kiss me,” she said. “I won’t take it the wrong way.”
When I kissed her, she didn’t rush. Her body pressed against me gradually, like a quiet invitation, like a challenge. She bit her lip gently, suppressing something—or teasing something out of me. Her eyes sparkled faintly in the dim light, a mix of restrained desire and subtle pain, like she was waiting for me to understand her longing. It made me pause.
I thought I was just responding physically, but the way she looked at me—it lit something up and pulled something deeper down inside me. It wasn’t lust. It was the urge to protect her, even in this wild, messy moment of intimacy.
I don’t remember the last time I kissed someone that hungrily, or wanted someone this badly. When I heard her soft moans, nearly impossible to suppress, I thought—if time could freeze, this should be the moment.
As our bodies moved in rhythm, she bit her lip, her brows furrowing slightly. Her face showed that blend of pain and pleasure I hadn’t seen in years. She closed her eyes at times, opened them others, as if saying “don’t stop,” or asking me to be gentler. She gripped the bedsheet, gasping softly, every touch like she was being unlocked again.
“You don’t smell like a bad guy,” she whispered, “but you sure don’t touch like a gentle one.”
I held her waist. She leaned back onto the sofa, her skirt riding up her thighs. Her skin glowed under the warm lights.
She reached for me: “Don’t go slow.”
When I pressed into her, she let out a soft “mm”—like a stretching cat. Her legs curled, her foot brushing against my calf.
I pulled down her dress strap—it was a pale apricot silk. Under the soft lighting, it shimmered as it slid off her shoulder. She whispered: “Don’t turn off the lights.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“I am. But I want to remember you tonight.”
Our bodies seemed like they already knew each other. Every movement felt like a reply. Her hair spread over the pillow, her nails digging into my back, lips brushing against my ear: “Don’t stop.”
I felt her breath grow more erratic. She clung to my waist, pulling herself up against me. I bit her collarbone—she gasped, but didn’t push me away.
When we switched positions, she straddled me, palms on my chest, moving slowly—like punishment.
“Do you like being controlled?” she teased.
“I like it when you do it.”
She paused, then moved harder.
That night, we didn’t go all night—but each time felt like falling into something deep.
She rested on my chest and bit my shoulder, like she wanted to mark me. We tried all sorts of positions—her on my back, then curled around me, both of us sweating, pressed together like we were trying to burn into each other. The light stayed on. We never said “I like you,” but our bodies had already spoken.
In the morning, she stood by the window in my shirt, facing away.
“Do you regret it now?” I asked.
She didn’t turn around. “I didn’t expect I’d want to stay after the first look.”
I got up and hugged her from behind. She leaned against me and whispered: “I’m not that kind of girl. But this time—I wanted to be reckless.”
Then she pulled away, picked up her black dress, moving a bit faster now.
As she bent down, the hem lifted just high enough to reveal the curve of her hip—like a leftover dream. She went into the bathroom without closing the door. She tied her hair up and applied a bit of lip color—muted pink, almost like milk tea. It made her lips look even softer, dangerously so.
When she came out, she was dressed again, bag over her shoulder, back to that intern girl from the agency. Standing by the window, she smoothed her skirt. The sunlight hit her silhouette—slim waist, long legs, the hem flicking like a movie scene.
She didn’t look at me. She paused by the door, then softly said: “Your shirt was really comfortable.”
“What time is it?” she asked, fixing her hair and checking her phone. “Oh god, I have a 9:30 meeting!”
I sat in bed watching her quickly fix her hair and slip on those Roger Vivier heels—no panic in her eyes.
“I can get a driver to drop you off,” I offered.
“No, someone might see me. I don’t want to be known as ‘that girl who came from the Bvlgari.’”
She stood at the door, not moving.
“Will I see you again?” I asked.
She didn’t answer directly. She pulled out her phone, sent me a WeChat message, and looked up: “If I text you again… will you reply right away?”
“Try me.”
As the door closed, I looked down at my phone.
“Next time you’re in New York… I want to return the night to you.”
