I met my boyfriendboyfriend in Barcelona airportairport

I was flying back to Manchester after a solo trip around Spain when I met Diego. It’s a blessing and a curse having an airport crush. Your heart does this little dance when you first see them because oh my god, tall, dark and handsome guys like this don’t exist outside of a TV screen, but then I met Diego and that belief got flipped on its head.

Spanish. According to Yahoo, they’re one of the best nationalities in bed. Of course this wasn’t my first thought, but it definitely added to the list of green flags.

I’m walking through security when I first see him, repacking my bag – god knows they’re overly fond of having you unpack it before you send it through the conveyor belt.

I’m just slipping my toothbrush back into the side pocket (don’t ask, apparently they thought it was sharp) when I see him in the corner of my eye striding into duty free with a brown, Carhartt backpack and a generous head of black hair. He was alone also, which put me in two minds – either he was single, because nobody solo travels when they’re in a relationship, or he was flying to visit his British girlfriend.

I put back on my rucksack and entered duty free some moments after he did to spritz myself with a nice-smelling perfume – the closest to relaxation you’re gonna get when you’ve just had what feels like your whole life broken and pieced back together in security.

Alien Goddess is the one I went for.

The thing with airport crushes is that it never goes anywhere. You see somebody you fancy, you gawp at them for an unreasonable amount of time, and then you catch your flight and spend the duration of it imagining made up scenarios of the two of you together to give yourself some solace for when the turbulence hits.

I go to Starbucks to get myself an overpriced latte, and as I’m handing over the rest of my euros I see him in the corner of my eye looking at me. So I turn my head just slightly, and there he is.

Giving me a small smile.

The coins rain to the floor.

Shit.

I squat down, scoop them back up in my now, clammy hands, and pass them to the lady behind the cash desk.

“Gracias.”

I walk the takeaway coffee over to the first free seat I see to blend into the crowds because he totally just saw me spill money all over the floor.

Not like I’m blending in much. I examine my face in the front camera of my phone, cheeks redder than the sunburn on my shoulders.

I make an effort to sip my latte as nonchalant as possible.

My cheeks are just returning to normal temperature when I see him again.

Walking towards me.

“Hey.”

A Spanish accent and everything.

“Hi.”

“Can I sit?”

I clear my throat even though I have no need to. “Yeah.”

My pulse through the roof, blood rushing through my body at speed. Forget the planes. It feels like my heart is about to take off.

“What’s your name?”

“Alicia.”

“I’m Diego.” He smiles at me. Swipes a thick piece of hair that’s slipped down onto his forehead. He does this often, constantly playing with his hair. He has a lot of it.

He reclines in his seat, nets together his hands on his lap. His forearms are strong, the skin smooth, and he pouts with full, round lips when he asks me: “did you have a good holiday?”

That’s when I tell him about my solo travels.

He nods, listening intently.

“Before here I was in Marbella. I think that was my favourite city.”

“Not Barcelona?”

“It’s too crowded.”

His smile widens. “Marbella is where I’m from.”

And so he tells me about his childhood. How he’s grown up by the beach his entire life and always fancied himself a summer away from the ocean.

“That’s why I’m flying to England for a month. I want to see the countryside.”

My heart skips a beat. “Show me your boarding pass.”

Just as I hoped.

“Clink.” I tap mine against his. “Same flight.”

“Oh, no way!”

We laugh.

Diego has kind, brown eyes and olive skin. The left corner of his lip rises before the right when he’s about to smile and he shakes his head when he laughs at my jokes as if in disbelief of how funny I am.

Joke.

“Are you meeting anyone in England?”

He gives a grand shake of his head but this time he’s not laughing. “Nope. Just me. Like you, I suppose? On your solo trip around Spain?”

“Uh, huh.”

Silence forms around us. The noise in the terminal continues, real life unpausing. The static announcements. Footsteps on the marble floor and rolling suitcases. All of the incoherent conversations. The roaring sounds of planes taking off in the distance.

Our flight gets announced for boarding so we head to the gate together. This smug feeling settles inside of me, walking with him, because for all people know, Diego and I could be boyfriend and girlfriend flying back from our romantic getaway together.

“Here, what’s your number?” He asks me in the line. “I’ll text you on the plane.”

We exchange numbers, text back and forth once we’re on the flight, making general conversation. I find myself smiling at my phone. Really, I should be staring out the window listening to some depressing Coldplay song as I fly back to England, forcing tears into my eyes because my Spanish trip’s come to an end, but instead my heart’s beating like it’s only just beginning.

We land and meet in arrivals, both about to go our separate ways.

“Maybe I’ll need a tour guide,” he says. We’re standing close to one another, our bodies inches apart. Those brown, observing eyes…

Damn.

“Yeah. I live around the Lake District.”

“I’m starting out in the Yorkshire Dales but maybe I can alter my itinerary slightly and swing your way after?”

It’s a moment that feels too good to be true so I take a mental screenshot to store it away in my mind. I forget a lot of moments. This can’t be one. “Sounds great.”

“Great.” He breaks out in a smile.

Then it disappears.

His eyes become serious. Even more watchful.

They flick down to my lips.

Back up to my eyes.

A wave of heat passes through me.

Air gets caught in my throat.

He leans in slightly, testing the waters, but when I follow suit he’s wrapping his arm around me and embracing me in a kiss.

No tongue.

Just his lips pressing softly against mine.

He strokes my hair as we part.

Salutes me goodbye.

“I’ll text you.”

And we do every day. Some nights arrange a FaceTime. He sends me pictures of his adventures, the hikes he’s been doing. It’s easy to get runaway when you’re speaking to somebody new, especially if they’re tall, fashionable and Spanish like Diego, so I book myself in for extra dance classes, take on more work. Anything to keep myself busy. Distracted. I’ve been in my fair share of talking stages and although they weren’t quite as good as this, I have an annoying habit of getting too attached.

And then comes the ghosting.

One week passes and he arrives at the Lakes. I show him around Ambleside. He’s in awe. Says he’s never experienced anything like it.

We’re drinking coffee, him a shot of espresso, me a latte, in this cafe on the roadside when he says to me: “are you seeing anybody else?”

I shake my head.

He shakes his head. “Me neither.”

I bring the latte to my lips to hide the smile on my face because it’s a step in the right direction that he’s not entertaining any other girls on the side. He definitely could, with a face like that.

And don’t even get me started on the body.

We get to Derwentwater around 3PM, the late August sun beating down, when he proposes a swim. His eyes are playful, teasing, and he flicks a curl of hair away from my shoulder (it’s just an excuse for him to touch me).

Desire burns between my thighs then, at the thought of stripping down to underwear and swimming with him.

So that’s exactly what we do.

His body, again, is something you’d see on a TV screen, so I inwardly pinch myself when he’s stroking his arms up and down my back.

Guiding me into the water.

The temperature’s biting. I hiss, probably sounding like a wimp, but normally I’m diving in wearing a wetsuit, not lace-trim underwear (that I of course picked out especially for today – you never know ladies).

“You’re staring,” I say to him when I’m thigh deep in the water.

He keeps quiet and wades towards me. The water level’s hardly above his knee.

Six foot five equals paradise.

You can’t make this shit up – I’m alone in Derwentwater stripped down to underwear with a spaniard’s tongue down my throat. I run my hands up and down his chest, his skin soft like silk and licked golden.

Then he lowers his lips to my jaw, starts trailing kisses there.

Arousal suddenly budding between my thighs, I find myself pushing into him.

Feeling something hard.

I break the kiss – I don’t fancy spending the night in a prison cell for having sex in a public place.

I peer up into his eyes. They’re more black than brown. Clouded with desire.

“You could come back to mine…?”

“If that’s what you want?”

I nod.

He’s back in my space again, hands rubbing my sides.

It seems to be his favourite thing to do.

I do have a nicely cinched waist.

I retire to the shore, glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s staring at my ass – he is – and we drip dry for a few moments, absorbing the atmosphere. Diego snaps a couple photos on his phone and when we’re back in our clothes, we pose for some together, propping up the device on a rock with a self timer.

“I had a really good time today,” he says from the passenger seat.

I turn momentarily from the road to look at him. Hair half dry, half wet, eyes full of life and gazing curiously up at the fells in the distance…I’d take a picture of him if I wasn’t driving.

“And the day’s not even over.”

We arrive back at my house. My parents are out, on some cruise around Norway, so we have the place to ourselves. Overcome by hunger, we cook together, he shows me this traditional Spanish sauce invented by his family – they own a restaurant in Marbella – and sit on the sofa together eating in silence, a sitcom laugh track filling the room.

Neither of us are fully watching.

It’s crazy how life plays out sometimes.

All this because of a random encounter in Barcelona airport.

Life really does reward you when you’re least expecting it.

We set the plates aside and I crawl into his lap. Diego’s kind eyes turn sinful. He watches me, as if he’s trying to work out what mood I’m in based off the expression I’m giving him.

His next inhale carries some weight.

He rearranges me in his lap, spreads my legs so they’re crossed around his back.

And then he’s kissing me.

His hot tongue enters my mouth, the sweet taste of pasta sauce rich.

We go a few moments just kissing.

Then we’re both exhaling deep breaths. Slowing the kiss to involve our bodies.

He lowers his hands. Grabs my ass through the joggers I threw on when we got home.

My heart beats thick in my throat when he rises from his seated position to lay on top of me.

He presses me back into the sofa. Climbs on top of me to pick up from where we last left off, peppering kisses along my jawline.

My neck.

Collarbone.

My breathing doubles in intensity when he peels back the collar of the flannel I have draped over my shoulders.

He looks back into my eyes. “Upstairs?”

I nod.

He chases me up and we land in a pile of limbs on my bed, quickly rearranging ourselves so I’m back on my back – head in the pillow – and he’s on top. There’s something intuitive about the way he touches me, like he’s reading my mind. Knowing what buttons to press. He palms my breasts, tweaks my nipples until they’re hard.

My back arches.

I feel sweat gathering around my forehead.

One is already dripping down his. They’re drawn together in observation as he watches my reaction each time he touches me somewhere new. It’s like he’s gathering data. Storing it away for later use.

My moans induce his.

He falls back on top of me, our tongues fused together once again, but he pulls back to reposition himself between my thighs.

The joggers come away.

He slides down my underwear.

Delicately runs the tip of his tongue up the inner seam of my thigh.

My-

“DIEGO!”

The vibrations of his moans stimulate my clit.

He laps up my wetness like it’s honey and he’s never tasted it before.

Then he’s undoing his trousers.

Tossing them aside.

Taking out a very impressive looking dick – my first circumcised one too.

Laying back down over me.

I slip a condom from the top drawer of my bed side table.

Frisbee it over to him.

He catches it first handed.

I spread my legs wide for him as he’s putting it on.

“Look at you.” He licks his lips. “All open and ready for me.” He climbs back on top of me, lines himself up with my entrance and-

“FUCK.”

We say it simultaneously.

I feel weightless, like his dick has magically erased all the tension from my body. Tension I never even knew I had.

“You’re so tight.”

He pants, mouth diagonal as he starts to chase release.

It feels like symmetry. Like all of the stars in the sky have aligned. No other man has made me this horny before. This wet. This desperate for sex. He’s so long it feels as though he’s in my stomach rearranging the pasta we shortly cooked and enjoyed together. My pulse throbs the same rhythm as his dick,

Then he reaches a-

“Yes! Right there.”

So he adjusts his positioning.

Hits gold with each thrust.

I screw shut my eyes, arch my back as the orgasm washes over me more intense than any tsunami. I feel Diego in every cell of my body. It surprises me how verbal I am, normally in the bedroom I’m mute.

But around Diego I’m like a banshee.

He comes seconds after me, slamming into me with two, exhausted thrusts, and after riding out his climax, collapses next to me on the mattress.

He ends up spending the rest of his time here in the Lakes. The week before his flight home, we make it official – boyfriend and girlfriend, and I drive him to Manchester airport the morning of his return back to Spain, constantly cornering tears away from my eyes.

“A two hour flight, that’s all,” he says, looking out of the window. “We’ll make this work.”

My stomach folds in on itself as I watch him recede into the crowds, but I return home with a piece of him inside of me, like he’s left a tattoo on my heart. We schedule calls every day, luckily the time difference is only an hour apart, and I arrange to fly to Marbella the next month.

That’s how it goes for the next year. One month he’ll come to England, the next he’ll be in Manchester and I’ll be speeding down the motorway, excitement evaporating off my skin as I drive to collect him. The sex is incredible. Each time we unlock new levels of pleasure and after we both come, we collapse exhausted on the bed and fall asleep in one another’s arms.

The next year we buy a green-shutter apartment together in Spain.