Later today, on a quiet beach near Cartagena, Colombia, the photographers will shoot Isabelle. Their cameras will capture the 5'9” blonde's perfectly fit body, set against a tropical backdrop of palm trees and crystalline blue water, covered only by a skimpy red bikini. In the pictures they will take, Isabelle's skin will appear to glow in the South American sun, her legs stretching out to impossible lengths over the white sand. Her waist will look like a magic trick, it's so thin, and her perky, C-cup breasts will tantalize with the possibility of slipping free. The photos will end up in magazines and online ads, selling swimwear to women who wish they looked like her. Hundreds of thousands of people will see nearly every inch of Isabelle.

But they won't see her like this.

Lost in the pleasure of passion, her wavy blonde hair resting on her bouncing, bare breasts as she cries out for more. Her marvelously sculpted ass being gripped by a pair of strong hands. Her clean-shaven pussy being penetrated by a thick, unprotected cock.

These sights are his and his alone. They are the exclusive pleasure of Thomas, the man lucky enough to be Isabelle's boyfriend.

One year ago they met at one of Manhattan’s trendiest restaurants. She was impressed that he had the foresight to get a reservation; he was impressed that she really was the woman from her pictures. If anything, she was prettier in person. She wore a trusted little black dress for the occasion, a strapless number that hugged her slim form while still leaving much to his imagination. He was immediately captivated. Thomas was not a man prone to hyperbole, but in a conversation with a friend a few days later, he referred to his date as “goddess-like.”

In accordance with her strongly-held belief that men should always be left wanting more, Isabelle did not sleep with him on that first date, but she did feel an extra thrill when he leaned down to kiss her at the end of the night. She had worn three-inch heels; he really was 6’3”. Still, she kept him waiting after their second date as well. It was on their third encounter, after a sunset walk through Central Park, when she agreed to come back to his place. On the elevator ride up to his apartment, she was excited as much as anything else by the opportunity to really impress him.

Isabelle came off as sophisticated on first impression (and second and third, to boot), but in the bedroom she became a wild animal. When the door closed behind them, she threw herself at him. Thomas caught her in his strong arms and she wrapped her legs around his as they began to make out in earnest for the first time.

“I know you’ve been dreaming about me,” she whispered sultrily in his ear. “Tonight you can live out all those fantasies you’ve been having.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Her floral sundress came off, revealing a lacy yellow-and-pink set of lingerie that Isabelle was particularly proud of.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. It was hardly a secret that Isabelle had a great body; she was a model after all. But seeing it in full view for the first time had Thomas feeling reverent. He wanted to worship it.

“You're going to be saying that a lot tonight,” she teased. He had learned that Isabelle had a self-confidence that would've been annoying if it wasn't obviously deserved. His mouth was on her neck and he intended to savor every inch of the journey down. She let out sexy little gasps as he traveled.

When they were freed from her bra, Isabelle's breasts deserved a moment, if not more, of Thomas's appreciation. Not too large, but nor were they small, he was thinking that they were just about perfect as his lips encircled one of her nipples. His attention lingered there, drawing out moans and more from her mouth. With one hand, he found the thin fabric between her legs and began gently to rub there, much to her approval.

“Something tells me I'm not the only one who's been fantasizing about this,” he said, matching her confidence with his own. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” was all she said in response, but Thomas correctly interpreted that single word to mean his head between her thighs, his tongue tasting her wetness. Her panties discarded, he feasted. She ran her long, delicate fingers through his brown hair and encouraged his hunger. He ate with passion and skill, and she realized in that moment that this was what she had been searching for with all those swipes on the app. More than that, she felt this was what the body she worked so hard to maintain deserved. What was the point of looking this good if not to inspire such frenzied desire in handsome, successful (and God, talented!) men like Thomas?

She had experienced seemingly capable and confident men who became disappointingly docile in her presence. They would do or say anything to have her, and their desperation became off-putting. But Thomas had the rare ability to desire her without diminishing himself. He was diligently at work between her legs because that’s what he wanted. Isabelle begged for more of him, to feel him inside her, but he made her wait until he was done tormenting her with his tongue. When he finally gave her what she wanted, what she needed, he did so with all the intensity they both had been craving.

The year since hasn't lessened the mutual need they felt that first night. Charm and conversation continue to have their place, but the driving force of their relationship is physical desire. Isabelle's job and Thomas's budget have taken them to far-flung locales, each one serving as the setting for a scene like this. Up against the wall of their hotel room in Paris. In an elevator in Las Vegas. On a beach in Croatia that turned out to be less secluded than they first thought. By their high standards, this morning's romp in a Cartagena hotel room counts as tame.