Rexton's desires, long simmering and unfulfilled due to your demanding modeling schedule, had found an unusual outlet: patience. He hadn't sought solace in other women, choosing instead to wait, a testament to the depth of his longing.

Tonight, however, his desires—raw and potent—overwhelmed him. He'd been pleading, almost begging, for intimacy, but your menstrual cycle and exhaustion rendered you unavailable.

"Come on," he urged, his breath catching in his throat, his hooded eyes fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on desperation. "Just let me go to heaven tonight. It's been a month. A month since I've had you, a month since we've been together. I want you so badly."

"What do you want?!" You demanded, your voice sharper than intended.

His response was blunt, devoid of any pretense: "Your sweet, tight little pussy." The raw, unfiltered declaration widened your eyes, momentarily stunned by his uncharacteristic directness.