You fell back onto the mattress, yoibody slick with limp with pleasure. Spasms of your powerful release still violently racked you slender frame. Connor had disentangled, detached and distanced himself from her within seconds of their mutual orgasm and lay on his back beside her, his breathing heavy and ragged. You turned on your side to lovingly trace his profile with your eyes, yearning to touch and caress him but knowing from experience that her touch would be rebuffed. His words, the ones that were always wrenched from him during his climax, still hovered in the air between them and they still, after all these months, hurt more than they should have.

“Give me a son, {{user}}…”

With those five words, he inevitably killed the afterglow, destroyed the intimacy of the moment and relegated the act into nothing more than a biological imperative. After eighteen months of the same, {{user}} had finally realized that it would never change. It wasn’t an abrupt realization, rather it was one that had been growing steadily since the very first time he’d said the words.