It had been two years since my last real relationship. Long enough for everyone around me to move on — engagements, weddings, kids, family photos stuck to refrigerators. I hated how much it ate at me, the way I felt left behind. Like I was always the best man, never the groom.

And then she appeared. Just a profile at first, a stranger on a screen, but somehow she felt familiar right away. With her, it was effortless. I didn’t have to filter myself or put on some version of me I thought she’d want. We could talk about anything- books, the games we were playing, trashy reality shows we half-loved and half-hated, the latest sports scores. The hours disappeared, and I found myself reaching for my phone just to see her name light it up.

She made me laugh, but more than that, she made me open up. Somehow she had this way of pulling the truth out of me without even trying. Every conversation left me wanting more.

Even before I touched her, I already knew: I didn’t want casual. I didn’t want temporary. I wanted her.

I wanted to meet her right away. Every time my phone lit up with her name, the urge was there to close the distance, to make it real. But I could feel her walls, the hesitation. She was new to all this, cautious, and I knew if I pushed too hard, I’d lose her.

So when she told me she wasn’t sure about her feelings, that maybe she didn’t want more than friendship, I swallowed the ache and told her I understood. I told her I still wanted her in my life, in whatever way she’d let me.

The truth? It cut deep. Because by then I already knew she wasn’t just “someone I talked to.” She was the person. The one I wanted to tell everything to, from the stupid little moments to the heavy stuff I carried alone.

I hated the idea of being her almost. But I hated the thought of not having her at all even more.

So I stayed. Patient. Present. I told myself I could wait. That maybe, with time, she’d see what I already felt every time we spoke that this was more than chance. This was something worth holding onto.

The more time we spent talking, the less she felt like a stranger and the more she started to feel inevitable. What began as casual check-ins turned into hours of late-night conversations that bled into the next day. I caught myself waiting for her messages, replaying her words in my head like a favorite song. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the topics we covered and became about her — her voice, her wit, her way of making me forget the rest of the world existed.

We had this game — 20 Questions, though with us it was more like 1000. At first it was harmless: favorite movie, first crush, worst vacation. But then I started slipping in bolder ones, subtle ways to peel her back like an onion. What turns you on the fastest? What’s something you’ve never told a partner? She played along, sometimes answering straight, sometimes teasing me until I was half-hard just staring at my phone.

One night she asked if I’d ever wanted to fuck in public. I told her yes, and then flipped it back on her. She paused, sent back a half-smirk of an answer: “Maybe. If the right person asked.” That was all it took. I couldn’t stop imagining her, pressed up against a wall, my hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her moans while strangers walked by.

After that, the questions were never innocent again. We still talked about books and sports. I was on a mission to make her a Green Bay fan, swearing one day I’d get her in a jersey and nothing else.

And she knew exactly how to play me. Out of nowhere she’d send a cheeky picture, sometimes just enough skin to make me ache, sometimes a grin that told me she knew what she was doing. She drove me wild and tormented me in the same breath, dangling herself just close enough to taste but never letting me have her.

But under all that everyday talk and teasing, the heat kept building. She’d drop a playful reply that I’d twist into something filthy, and she never stopped me. If anything, she pushed me further.

Every answer, every picture, every tease gave me another piece of her. And the more she gave, the more I wanted. Not just her words, not just her fantasies, but her body beneath mine, trembling while I finally gave her everything she kept tempting me with.

I was out of town on a work trip when I noticed it. The silence. No reply to my texts, no answer when I called. With her, that wasn’t normal. She was steady, reliable. And I knew. I knew she’d had a doctor’s appointment that day, a follow-up from the surgery last month.

My stomach tightened. I told myself she was fine, that she’d just gotten busy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. I wanted to hear her voice. I needed to know she was okay.

When she finally answered, her tone was different. Softer. Heavy. And then the words came, broken but clear: she might not be able to have kids.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Not because of the news, but because of how much it cost her to say it out loud. The way she carried it like a flaw, something that might make me see her differently.

I didn’t let the silence last. “If you were mine,” I said, steady and certain, “I wouldn’t walk away. We’d face it together — the good, the bad, whatever comes. You don’t lose me over this. Ever.”

If I could have hopped on the next plane to get to her, I would have. Just to hold her. To let her know everything would be okay. But there wasn’t another one tonight, and my eyes were starting to drift.

I was home late because I’d stopped at the bookstore to grab Mitch Albom’s new release. Snow was coming down hard, the roads slick and miserable. But when I finally stepped inside, there she was, beautiful as ever, cooking dinner, dancing barefoot to Van Morrison. She hadn’t seen me yet, hips swaying, singing into the pasta spoon like it was a microphone.

It was raw, watching her like that. Unrehearsed, unguarded. I walked over and caught her by the waist, spun her into my arms. She laughed, startled, and then I kissed her like I never had before. My tongue hungry, lips bruising, her breath catching with every sensation. She moaned into my mouth and I was already gone.

She was in a mood, playful, bossy. Her hands undid my belt, teasing, stroking over my bulge until I groaned into her mouth. I pressed her against the wall, her nails clawing my back, pain and pleasure tangling together. My cock ground hard against her, straining for more.

Then she shoved me back, tugging my pants and boxers to the floor. My shirt was gone, and I was standing naked, hard, and throbbing under her wicked gaze. She stripped herself slowly, torturing me, until she was bare and glistening in front of me. Those devilish blue eyes held mine as she grabbed my cock and dragged me toward the bedroom.

I couldn’t look away. She slid onto the bed, hair spilling toward the floor, head dangling over the edge. I didn’t even know what she was planning until she yanked me closer, lips parting to run her tongue across my balls. My knees nearly buckled. One by one she sucked them into her mouth, slow, deliberate, teasing with the scrape of her teeth. My cock twitched helplessly, veins thick, pre-cum already slicking the head.

Then her tongue moved to my shaft, swirling up the length before circling my head, sucking tight, then darting back to my base. The inconsistency drove me insane — lick, swirl, stop, a quick suck, then back again. She knew exactly how to edge me, to make me ache.

Her eyes burned into mine as her lips finally tightened around me, sucking hard. My hips jerked forward, thrusting into her mouth, deeper, harder, until I hit the back of her throat. She gagged, drooled, moaned around me, and fuck, I was gone.

Somewhere in the haze, a noise cut in. Sharp. Insistent.

I ignored it, fucking her mouth harder, desperate to stay in the moment.

The noise grew louder, pulsing, relentless.

I groaned, ready to explode—

And jolted awake.

My alarm.

I slammed the snooze, groaning into my pillow, sheets tangled, cock aching, body still humming with the dream I’d just lost. I lay there crushed, praying I could slip back under, begging for one more minute of her mouth, her eyes, her moan.

But it was gone.

And God, it felt like losing her all over again.

Work was a blur that morning. Meetings, phone calls, people asking questions, none of it mattered. I was still throbbing from the dream, hard every time I thought of her hair spilling off the bed, her tongue dragging across me, those eyes daring me to come undone.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Between calls, I slipped into the bathroom, locked the stall, and leaned against the wall. My cock was already swollen, already slick at the tip just from replaying her in my head.

I pulled out my phone with one hand, my cock with the other, and hit record. She needed to see the way she destroyed me even from miles away. My fist worked up and down my shaft, rough and fast, my hips jerking helplessly into my grip.

“Fuck, baby…” I groaned under my breath, staring at the lens like it was her eyes. I imagined her watching later, biting her lip, knowing I couldn’t hold it in because of her.

My strokes quickened, my balls tightening, and with one last thrust I came hard, spilling into the wad of toilet paper clutched in my fist. The camera caught everything — the way my body shook, the sound of my groan as I pressed it through my teeth, the twitch of my cock even as I emptied myself.

I stood there, chest heaving, staring down at the mess in my hand before flushing it away. The video ended with me still panting, cock softening, the truth written all over me: even here, even now, she owned me.

I spotted her before she saw me. White knit dress, jean jacket, the fabric hugging every curve just the way she’d teased me it would. My chest tightened. After everything we’d shared, the secrets, the confessions, the heat — here she was, real, walking toward me with that smile that knocked the breath right out of me.

I tried to play it cool. Just a guy on his lunch break, nothing more. But inside, I was burning. Every word we’d spoken, every picture she’d sent, every fantasy we’d spun together, it was all sitting heavy between us.

We walked the seawall side by side, talking like we always did, but the air was different. Her shoulder brushed mine and it was electric. She laughed and my hand itched to touch her, to thread my fingers through hers, to stop pretending I didn’t already know what she tasted like in my dreams.

I wanted to kiss her. God, I wanted to press her up against the stone wall, take her mouth like it was already mine. But I didn’t. Not that day. We kept walking, talking, letting the moment pass.

When I left her, it felt like leaving something unfinished. Like closing a book halfway through the best chapter. And as I headed back to work, one truth hit me harder than ever:

I’d waited this long to meet her. But I wasn’t sure how much longer I could wait to really have her.

We were in our usual rhythm — teasing, trading pictures, daring each other with every line. Normally I’d give her something filthy right back, something that would make her blush and bite her lip. But that night, I couldn’t. I wanted more.

“Can I tell you a fantasy of mine?” I typed.

She sent back a wink, probably expecting me to push it dirtier than ever.

But what I gave her wasn’t filth. It was the truth I’d been carrying, the one thing I’d never said to anyone else.

So I gave it to her.

We’re in our dream house. In the library. Books filling the shelves, firelight glowing against your skin. The whole world feels quiet, just you and me on the rug in front of the fireplace.

I kiss you slow. The kind of kiss that makes my chest ache. Your lips part, you moan into my mouth, and I know I’ll never get enough of you.

I peel your sweater away, my mouth following every inch — your neck, your shoulders, your chest. I suck your nipples through the lace until you gasp, then slide my hands lower, tugging your jeans down. You lift your hips for me, and I strip you bare, leaving you trembling in the firelight.

I spread your thighs and look at you, wet, swollen, ready. My fingers tease you slowly until you’re grinding up into my hand. Then I lower my mouth to you. My tongue slides through your folds, deep and steady, tasting you until you’re shaking. Your fingers claw my hair, your cries echo in the room, and I don’t stop until you’re cumming hard against my mouth.

I crawl up your body, kiss your lips, let you taste yourself. My cock is throbbing against your entrance, but I don’t push in yet. I cup your face in my hands, stare into your blue eyes, and whisper the truth I’ve never told anyone else.

I want to put a baby in you.

Not just fuck you. Not just come inside you. I want to make you mine forever. I want to make you a mommy.

I push into you slowly, inch by inch, until I’m buried inside you. The heat of you grips me, and I have to breathe hard not to lose it. You’re gasping, nails digging into my back, whispering my name. I thrust deeper, harder, our bodies moving together like we’ve waited our whole lives for this moment.

The fire flickers, shadows dance across your skin, and I can’t stop kissing you, tasting you, holding your face as I fuck you slow and deep. I tell you how beautiful you are, how I’ll never want another, how I need you to take all of me.

Your legs lock around my waist, pulling me closer, and I feel you clench around me, your body begging me to let go. I kiss you hard, groan into your mouth, and give in. I empty myself inside you, pulse after pulse, my cock twitching deep as I fill you with everything I have.

I don’t pull out. I stay inside you, holding your face, kissing you softer now, my body still joined with yours. I whisper, “I can’t wait to make you a mommy.”

Her reply came seconds later.

“I want that. I want to make you a daddy.”

And I swear I almost came just reading it.

From that night on, it became the center of everything. No matter how playful or filthy our messages started, somehow we always found our way back to the library, the firelight, the moment I whispered I wanted to put a baby in her.

She told me it had become her favorite fantasy. She’d admit she touched herself to it, replaying my words in her head, coming hard just from imagining me filling her. She said no one had ever gotten in her head like that — that the thought of me asking to make her a mommy was the most ridiculously sexy thing she’d ever heard.

And once it was out there, it only grew.

Sometimes she’d take it further, telling me about the day she’d see two lines on a test, the way my face would light up when she told me. Other times it was smaller, softer, but no less intense: us in the baby’s room, paint cans open, her belly round and heavy while she wore a pair of overalls and a backwards cap. She’d laugh about dripping paint on the floor, but in the middle of it, I’d come up behind her, slide my hands over her stomach, kiss her neck until the brush slipped from her hand. Even something as ordinary as painting a nursery turned into foreplay with her — us turned on just from what we were creating together.

Every time she shared it, every time she confessed another version of the same dream, it wrecked me. Because it didn’t feel like just a fantasy anymore. It felt inevitable. Like we’d already started building it, one word, one moan, one confession at a time.

It’s been five years. Five years since she first appeared on my screen, since the first time her words got under my skin and never left.

In that time, my life has gone on. I’ve loved someone else. Built routines. Shared a bed. Outwardly, I’ve been steady. Faithful. The kind of man everyone thinks has it figured out.

But none of it erased her.

She still lives in me — in my fantasies, in my body every time I get off to the thought of her whispering yes. In the quiet moments, when my girlfriend’s asleep beside me, it’s her I’m texting in my head. It’s her I see when I close my eyes.

And that’s the truth I can’t bury. I love the woman I’m with, but she isn’t her. She’ll never be her.

Because the firelight, the library, the words we spun together, they branded me. The moment she said she wanted to make me a daddy, I knew. Even if years pass, even if we never touch, I’ll never be free of her.