Monday had been one of those afternoons you don’t forget.

That slow build-up where tension turns to heat, and before long, we were tangled up in the kind of sex that leaves you raw in the best way. Her body, her mouth, the way she responded to every touch — she didn’t hold anything back, and neither did I. By the time I left her place, skin still damp and pulse still racing, I was already thinking about when I’d be back.

Tuesday seemed promising — until I got the message.

“I got my period overnight.”

Classic timing. But it didn’t bother me. Never has.

I’ve always believed there are two types of men: those who shy away from real intimacy when things get messy, and those who don’t flinch. She’s the kind of woman who can spot the difference in seconds. And I’m not squeamish. Blood doesn’t cancel out chemistry.

She let me prove it. Lay back, tampon in, while I focused on her clit like she was the only thing in the world. She responded instantly, her legs tensing, breath catching, hands in my hair. When she came, it was with that same honesty she always gives me — full-body, no filter. That kind of trust turns me on more than anything else.

And after that, all I wanted was to be inside her. That pressure, that heat — the way her body wraps around mine like we’re meant to fit.

We ended up in the shower. We always do. Not for modesty, but for the way water amplifies everything. The steam. The grip of her thighs. The slippery urgency of skin on skin. I fucked her like I meant it. Because I did.

And when I came, she was already on her knees, looking up at me with that knowing smirk. Took every drop. That’s how she sends me back to the real world — satisfied and still slightly undone.

Later that night, she mentioned Jay. Not in a possessive way — more like a story she knew I’d find interesting. Said he’d been circling for weeks, curious. She told him she was bleeding, so it was “safe” — no expectations. But he wanted her. Of course he did.

She let him into her space and lay next to him on the bed. Clothes on. 'Talking shit', she said. But his hands didn’t stay polite for long. She let him feel the curve of her arse, then took control — rolled over, studied him. Watched him touch himself when she asked. He was hard. Obvious. She told me it turned her on.

He went down on her. Another man who does. She let him, because why not? Curiosity deserves a chance.

He asked if he could fuck her in the shower. She laughed. Told him that spot had already been taken a few hours earlier.

Then she told me something I’ll keep playing back: she dropped to her knees, slowly, deliberately. Took him in her mouth and worked him over like it mattered. She said it wasn’t about him specifically — more about pushing him, watching him unravel, and making him tell her things he’d never say out loud otherwise. It worked.

He told her she was a master at it.

Afterwards, he couldn’t stop touching her. He pulled her jeans down. Licked her arse. Told her he wanted all of her.

She didn’t let him. Not that night.

She got up. Grabbed a drink. Let him sit there, still buzzing, still hoping. Asked her if she was a nympho. She smiled and said she wasn’t sure — she’d have to look up the definition.

He’s messaged ten times since, trying to see her again.

She hasn’t said yes. Yet.

And me? I’m still thinking about the way she looked under the shower that day. The way she tasted. The way she made the world disappear for an hour.

I’ll be back when she wants me.