The evening was hot, almost unbearable. They were lying in bed, looking out the skylight at the clear blue sky. She rested her head on his chest, wrapped her arms around his arm and was playing with his fingers. He was drifting in and out of sleep.

“What’s your favorite thing when we’re having sex?” she asked.

He did not want to talk about it. It was that point beyond satisfaction on the way to exhaustion that men get to when it was very good. But she was waiting for an answer.

He knew what it really was. But should he tell her? Or should he rather say something emotional and sensitive?

But in the end he decided to say it: “It’s when I begin slowly slipping into you and you’re still tight.”

She kept playing with his fingers for a little while longer before she spoke. “Mine too.”

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