“Come to bed,” he said and we staggered from our island and walked to his bedroom.

I stood like an obedient child as he undressed me, pulling my dress over my head and sliding my underwear down my legs until I stepped out of them. I stood watching him while he undressed.

He sat on the bed and pushed himself back and held his arms out motioning for me to come to him. I crawled across the bed and he pulled me onto his lap. I lazily wrapped my arms around his neck and rested my head on his shoulder.

He moved my legs to rest behind him until we were both sitting Indian style, me wrapped around him. He slipped inside me and I tightened my legs around him as he used his hands to pull me to him until his whole body moved against mine.

Sleepy with wine and full, we made love unhurried, languorously as if underwater in the big wooden bed built with his hands. He cupped my buttocks in his hand and thrust into me, circling his pelvis against mine each time our bodies connected.

My legs started to shake and I grabbed his shoulders tight as an orgasm ripped through me. I went limp like a ragdoll, spent from the exertion and he used his own strength to hoist me on and off his lap, impaling me until he climaxed.

I climbed off his lap and collapsed next to him looking at the ceiling. His hand moved across the rumpled sheets and grasped mine.

“You make me happy,” he said.

“You were happy before,” I retorted.

“Not like this,” he said.