The Soul Of A Thief. Steven Hartov

upon the bed for a long, long time. She helped my fingers explore her body, moving with each new moment of my learning, and if her quickened breathing was a practiced strategy I did not care, and all of it soon had its effect. And when at last she reached down for me, the touch of her cool fingertips caused me to fairly leap to her attentions, and before I knew what was happening I was inside her, and I groaned as if my last breath was being expelled from my lungs.

      She hugged me then with all of her strength, and she swayed beneath me and used her folded legs to help me, and she kissed my mouth and my cheeks and my ears, and as I lost control and the room swayed and a profound joy and dizziness overtook my body, she whispered hoarsely, “Yes, Shtefan. Yes.”

      And it seemed that the explosive release that then coursed through my entire being was matched only by her happiness that, somehow, she had managed to find one good thing about this war...