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Dear Diary,

I don’t ever want to leave this place. Not ever! The Pines is heaven, if heaven was an adults-only wellness retreat in the Rocky Mountains. The air is crisp and clean, and we can see the gorgeous mountains so clearly. And there are angels here too, in their white golf shirts and pants or skirts, with absolutely divine fingers and hands. They work miracles on the massage table… I haven’t seen them turn water to wine or multiply loaves and fishes, but the food is amazing (even if is, ugh, healthy) and so is the wine.

I’m not even going to apologise for not writing every day, but I’ve been trying to make the most of every moment. It’s been so good to get away with George, to unplug, and let our stress go. We should have done this years ago, but we are making up for lost time. Every day of the past week we’ve been busy relaxing, as weird as that sounds. I learned the rudiments of golf, and in return George agreed to try yoga.

Oh, he grumbled, but he gave it his all, and I love him for it. And I loved that it was yet another chance to see him move that gorgeous body of his, the muscles in his arms and chest and legs flexing and rippling as he switched between poses. To see him in Warrior, or Triangle warmed me up more than the yoga. And when he did the Crow? I was actually nervous my desire would be obvious to the whole class in the crotch of my leggings, that’s how wet I felt. About halfway through the class, I switched places with George, so that I was on the mat in front of him. All the better for you to check out my ass as I do Tree or Downward Dog, my dear!

We had barely stepped back inside our room after class when he was on me, oblivious to our sweaty, flushed bodies (or maybe turned on because of them), clutching my head in his strong hands, pulling me close for a deep kiss.

It was amazing, Diary, that we were still so randy! At that point we’d been here five nights, fucked for hours each and every one. Without all the usual stresses from everyday life accumulating during the day and wearing us down, our spirits and libidos soared. It was if the mountain air and massages and everything had cancelled out middle age. We fucked like teenagers—fast and hard, and more than once—in our huge white bed, sometimes in complete darkness, and sometimes in the moonlight.

And even after five nights of feverish, frantic fucking, here we were, flushed after yoga class, and clutching at each other, ripping off tank tops and shorts and sports bras and socks and panties and boxer briefs, the clothes flying through the room as if a tornado had blown through the massive glass doors. No sooner were we naked than George had picked me up with those powerful arms of his, and placed me on the bed so that my ass was just on the edge. He pushed firmly but not roughly on my chest, so that I laid back against the luxurious duvet. With the same firm, confident grace, he pushed my legs apart and then his hot breath and even hotter tongue were on me.