That girl he had given a lift home from XL-Bygg, he had said. He had even helped her carry all her things inside, even though it was late and he really needed to get back to work. She had tried to pay for his petrol, which was adorable in a childish sort of way—as if he needed financial compensation for going a little out of his way into the countryside to help a fellow human being. So, naturally, he had declined. Instead, she had suggested a cup of coffee and a snifter of something stronger.

A snifter was perhaps not what he had been expecting—young people these days were so proper and health conscious. They went to the gym and did yoga and cycled to work and did bootcamps and played padel tennis, or whatever the hell it was called. But she had got out the whisky bottle, which was in itself scarcely a surprise given that she was quite clearly boycotting the health craze. She had insisted on topping him up once and then twice—granted, just a few drops each time, but still—and he had accepted out of pure courtesy. When all was said and done it didn’t matter anyway, given that the modest intake from lunch was long gone from his system.

Completely unexpectedly, she had launched a passionate charm offensive, suggesting that she ought to thank him properly for the lift. It wasn’t exactly how he had pictured this side excursion panning out, but given his fondness for the flesh, he had fallen into the trap.

Then she had suddenly changed strategy and played hard to get. She had said no, all the while smiling and flirting in that tender voice. It had quickly transpired that what she was really after was a firmer touch, to full-on indulge in that Stone Age instinct some girls had—the inclination to be dragged back into the cave by their hair to succumb to a wild beast of a man. One thing had led to another, and there was no doubt that she had liked it. Without a shadow of a doubt, this woman had a powerful sex drive—nymphomaniac was not too strong a word to use in this context.