She rolls her eyes. “Half an hour is not a quickie. Not by a long shot.”
“Oh, too long? So you’ve been timing it?”
She swats my chest playfully with her hand. “No, I was not timing it, but you said so yourself then, Dax. We only have thirty minutes before Nana comes back with the twins..” She pauses, her hand leaving my crotch and I groan. “Did you know the average length for sex is about seven minutes?”
“Seven minutes?” I look at her incredulously. “I wonder how they went about testing that one.”
“They have their methods. But get this, about 43 percent are completed within two minutes,” she adds, emphasizing the word two like it’s a challenge. She’s a veritable treasure trove of information, important facts like the average length for sex being seven minutes and trivial facts like Michael Fassbender getting married in Ibiza.
“Two minutes is even worse than seven, mi amor. Too bad the researchers didn’t poll us. We could have told them the average length of sex is thirty minutes.” But only when the twins are spending time at their grandmother’s house.
Harlow giggles. “Oh, and did you know that ten to thirty minutes was considered too long by many of the respondents?”
“Then they have the wrong partners… and the wrong respondents, for that matter,” I say, narrowing my eyes as Harlow starts unbuttoning my shirt. “So does that mean I take too long?”
She pulls my shirt open, sliding it off my shoulders. “Oh no, Mr. Drexel. As a matter of fact, you’re perfect.” She starts to unbuckle my belt. “So perfect you have me wanting to prove every single one of those people surveyed wrong.”
She kisses me lightly on the lips before pulling away, our breaths intermingling. “We’ve got thirty minutes.”
“Aren’t you afraid we’re going to disappoint the experts by going ‘too long?’” I ask. “You know, in case we make it to thirty.”
“Screw the experts,” Harlow says, laughing. “They haven’t met you.”