His letter

I started to read more than eagerly.

Dear Mina,
I beg your pardon for sending a much belated reply. I did not intend to be rude; arranging new copyrights and negotiating with a printing house and with bookshellers kept me occupied. So please forgive me. Naturally you may visit me anytime you wish. I will be glad to hear about you.
Yours,
Milán

My heart was still running, this time with a pleasant zeal. As much as I despised myself for my weakness, a wide (very wide) smile spread upon my face.

I felt some embarrassed, wary bliss. Not exactly that innocent, unsuspicious, overwhelming rush of happiness like I used to feel when I was nineteen; this was more hesitating, tentative, yet more experienced and precious.

I was glad that I had not slept with him. I vowed to myself that I would not ever. A letter, written in almost indifferent tone, seems to be not that much in comparison with other things lovers usually tend to do.
However, I dare say such a letter from a man I respect and desire means a lot.
Actually it means a great deal more than being fucked, rubbed, and ground by a man for one hundred minute - the latter only cause physical pain and leave bleakness in the soul. And I'm still talking about normal intercourse, not the one butterflies call "extra". I'd never do that latter one. Normal ways can be hurtful enough if the lady is unwilling and full of defiance. Inner muscles can tense rather rough to keep an unwelcomed guest outside, and it is not easy to break through them or force a man's way through them - occasionally they are strong enough to bleed a man's tool.

I sighed. All the things that were good for me, that I found arousing, had a lot to do with pain, violence, and humiliation. Besides, the notions of a "romantic relationship" in my mind were connected with possessing and emptiness. On the other hand, I felt a heart-warming and tender emotion towards Milán. I simply could not put the two things together.