She stood at an arched window whose shutters were open to the starry sky, and sounds drifted up from the street—laughter and music, a warm breeze rustling through the broad leaves of the sycamore trees. He came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist, bending toward her neck to inhale deeply.

“I love the way your hair smells,” he said.

“Like darkroom chemicals?”

“Like flowers.” He carefully lifted her hair to bare her neck and nuzzled her there. “I like the way you taste, too.”

“Is that so?” She turned in his arms and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. This was a pivotal moment for her; she could feel herself poised on the fine edge of . . . something. She’d held all other men at arm’s length, but Finn . . . She liked the way he tasted, too, of rosé wine and lemon ice, his mouth and tongue gently enticing her to yield. “You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about this,” she said.

“Yeah? That’s cool, Camille. Because I think about it all the time.” He took her hand and led her to the bedroom, another airy space, dimly lit and sparsely furnished with a big, low bed made up with fresh linens.

“I like your place,” she said.

“I spent the whole morning getting it ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For this.” He took off his shirt with one arm over his head. During the work at Sauveterre, she’d studied his chest and abs from afar. Now she put her hands on him, running her fingers over the contours, delighting in the soft, involuntary sound he made when she touched him.

He carefully unbuttoned her blouse, kissing each place he exposed. Then he slipped off her bra and skirt. Finally, he laid her back on the bed, and the fresh linens cushioned them with a lavender-scented sigh. Bracing himself on either side of her, he slowly, shockingly, removed her panties with his teeth.

Don’t stop, she thought. Don’t ever stop. She forgot everything except the sensations coursing over her as he caressed her, his touch less practiced than she would have expected it to be. The surprise and delight of this pleasure took her breath away. There were moments when she sensed genuine emotion from him—when he looked into her eyes and shuddered as he whispered her name, the syllables breaking with tenderness.

The night flowed on, following a course of its own, and Camille gave herself up to it, too replete with wine and lovemaking to think of anything at all. She didn’t even feel herself drifting off to sleep.

He awakened her with kisses in places that hadn’t been kissed in . . . maybe ever. Her pulse felt strong and heavy, her body softly aching with a desire she didn’t bother to resist. Later, she thought, and then she stopped thinking at all. Afterward, they lay quietly against a bank of pillows, watching the sky turn pink with the dawn.