Camille doesn’t speed up the rhythm of her fingers inside of me, but she does amp up the intensity. I feel her more. It feels as though, in this shower, we’re sealing our fate. Six weeks of this, I think, as I crash underneath the wave of my orgasm. As I cry out her name, dig my nails into her flesh, ride out my climax on her magnificent fingers. Six weeks of heaven.

“You’re so much more beautiful in real life,” she whispers when I come to, when words start making sense again. “Especially naked with my fingers inside of you.” Her voice is hoarse, shot through with raw desire.

“I love you.” I bring my hands to her cheeks and pull her close, kiss her as deeply as I can, wanting her all over me all over again.

When we break from our kiss, it’s my turn to put her against the wall. I kiss her from the lips down to her collar bone and breasts. Then I kneel in front of her, ignoring the hardness of the floor against my knees, and bring my lips between her legs. My hands dig into the soft flesh of her behind, I pull her to me and drink her in. I lick and suck and taste the fruit that has been denied to me for so long and as I do, I know, I already know for certain in that moment, that I will never spend this long apart from her again. I don’t know how or when, because details don’t matter when it comes to instinct and love at first sight.

Chapter Twenty

When I wake up the next day, after my first twenty-four hours in Paris have been filled with sex, hugs, and the pure joy of being together, I can hardly believe that I get to throw my arms around Camille as soon as I open my eyes. After she left Sydney, the mornings were always the hardest because they were the beginning of another day without her. A day I had to start with an empty spot in my bed. A day that didn’t take off with me wrapping myself around her, looking into her eyes and, just because of that, knowing it would be a good one.

Camille is still sleeping but I have to touch her. I can’t be in this bed with her, fully awake, and not feel her skin against mine. Not after all the abstinence of touch we’ve had to endure. She doesn’t stir when I run a finger over her arm, or when my embrace grows more intense and I curl an arm around her waist, my fingers crawling to her sex—as though they can’t help themselves.