Camille’s hips start to move and just feeling her body against mine is enough to bring me into an altered state of being; unfortunately, it’s not a state in which I’ve magically become a master of salsa. I step on her toes and she steps on mine when my feet don’t move quickly enough, but while I grimace and burst out into giggles of embarrassment, Camille’s facial expression remains solemn and calm. She’s teaching me.

It’s difficult to feel the actual thrill of dancing with her when I keep tripping over my feet. Even my sense of rhythm seems to have deserted me.

Camille leans over and whispers in my ear. “Listen to the music, chérie. Just let go.”

I’m compelled to look into her eyes, away from my stumbling feet, and I do what she tells me. I listen to the music. Another song I’ve never heard before, but it sounds as though it was composed for one purpose only: for Parisians to dance salsa to on a Sunday afternoon.

I’m not a Parisian, but I’m here with one. The most beautiful woman in Paris, there’s no doubt in my mind. A woman who is trying to guide my feet in the desired direction by sheer willpower. It’s not exactly working just yet, but I am starting to get the hang of the pattern my feet are meant to make. Right back. Left front. A little hop in-between. I stop glancing around me at the advanced grinding everyone else is involved in. I listen to the music and focus on my steps while looking into Camille’s eyes. The subtle shift of her hips on every change of feet gets through to me better and I start following her lead. She presses her belly closer against mine, so the beat of the music moves through us simultaneously, and a smile appears on her face.

When she smiles at me like that, as if I’m the only person in the room—in the world even—it’s not that difficult for me to let go and just let her hips and the music guide me. To switch off my analytical brain and let instinct take over. Because this is as close to a mating dance as humans can come. Once I truly get into the groove of the dance with her, it’s the hottest, most excruciating foreplay I’ve ever experienced.

The other couples are twirling each other around, doing complicated things with their arms, but Camille and I just go back and forth, back and forth. The rhythm is hypnotic and soon it feels as though there is no one here but us. That’s probably why hardly anyone looked up when we arrived. They were too absorbed by dancing with each other—an all-consuming activity.