When we face each other again, the stroking of our hands has become more insistent. The look in Camille’s eyes is different. There’s more desperation in them, but also more lust. Our lips meet, while our hands start groping more than stroking. I feel her hand venture between my legs, which I spread wider, while our lips remain locked. Our tongues keep dancing together. I bring my own hand between her legs as well, find them wide already, find her so wet that when my finger skates along her pussy lips, she moans into my mouth.

We break from our kiss and look each other in the eye. She blinks when she pushes her fingers inside of me. Her long, beautiful, glorious fingers. I do the same to her, convinced we can find some sort of rhythm, and that there’s enough lust crackling in the air between us, traveling through our bodies and where they touch, that we can pull this off. That we can effortlessly come by staring each other in the eye and fucking each other like this, sideways on the bed, facing each other—each other’s mirror image.

The covers have long been thrown off and from the corner of my eye I catch the minute but determined motion of Camille’s arm. I not only feel her fucking me, but I see it as well. Not only from the corner of my eye, but on her face as well. A face that lights up as the seconds tick away—as time flees us. She is warm and wet around my fingers, and her fingers thrust high up inside of me, making me gasp for air every time they do. My clit buzzes. Her hands so close to it, but it remains untouched, swelling, craving her touch.

I don’t speak, but I slide my fingers slowly out of her and bring them to her clit, hoping—knowing—that she will catch my drift, that she will do the same.

She thrusts up in me a few more times while I try to focus on her clit, which is not easy with her delicious fingers inside of me. Then she follows my example and slides out of me, finding my throbbing clit with a fingertip, and starts circling.

“Oh god,” I murmur, because with all this emotion between us, and all this intention behind the action of our fingers, I don’t stand a chance.

I see how Camille’s face contorts, and I etch the sight of it in my memory, way up there in the list of most arousing things I’ve ever witnessed, and then I can’t control myself any longer. My finger barely moves around her clit as I come, uttering a guttural groan from my throat, inwardly screaming her name, wanting to stay here with her forever, never wanting this moment of extreme bliss to end.

“Please, Zoya,” she says, her voice a pleading whimper.