Her question takes me aback. “Er…” I know what to do, just not really how to put it into words.

“I’m just joking,” she says, and shuffles closer. “I know what I want.” She brings her mouth to my ear. “You,” she whispers.

Her words are just as enticing as when she slipped the tip of her finger into my mouth. We kiss again, but this time our almost-naked bodies press against each other. Her hard nipples push into the soft flesh of my breasts and her belly is warm against mine. Our legs slip in between each other’s and we become so tangled up in each other, there’s no way of telling where one body begins and the other ends, but by the color of our skin.

When we catch our breath, she brings her hand to my mouth again and, this time, rubs two of her fingers along my bottom lip. She slips them inside my mouth and I suck on them eagerly. It’s an intimate gesture that ignites my arousal even more.

“You look so hot like that,” she says. She stares at me intently, taking in every last detail of my face.

She slides her fingers out of my mouth and, all wet, she runs them over my lip again, then down to my breast. By the time they reach my nipple, the wetness has gone cold, and her fingers leave my nipple unbearably tight.

“I want you,” I whisper, because it’s the only thought left in my mind. My brain is only ruled by lust, by desire for this exquisite creature who is torturing my nipple, even though she’s barely touching it. I feel it everywhere. In every nerve ending, in every cell, despite knowing such a thing is not possible. But my logical mind stopped working the instant Camille took that wine glass out of my hand and told me she was going to kiss me. Because what is happening right now is not normal Zoya Das behavior. I have never jumped into bed with a woman I just met. Not once in my life. Now, as I lie here, and Camille’s delicious fingers travel down, I have to ask myself why the hell not? What was I so scared of?

Camille’s hands dip further down, her fingers only lightly touching me, but they’re having a devastating effect nonetheless. I start to realize that, near the end with Rebecca, it was never like this. It makes this tryst with Camille all the more exciting. A thought burrows its way forward in my brain: was this what it was like for Rebecca when she first cheated on me? Is this how it made her feel: so wanted, so central to someone else’s joy? The answer can only be yes. Why else would she have stooped to such dishonest lows?