As good as her fingers feel inside of me, they won’t be enough. I’m not a stickler for reaching orgasm every time I have sex—another thing that used to drive Rebecca crazy—but this time, it feels like an absolute necessity. As though the experience wouldn’t be complete without me breaking free from this plateau and coming at Camille’s divine hands. All of this needs to happen on instinct, because it’s our instinct that has brought us here. It isn’t days and weeks we’ve spent in each other’s company, getting to know each other better, learning intimate details about each other. This is another kind of thrill. And as thrilling as the unknown and unfamiliar is at this moment—the different angle with which her fingers penetrate me and the undoing sensation of her gaze on me at all times—it’s not going to be enough to unleash the climax that is building beneath my flesh.

I open my eyes and look at her. I take in the intensity of her facial expression for a split second, just because it’s such a turn-on. Her brow is furrowed in concentration; her lips are pursed together. She has the loveliest pout I’ve seen on a woman.

“Lick me,” I say. “Lick my clit.” I’m not usually one to say such words aloud, and to hear them said in my own voice is surprisingly arousing. I give her a quick, encouraging nod of the head.

She nods back, then starts retracting her fingers.

I bring my hand to her arm and she looks up at me. “Leave those.”

She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and blinks. I think she gets the picture, because the next moment, she hunches between my legs. Her fingers keep delving deep and I already feel her breath on my clit. It’s almost enough to push me over the edge. Another surprise.

Then her tongue lands on my swollen clit. Tentatively at first, exploring again. As soon as she finds something resembling a rhythm of circling her tongue around and over it, it does all become too much for me. I lose myself to her touch and let go. I picture her face. I can still recall every tiniest feature. The thin lines of her eyebrows. The dimple in her cheek even when she isn’t smiling. The lock of hair that falls across her forehead. The utter deliciousness of her French accent. The way she said she’d never been with a woman before. Her tongue. Her fingers. The emotions of this entire day come crashing down on me and transform into something else entirely. A release so great I find myself clasping the back of her head in my hands, holding on to something as the tingling heat spreads through me and reaches my extremities in record time.