In between gropes and kisses, we’ve moved the recording equipment to my bedroom. There’s no time for a test shoot or to set up special lighting. It might be that only our buttocks or just shadows are visible when we look at the video later. But I don’t care. Because this is not a performance. Camille and I have slept together a lot since we first met—I’ve had numerous orgasms and countless hours of the most exquisite fun—but this time, it’s different. It’s far removed from the first, more hesitant time. Tonight, in my bed, we’re making a promise to each other. And we have no choice but to call this a relationship, albeit long-distance. It’s implied in the term. Perhaps, if she lived here, we’d be dating. Or going out. But, in the end, it would all just be a matter of silly semantics. Because I’m in love with her, and she is with me. And we have no way of knowing whether our infatuation will survive the distance between us, and whether it’s strong enough to turn into something more. We have no crystal ball. All we have are our feelings.

The yellow dress is already discarded next to the bed, on which Camille lies stark naked. I want to dive in and devour her, and take my time and savor her in equal measure. Maybe I can do both. Devour first, savor later.

I’m still in my work clothes. I look at her, take in her svelte form, while I clumsily step out of my shoes and tug at my clothes, not able to remove them fast enough.

By the time I finally lie down next to her, I feel a little exhausted just because of all the building anticipation.

“I had so many things left I wanted to ask you,” I say.

“Ditto.” Camille scoots closer to me. “But talking is something we can do over the phone. This is not.” She pulls me close, her kiss deep from the start.