Camille fucks me slowly and I feel it everywhere. Not only in my flesh, that sparks with heat and lust and anticipatory satisfaction, but it echoes throughout me so that my mind is filled with only her. Camille Rousseau. I forget about everything else—myself most of all. It’s all her—and me tethered to her fingers inside of me. And, oh, they feel so good. Camille has the kind of fingers I can just look at and get aroused. They’re slender, like her, and long and strong. I bet that, to most, she has the most ordinary hands, but to me, like her, they’re special. Especially because of what they’re doing right now. Burrowing into me, igniting my pleasure, calling it. But I don’t want to come just yet. I want this exquisite sensation of almost-but-not-yet to last a little longer. Want her fingers to remain for as long as I can take them.

I open my eyes and find her looking at me. I stare back and her gaze on me unleashes something. Tears first of all. The tears that have been welling behind my eyes break free. Because she is releasing more in me than orgasmic endorphins and this powerful blend of love and lust. Before I met her, I was bitter and angry. I felt slighted and wronged by the woman I loved. I felt sorry for myself and allowed myself to wallow in it endlessly. Camille put a stop to all of that when she asked me out.

I look into her eyes as tears stream down my cheeks. Wetness all around, I think, as her fingers keep delving down, keep taking me. She brings her other hand to my belly, then lower, and lower still. She flicks a finger over my clit while she keeps looking at me. I know what she’s doing. She wants the memory of my face, wants to remember what I look like when I come for her.

I want to keep my eyes open. I want that connection between us when I tip over the edge. That little something extra to make it more intimate.

She circles my clit with her fingertip while the fingers of her other hand become more insistent inside of me. Her strokes pick up speed, find a rhythm with the action she bestows on my clit. Her eyes are narrowed. The room is semi-dark, but I can still make out the freckles on her nose. The curve of her delicious lips, which are parted now—as though she’s right along on the path to ecstasy with me.