If the outside of the house was impressive, the inside is even more so. I always believed the house Rebecca and I lived in was majestic, but it pales in comparison to the grandeur of this place. And we’ve only made it to the entrance. I must ask Camille about her grandparents some time.

“Do you want coffee, tea, or just me?” Camille throws her arms around me again. “Also, just for your information, I intend to let go of you as little as possible in the coming six weeks. You’d better get used to having me glued to your skin at all times.”

“No need,” I whisper back. “I’m used to it already and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I kiss her on the lips. “To answer your question: I think I’ll just have you.” The heat I grew so familiar with after meeting Camille in Sydney is rapidly making its way from the depths of my body to the surface of my skin. As exhilarating as it has been to lay eyes on her again, to see her in the flesh, and kiss her on the lips, I need more, and I need it now.

“Come on.” She takes my hand and leads me up the wide staircase. I follow her and get a good look at her shapely behind while she heads up the stairs in front of me. Oh, to have my hands all over her again after all this time.

She opens one of many doors and we stand in the bathroom. “Bath or shower?” she asks.

“Whichever is most easy for you to join me.” I sling an arm around her waist.

“That’s a question I’ve never given any thought to at all. Let’s take a minute to think this through.”

“How about you put your scientist brain to rest and hop into the shower with me? A bath takes too long to run.”

“I’m easily convinced today.” She stands in front of me. “But promise me we will test both in the weeks to come.”

I nod and start unbuttoning my wrinkled, traveled-in blouse.

“Oh no.” Camille puts a hand over mine. “That’s my job now.” While she stares into my eyes, she undoes the buttons and guides the blouse off my shoulders.

Once she’s done, I pull hers from the waistband of her jeans and try to unbutton it, but my fingers seem so much less graceful than hers, or perhaps it’s the brand of blouse she’s wearing which comes with annoying French buttons that are impossible for a lover to undo swiftly.

Camille doesn’t say anything, just starts from the top while I work from the bottom and soon enough our hands meet somewhere in the middle and her blouse is a crumpled item of clothing on the bathroom floor as well.