Once our torsos are almost naked, the rest of our clothing is removed with much more haste. As if seeing each other in bras and jeans has pushed some button in our mind and spurred us to action. No more time for words or hesitations or negotiations. I can only speak for myself, of course, but I want Camille’s hands all over me in that glitzy walk-in shower with its marble walls and dozen settings. When I look into her eyes, I do think I can speak for her as well, because I see my own desire reflected back at me. And the notion that what we felt for each other in Sydney might have just been the result of a holiday romance, a fleeting fling and nothing more serious, leaves my brain forever.

Camille hops in first and turns on the tap. I follow her and soon we’re standing underneath a deliciously strong jet of hot water.

Camille holds my hands and says, “I’ve missed you.” The cascading water drowns out the sound a bit, but I can still hear her clearly. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she pulls me close and our naked bodies meet and everything is immediately different than when we hugged at the airport or even in the hallway. Two months of not being able to touch each other are concentrated in that embrace and the entire expanse of my skin starts to tingle. And I know I won’t be able to wait until after this shower.

“I want you,” I whisper in her ear.

“You’ve got me,” she whispers back, and I know I do. I don’t just know with a certainty bordering on insanity that she’s about to make me come like I’ve never done before in my life, but I know I have her in many other ways as well. I have her love, her patience, her devotion only to me.

I feel her hands do something behind my back, and when we break from our soaked hug, I see the soap in her cupped hands. She cracks a crooked smile, and says, “You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this moment.”

I think I do. Of course, I do, but I don’t say anything. I just feel how she lathers my breasts with soap, her fingertips lingering on my nipples. She spends so much time on washing my chest, I’m compelled to remind her I do have other body parts, but it feels so divine to have her hands caress me like that, I never want her to stop.

When her hands do finally travel down my belly, I’m not sure of how long I can remain standing on my legs. Her fingers are between my legs, not probing, just stroking—washing me—but when a finger inadvertently skates along my clit my knees buckle.

“Please,” I murmur.