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Two playmates of the year, one bed.

I had to go - my Dad was fanatic about Nelson and the British navy. He had read all the novels of C.S. Forester and Alexander Kent. He would never forgive me if I skipped the Rock of Gibraltar.

It was a little slice of England - the same pubs, the same accents. Celine was clearly bewildered; she had never been to Britain.

- "Never?"

- "Why would I? It's full of Anglais." she said.

Our last night together was special. Celine surprised me.

- "Tonight, Chris, we will be a little ... different. Please - let me lead. OK?"

- "As you wish." I had no idea what she meant, because more often than not, it was Celine who initiated sex, and chose a position. But I had yet to be disappointed.

She didn't strip for me. Instead, she kissed me, softly, and asked me to undress her. That was no hardship. But she guided me every step of the way.

- "Slowly." she said. "Gentle - like I am fragile."

I began to see - and feel - the difference. On our last night together, Celine didn't fuck me. She made love to me, instead.

Every lingering touch, every gentle caress, the soft, sweet kisses ... all were deliberate, unhurried, drawn out - and exhilarating. My heart was beating a mile a minute.

Celine stroked my erection, and then lay on her back. She spread her legs, in invitation, and opened her arms as well.

- "I want to feel your weight." she said.

I entered her slowly, carefully. The sensation, even through the condom, was exquisite.

- "Yess ... that's it." she said. "Make love to me."

After all of our passionate fucking over the past few days, this was a revelation. Instead of being fuelled by lust, I was motivated by respect and admiration for this wonderful woman. I wanted to be joined with her, to show her that I cared for her.

My orgasm was subdued - almost muted. I'm not even sure if Celine climaxed or not. But that wasn't the point.

I lay beside her, and kissed her softly.

- "Thank you." I whispered.

- "It was my gift, to you." she said. "And to myself, as well."

We dozed for a while. When I opened my eyes, I found her looking at me, from only a few inches away.

I finally found the courage to ask her the question that had been in the back of my mind since Barcelona.

- "Celine - why me?"

- "Why not you?" she answered.

- "You could have any man you wanted."

- "Not so." she said. "Not everyone wants a black girl from Senegal. But thank you, for the compliment."

She smiled. "To answer your question ... it felt, at first, like destiny. You saved me from that thief - perhaps that was not an accident. It might be that we were meant to meet."

- "But you didn't have to sleep with me. Not because of that."

- "No. But I liked the way you looked at me. You still look at me the same way, you know? Most men, they see me, and they stare. I can tell they are thinking: 'Oh, I would like to fuck that'. But not you, Chris. When you look at me, you are saying 'Oh, I would love to fuck her'."

I laughed, but Celine poked me in the chest.

"I am completely serious. When I took you to the Sagrada Familia, I was merely curious. Well, maybe interested, a little. I had already seen the basilica - twice. And so had you."

- "You knew that?"

- "Of course. Your eyes were on me the whole time. If you were seeing Gaudi for the first time, you would have been much more distracted."

- "You put on quite a show." I said.

- "Why not? But then I discovered that I liked you. And I told you: I had never been with a Canadian. I enjoyed my day with you, and I suspected all along that I would enjoy the night, too."

- "But - why change your plans? Why travel with me?"

She looked at me like I was a moron.

"I'm sorry - I'm not just fishing for compliments."

- "Are you serious? The sex, that first night - it was formidable. Why would I not want more? You are kind, intelligent, a good travelling companion ... and I am impulsive. It seemed like a good thing to do."

- "It certainly was." I agreed.

She smiled.

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