Page 10 of Corrupting Camille
He sees it.
“Cash. Tonight. And I don’t shut my mouth, Camille.” His gaze drops to my lips. “You beg with that mouth.”
The table between us feels like a joke now. A flimsy barrier trying to contain something inevitable.
My pulse pounds so hard it almost drowns out the strings from the ballroom beyond.
“You really think you can afford me?” I whisper.
His smirk turns cruel.
“Oh, baby. I already paid in full. You just haven’t figured out the currency yet.”
My pulse skips, then slams.
Hard.
Right in the base of my throat.
I should’ve stood. Should’ve rolled my eyes. Should’ve walked away in disgust, maybe with one last clever remark tossed over my shoulder just to make him ache.
But I don’t.
Because some sick, shadowed part of me, the part no one talks about at galas or bridal showers or champagne fundraisers, likes this.
The part that’s starved.
That’s tired of polite hands and soft kisses. Of silk sheets and emotionless I love you from men who don't even make eye contact when they come.
The part of me that wants to be seen.
And not the curated version. Not Sinclair PR.
Me.
The girl underneath the silk and etiquette.
The one who’s been begging, silently screaming, for someone to rip this life open and ask nothing but everything in return.
He sits there, lounging in his arrogance, watching me like he’s already conquered me. Like he's already sunk his hands beneath my skin and tugged at the hidden thread I've kept from everyone else.
And God help me…I want him to.
“I see,” I murmur, voice dripping sweetness and venom, my mind flipping between the urge to straddle him or knee him square in the balls.
His eyes darken, glittering with desire and challenge as if he’d welcome both.
“So, what happens if I say yes?”
“Then you'd better mean it,” he says, voice dangerously soft. “I won’t take refunds.”
“I’m not exactly a return-to-sender type of girl,” I say, holding his gaze, fire simmering beneath my carefully sculpted mask.
His eyes trail downward deliberately, slowly drinking in the body wrapped in silk, and for one wild, reckless second, I want him to rip the dress off me with his teeth.
“Good,” he drawls, leaning forward slightly, predatory, devastating. “Because I don’t exactly play nice with my toys.”
My breath catches, sharp and betraying, but I don't flinch. I lift my chin defiantly, pride and anger scorching my veins. “I’m nobody’s toy.”
