Page 100 of Corrupting Camille
He laughs, and it’s not fair that something so deadly can sound so good. The low rasp of it scrapes down my spine, slick and wicked, pooling heat where it shouldn’t.
“You’re disturbingly hot when you’re homicidal,” he says.
“Go to hell.”
“I brought hell with me,” he says, voice dark with something close to delight. “Figured you’d be bored up here in paradise.”
I whip my head toward him, heat and fury colliding in my chest. My eyes meet his and it’s like touching a live wire. Sparks and danger and hunger.
“You think you’re funny?” I hiss.
“No.” His eyes glint, cruel humor curving his lips. “Funny’s for amateurs. What I have planned is fucking art.”
I open my mouth to fire something back, something vicious, cruel, unhinged…but I freeze.
Because his hand is on my thigh.
Heavy. Hot. Possessive. Hidden under the white tablecloth like a beautiful, depraved secret.
I don’t breathe.
His fingers trail slowly upward, the motion maddeningly casual, as if he has all the time in the world to ruin me. And maybe he does.
“Back off,” I say, voice low, deadly.
“But this seat’s so warm,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles up the inside of my thigh like a dare. “And you, Munequita, you’re practically begging for a deeper conversation.”
His mouth tips into a smirk, dark and unholy. “Nine inches deeper, give or take.”
I inhale sharply, my entire body stiffening. “You’re disgusting.”
“You say that,” he murmurs, “but your legs haven’t moved. Haven’t stopped shaking either.”
My heart’s a war drum. I want to slap him. I want to straddle him. I want to run.
Instead, I sit perfectly still.
Poised. Silent.
Drenched in the kind of panic that tastes like desire.
His fingertips drift upward, slow enough to feel like punishment, bold enough to brand my skin. My pulse pounds violently beneath the silk fabric of my dress, and I’m suddenly terrified everyone at this table can hear the rush of blood through my veins.
“Kane,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Don’t.”
“Say please,” he whispers, the smirk on his lips devastatingly arrogant. “Maybe I’ll listen.”
I’m burning alive beneath his touch, fighting desperately to hold onto the fraying edges of control. “You’re sick.”
“As fuck,” he murmurs, tracing maddening circles into the soft, trembling skin of my inner thigh. “But we both know you’re not going to stop me.”
His touch moves higher, pressing just enough that my legs tremble, traitorously parting beneath the table. Panic spikes through me, tangled helplessly with raw, consuming desire.
Preston’s laugh rings clear from across the table, and I flinch, jerking my gaze toward him. He’s smiling at something Ivy says, oblivious to my unraveling, to Kane’s careful, calculated assault beneath the tablecloth.
I choke on a sharp inhale as his fingertips press firmly against the edge of my panties, teasing, testing, destroying every barrier between sanity and surrender.
My voice trembles, a raw, breathless thing soaked in desperation. “Stop…someone could see us.”
