Page 101 of Corrupting Camille
Kane leans in closer, so near I can feel the ghost of his breath against my ear. His voice is a velvet snarl. “Let them.”
I shudder.
“Let them watch you come undone,” he murmurs, low and dark, each word a caress and a threat. “It’d be the first honest thing you’ve ever given them.”
Rage coils in my gut like barbed wire, at Preston’s blind stupidity, at Ivy’s effortless charm, at Kane’s merciless needling, and worst of all, at my own treacherous body betraying me in real time. My glare could cut steel. My cheeks are fire. “You’re the devil.”
His eyes catch the light like polished obsidian, too sharp, too deep. That smirk, the one he only wears when he knows he’s already won tugs at his mouth. “Then pray, Munequita,” he purrs, voice honey-laced poison, “because heaven’s not coming to save you.”
His fingers slip beneath the delicate lace of my panties, slow, practiced, devastating. The intrusion is electric, deliberate, obscene in its subtlety. A gasp shudders out of me, all control slipping through my fingers like sand. I clutch the table’s edge like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, my knuckles bone-white, eyes flickering around the room in frantic bursts.
No one looks.
No one sees.
No one knows.
Except him.
“You hate me,” Kane breathes, his fingers stroking with a languid cruelty that leaves my thighs trembling, my core traitorous. “But your body? Your cunt?” He keeps his voice low, “All truth.”
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, desperate to strangle the moan building in my throat. My voice, when it finally claws its way out, is all wreckage. “Please, Kane…”
His eyes blaze at the sound of that word, the fragile fracture in my armor. He stills, his thumb dragging a slow, pulsing circle that rips the breath from my lungs.
“Please what?” he asks, the words molten. “Stop?” A pause, dangerous. “Or don’t stop?”
I freeze, only for a heartbeat.
But that’s all he needs.
His smile blooms like sin. “That’s what I thought.”
Across the table, Ivy giggles, whispering something light and meaningless. Preston laughs, head tilted back, completely unaware. So casual, so removed, so oblivious.
And Kane? Kane sees everything.
He’s watching me unravel, stitch by stitch, savoring every crack he’s carved into my composure. His voice lowers, a blade wrapped in silk. “Look at them, Camille. So shiny. So perfect. All mask and polish. “Now feel this,” His finger pushes deeper, and I nearly cry out. “this is real, raw, mine.”
My breath fractures on a gasp, sharp and soundless. My whole body coils tight, hips shifting forward in a pathetic, involuntary plea. Needy. Shamefully eager. Every nerve screaming for more, for him.
His gaze is liquid darkness, voice edged with a possessive command. “Say it.”
I’m close. So fucking close. Teetering on the edge, right there at the tip of release, dragged forward by the unbearable rhythm of his fingers, every touch calibrated to unravel me. I can feel it building, cresting inside me, pressure threatening to snap my spine in two. I’ll break. I will.
Right here.
Right now.
At this pristine table with Preston chuckling like an idiot and Ivy whispering lies into his ear.
And I’ll fucking fall apart with Kane watching me, owning it.
Owning me.
My head shakes, weak and desperate. My teeth sink into my bottom lip like they might stop the words, stop the truth. But they don’t. My voice breaks apart anyway, breathy and cracked.
“N-No…”
