Page 11 of Corrupting Camille
“You’re somebody’s,” he whispers softly, dangerously, pinning me with a stare that strips me raw. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Anger pulses in my chest, mixing violently with intrigue and hunger. “And you think that somebody is you?”
“I know it is,” he growls, leaning closer, voice edged with menace and temptation. “You’ve been waiting your entire life for a man who won’t apologize for all the filthy, depraved things he plans to do to you. You’re exhausted from being polished, pretty, and safe. From smiling on the arm of men who couldn’t handle you if their lives depended on it. You’re aching to know how it feels when someone fists your hair and makes you beg like it’s the only thing you were born to do.”
My lips part involuntarily, pulse wild in my throat, but I hold his gaze, daring him to keep unraveling my secrets.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I whisper, voice trembling despite my best efforts.
He smiles darkly, lethally, cutting straight through the delicate lies I’ve carefully built around myself. “I know you hate polite lies. I know you’re sick of pretty, spineless boys with soft hands who need permission slips and gentle reassurances every time they touch you. Men who handle you like glass, terrified you’ll shatter. Men exactly like Preston Caldwell who’d apologize after fucking you, never realizing that's exactly why you're still starving.”
My inhale is harsh, aching with recognition, raw with truth. Desire pulses shamefully between my thighs, loud and undeniable.
“That’s my boyfriend you’re insulting.” I say, voice sharp, defiant.
He reclines slowly, spreading his arms along the back of the chair, utterly unbothered, infuriatingly cocky. “I wasn’t insulting him, Camille. I was insulting you for pretending he’s enough.”
I bite down hard on my lower lip, anger tangling viciously with lust in my chest. “You’re so fucking arrogant.”
“I’m right.”
I lean in closer, pulse hammering, eyes blazing fiercely. “And if I decide you’re wrong?”
His smile turns icy, savage, ruthless. “Then I’ll prove it until you can’t lie to yourself anymore.”
The air ignites between us, vicious, electric, unbearable.
One more breath. One more word. One push…
“Camille?”
My spine snaps straight, blood turning to ice at the familiar voice cutting through our little war.
Preston.
Kane
“Camille?”
The voice slices through our tension like ice.
She stiffens instantly, mask falling back into place. Every raw, exposed nerve disappears behind practiced composure. She turns slowly, effortlessly, giving Preston Caldwell the warm, empty smile of a woman trained to lie since birth.
"Preston," she murmurs. "I didn't see you come in."
He glances from her to me, assessing me in less than a second. Another privileged asshole with clean hands and weak wrists. He smiles politely, eyes carefully blank, but there’s disdain lurking just behind the calculated indifference.
Men like him see men like me as threats, short-term distractions for women they can’t truly keep. Men who’d never dirty their expensive suits or their precious family names.
He takes her hand possessively, subtly staking his claim. "They're asking about you," he says quietly, the tone deceptively gentle, possessive beneath the polite sheen.
Camille hesitates, just for a fraction of a heartbeat, eyes darting back to mine. The hesitation screams louder than anywords ever could. She’s not ready to go. Not ready to pretend she wasn’t seconds from falling.
But she does it anyway, sliding back into her role like a perfectly choreographed dance. "Of course," she says softly. "I was just getting some air."
Preston finally shifts his attention fully to me, arching a brow in cold inquiry. "I don’t believe we’ve met."
I lift my glass slowly, letting silence drag, thick and suffocating. Letting him wonder if I’ll even bother responding.
