Page 12 of Corrupting Camille
“We haven’t.”
The air thickens. Preston’s jaw clenches briefly, entitled, irritated. A rich boy raised to believe the world belongs to him, and that men like me exist only as shadows in the corners of his polished empire.
He forces a polite smile, hollow and perfectly rehearsed. “Well, enjoy your evening.”
My gaze slides slowly back to Camille, deliberately tracing every delicate curve before settling on her eyes. Her lips part, just slightly, fury and desire warring openly behind that carefully perfected mask.
“Oh, I intend to.”
Preston stiffens, “We should head back inside,” he says to Camille, voice sharpened by entitlement. “Your parents have been asking for you.”
I watch her carefully, seeing how her spine snaps taut at the subtle command in his tone. Anger ripples beneath her perfect façade, restrained but unmistakable. How often has she swallowed commands disguised as concern?
But she lifts her chin, defiant. “Go ahead. I’ll be in shortly.”
Interesting.
Preston flicks another suspicious glance my way, his voice tightening like a leash. “Camille, people are noticing your absence.”
My knuckles flex, itching for violence. I don’t move, though. I don’t speak.
Not my fight.
Not yet.
She pauses. Just a heartbeat too long. I catch the subtle grind of her teeth, the split-second flash of rebellion quickly masked. She thinks she hides it well but I see everything. Every carefully concealed fracture, every hint of defiance simmering beneath the surface.
This woman is cracking open, one reckless thread at a time.
And I fully intend to rip her wide apart.
She releases a slow breath, carefully controlled. “Of course,” she finally whispers, surrender slicing through her voice. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Preston nods sharply, smug and predictable, tossing me one final glance, a warning, a threat. Meaningless posturing from a man used to thinking himself untouchable. Then he’s gone, slipping back into the polished perfection of their ballroom.
I let the silence swell, heavy and dangerous. Then, softly, mockingly, I break it. “So that’s the future senator.”
Camille turns slowly, eyes burning with a heat I’ve been dying to see, anger, humiliation, a hunger she hates herself for feeling.
“Careful,” she bites out, each syllable edged like broken glass. “He’s not someone you should underestimate.”
My lips curve into a slow, lazy smile as I step closer, invading her space until her perfume curls into my lungs, orange blossom, vanilla, something sweet and seductive that clings to my senses like a secret I haven't cracked yet. Expensive, delicate, addictive. "I don’t underestimate anyone, Camille. Least of all men who think they own something that’s already mine.”
She lifts her chin, jaw tight, eyes defiant despite the telltale flutter of her pulse against her throat. “And what exactly do you think you own?”
I lean closer, until her breath is mine to steal, voice pitched dangerously low. “Tonight? You. Tomorrow?” I shrug slowly, deliberately cruel. “I’m a selfish fucker…I’ll decide later.”
Her eyes flash, fire and fury barely restrained. “I don’t belong to you.”
“Yet,” I whisper, quiet violence wrapped in a promise.
Her breath catches sharply, pulse slamming wildly beneath her skin. Her anger is electric, a storm barely controlled, sparking deliciously behind her careful restraint.
I step aside, nodding toward the ballroom doors, my voice deceptively soft. “Better run along, princesa. Your leash is tightening.”
Her fists clench, rage blazing openly for a split second. I brace myself, almost hoping she’ll slap me, give me the excuse to pin her to the wall, to teach her exactly what happens when good girls snap.
But she holds still, meeting my stare head-on. Furious, proud, and finally something darker, curiosity edged with surrender. The dangerous thrill of stepping toward a cliff and deciding falling might be worth it.
