Page 136 of Corrupting Camille
And we start another rhythm…his command snaps something inside me, lighting my body with a raw, relentless ache. My hips roll forward instinctively, guided by his hands, his cock buried deep, stretching me, claiming every desperate inch. I start moving slowly at first, grinding down onto him, setting a rhythm that’s sensual and unhurried, feeling every throbbing pulse deep inside my core.
“Fuck, Camille,” he growls, fingers bruising my hips, eyes locked hungrily on mine. “Just like that. Show me how good you can take it.”
My movements quicken, hips rocking faster, deeper, slick sounds filling the room, mixing with our ragged breaths and low, desperate moans. I dance on him exactly the way he wants, reckless, filthy, utterly his, until his hips buck beneath me, matching my rhythm stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust.
He grips my waist tightly, driving himself deeper, harder, and I shatter again, convulsing around him with a cry that breaks apart his name into incoherent fragments. He groans roughly beneath me, thrusting up once, twice, burying himself as deep as he can, spilling hot inside me, claiming me completely as I collapse forward against his chest, breathless and boneless.
He holds me close, chest rising and falling heavily, lips brushing my forehead, possessive and oddly tender.
“Mine,” he whispers roughly against my skin.
Yes. Fucking yes. All his.
***
Padding barefoot into the kitchen, I find Kane at the stove, sleeves rolled up, exposing powerful forearms inked with stories I still haven’t fully unraveled. His shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, back muscles shifting beneath the crisp fabric as he stirs something that smells rich and warm and surprisingly domestic.
He turns slowly, gaze sliding over me with unapologetic appreciation, lips curling into a satisfied smirk at the sight of me wrapped in nothing but his robe.
“Never pegged you for the domestic type,” I tease softly, my voice still husky from sleep, betraying me more than I’d like.
He chuckles quietly, “I’m more than just a hard dick and tattoos, Camille. You’ll be shocked to learn I have hidden depths.”
I roll my eyes, biting back a reluctant smile as I step closer, leaning my hip against the counter beside him. “Can I help?”
He considers me a moment, then reaches out and hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me gently against his side. “Taste,” he murmurs, lifting a spoonful of rich sauce to my lips.
I part them obediently, humming appreciatively as the savory warmth spreads across my tongue. “God. That’s good.”
His eyes darken slightly, thumb brushing slowly over my lower lip, wiping away a lingering drop. “Told you,” he says, voice dropping to a rough murmur. “Depths.”
We sit close as we eat, shoulders brushing, thighs pressed tightly together beneath the heavy, dark table. Kane occasionallylifts a bite of the to my lips, tender strands of beef soaked in rich, seasoned sauce, perfectly balanced with peppers and onions over buttery-soft rice. He feeds me slowly, deliberately, watching each reaction with that quiet, ruthless intensity that makes my pulse stutter and my body ache, like he's savoring something rare, something precious.
His phone rings, the intrusive sound slicing between us. A flash of irritation tightens his jaw as he stands reluctantly, murmuring a clipped greeting as he strides deeper into the penthouse, away from me.
Left alone, I rise slowly from the table, the restless ache beneath my skin driving me to wander through the dimly lit living room. Everything here is dark, matte black and unyielding, like stepping inside the hidden recesses of Kane’s mind. There are occasional breaks of gray, cool and understated, but the overwhelming blackness consumes everything in its path, swallowing up light, sound, and sanity alike. The air hangs heavy with the scent of leather, polished wood, and him, always him, lingering everywhere.
I trail my fingertips slowly across the dark spines of leather-bound books, the textured surfaces cool beneath my touch. My hand slips over smooth, matte-black tables, the stark minimalism a perfect reflection of Kane’s calculated control. His carefully constructed sanctuary: sleek, dark, unyielding.
My gaze catches on the crystal decanter resting on a black marble tray, the deep amber liquid inside glowing seductively under the low, golden lighting. Whiskey. Kane’s drink, his favored indulgence, one I’ve never dared to taste. Champagne and wine are my comfort zones, safe and predictable, delicate bubbles and sweet sips that tease rather than claimed. But this drink…it’s entirely him: bold, dark, dangerously enticing. Another line I’ve never crossed. Another part of him I’m about to surrender to.
My heart quickens, hesitation flickering only briefly before temptation overtakes caution, curiosity blending recklessly with the forbidden thrill of taking yet another piece of Kane into my body. Slowly, I lift the heavy crystal tumbler from the tray, the weight unfamiliar, substantial in my hand.
Almost reverently, I remove the stopper from the decanter, pouring a generous splash into the tumbler. The liquid flows rich and dark, like molten amber, its smoky, seductive scent immediately wrapping around me. Smoke, wood, spice, something deeper, primal, irresistibly dangerous.
I lift the glass carefully to my lips, inhaling the scent deeply. Finally, I take a small sip, and the whiskey floods my mouth with a burning intensity I’ve never experienced before. My eyes water slightly at the raw, unexpected heat. This is nothing like champagne, nothing like the subtle elegance of wine. This is fierce, unapologetic, dominating.
But as the burn slips down my throat, smooth and fiery, warmth blooms deep in my belly, settling low and heavy. The sensation spreads slowly, deliciously through my limbs, melting my tension, turning the initial sting into something decadent and intoxicating. Whiskey doesn’t ask permission. It invades, overwhelms, conquers every sense, just like the man whose taste I’ve willingly taken into my mouth, whose scent now clings to my skin, whose voice still echoes low and possessive in my mind.
Consumed by him. Inside and out.
Another reckless surrender.
Another dangerous part of Kane Rivera slipping beneath my skin, branding me, marking me as undeniably his.
Glass still in hand, I continue my slow exploration, bare feet quiet on the polished floors as I move deeper into Kane’s meticulously curated sanctuary. The penthouse is all clean lines and shadowed luxury, everything carefully chosen, nothing personal or sentimental to soften the sharp edges of his control.No framed photographs rest atop the black shelves, no smiling faces to betray glimpses of family or childhood memories. Nothing to help me unravel who Kane Rivera truly is beneath the ruthless mask he wears so effortlessly.
Taking another sip of whiskey, heat blooms anew, the taste of him sliding warmly down my throat, my curiosity deepens. Who shaped this man? Who hurt him, changed him, forged him into this darkly magnetic creature whose pull I can’t seem to resist?
