Page 191 of Corrupting Camille
A few minutes later, he returns, bare-chested, droplets of water clinging to his skin, a thick black towel wrapped low around his hips. Without a word, he scoops me into his arms again, as if the brief separation had been unbearable.
I expect him to carry me into the shower, but instead, he carefully lowers me onto the plush edge of the deep porcelain bathtub he’d prepared earlier. He sits in front of me, dipping a soft cloth into warm, fragrant water.
Then, slowly, reverently, he begins washing me.
His touch is gentle. Quiet. A stark contrast to the fierce possession in the garage. He cleanses every inch of me with quietprecision, brushing the cloth tenderly over the tender skin of my inner thighs, the backs of my knees, and down to my ankles.
It’s so unbearably intimate that my breath catches. My heart beats erratically, overwhelmed by the softness in his gesture, a stark reminder that I’m more to him than just conquest. More than his obsession.
“Kane…” My voice comes out barely above a whisper, trembling with raw emotion.
“Shh,” he murmurs, not to quiet me, but to soothe me, like the word itself is a balm. His hand pauses mid-stroke, the cloth still warm against my thigh, and for a moment, he just breathes. Deep. Measured. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll ruin whatever this is between us. “Let me be selfish...this is for me....I claim you, I own you, I hurt you...your pain...your pleasure It all belongs to me. And I cherish you in ways I don’t even have language for.”
His voice is hoarse, wrecked, not with lust, but with something deeper. Something that scrapes the edges of obsession and bleeds into reverence.
“I don’t know how to do this gently,” he says again, cloth abandoned now as his fingers trace bare skin with reverent slowness. “But I can do it like this. Like worship. Like I’m putting you back together every time I break you.”
My lips part, but the words stay lodged in my throat. Because what could I possibly say to match the weight of that?
He kneels between my legs, still wrapped in that black towel, his body glistening with the remnants of the water he’d drawn for me. But he doesn’t touch me again. Not yet. He just looks at me, like he’s trying to memorize every freckle, every mark, every bruise his hands left behind.
He wraps me once more in his robe, pulling it snugly around me. When he lifts me again, I curl instinctively against his chest, content to be held. Content to trust, completely, blindly.
This is new territory for us both.
And I’m terrified of how much I crave it.
He places me gently in bed, pulling back the sheets and sliding in beside me. His warmth envelops me instantly as he draws me against him, skin to skin, heartbeat steady beneath my cheek.
He says nothing at first, just traces gentle patterns along my spine, slow and rhythmic, a touch designed solely to soothe.
I feel safe.Cherished.Owned, but in the safest possible way.
Finally, his voice breaks the comfortable silence. “You good?”
I smile softly against his skin, lips brushing the spot just above his heart. “Better than good.”
He exhales deeply, holding me even tighter, fingers threading into my hair. “Stay close to me. No matter what happens next.”
It’s not a request; it’s a promise. A warning.
But I’m too tired, too deeply wrapped in him, to ask questions now. So, I just nod, sinking deeper into his warmth.
For tonight, at least, I’ll let myself believe nothing can touch us.
***
It’s day five.
I wake up in Kane Rivera’s bed wearing silk that clings like breath, black, sheer, criminal. The tag was still attached when I found it, buried beneath layers of fine cashmere, Italian leather, and fabrics that cost more than most people’s rent. His closet, not mine. And yet… it’s been curated for me.
Bras that fit like they were sewn straight onto my skin. Underwear so soft, so barely-there, it feels obscene. The kind of lace that shouldn’t be legal.
He even stocked shoes in my exact size.
Louboutins with red soles sharp enough to draw blood. Manolo Blahnik mules in soft blush satin. Delicate So KatesI’d never wear in public, but now find myself craving, to stalk barefoot down his marble halls with stiletto elegance and nothing else.
Balenciaga sneakers in matte black, their minimal design deceptively quiet but unmistakably expensive. A pair of Amina Muaddi platforms with those signature flared heels, like glass dipped in attitude. Loewe flats with gold hardware, soft as butter, the kind of understated luxury that whispers instead of screams.
