Page 207 of Corrupting Camille
I stop at the edge of the hall and turn.
She doesn’t speak.
I back her against the wall.
But I don’t kiss her.
I don’t touch her hips.
I just look.
At her flushed cheeks. Her swollen mouth. The glassiness in her eyes. Her dress twisted slightly from how I gripped her. Her curls frizzed from the heat and the sweat and me.
“You looked happy,” I say quietly.
Her breath hitches. “I was.”
“You danced.”
She nods. “I had fun.”
“You laughed.”
She bites her bottom lip, then nods again. “I did.”
I take a step closer.
My voice drops to a whisper. “Did you forget about me?”
“No,” she breathes.
Another step.
“Even for a second?”
“No…not once.”
I cage her in with one hand pressed against the wall beside her head. She shivers beneath me.
“I’m trying, Camille,” I say, voice fraying. “Trying to give you peace. To let you breathe.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“But you look too fucking good when you’re free.”
Her lips part.
I trace the side of her face with the back of my knuckles, barely touching.
My forehead rests against hers,
Both of us breathing harder than we should be for two people barely moving.
Her skin is warm, burning, really, and I know it’s not just the dance or the rum. It’s me. It’s what I do to her. What she lets me do.
“You smell like lime and vanilla sugar,” I whisper roughly, lips grazing the delicate slope of her neck. My tongue slides alongher pulse, soft, hot skin tasting like sweetness, salt, and fucking submission.
Shw shudders violently, clutching my shirt so desperately she nearly tears the fabric. Good. I want her wild. I want her desperate, broken, completely fucking mine.
