Page 223 of Corrupting Camille
Heat flares low in my gut, my pulse hammering violently beneath my skin. She’s baiting me shamelessly, recklessly, and every primitive instinct in my body demands I rise to her challenge.
“I don’t play games, Princesa,” I warn, voice rough-edged and dangerous, though the curve of her lips makes it clear she knows he’s already won.
She tilts her head back, exposing the elegant curve of her neck, eyes locked onto mine, daring me to resist. “Scared you’ll lose?”
My teeth grit, a smile sharp enough to cut pulling at the corners of my mouth. I close the distance between us, leaning down until my breath grazes her ear, my voice dropping to a dark, possessive whisper. “You already know I don't lose.”
She shivers slightly, lips parting on a sharp inhale. But the spark in her eyes flares brighter, defiant and reckless, just the way I like it.
“There's always a first time,” she challenges softly, smirking as she turns away, tossing me one last teasing glance over her shoulder.
Fuck.
I follow her without another thought, drawn to her like gravity, every dark promise of danger and violence forgotten in the fire of her gaze.
The world around us fades into background noise, neon lights, laughter, chaos, all fucking meaningless compared to the sway of her hips, the triumphant glint in her eyes as she leads me through the crowd.
She’s a reckless queen, taunting her king into battle. And I’m already helplessly, savagely lost.
We stop at some stupid shooting game lined with garish stuffed animals. Camille turns to me, brow lifted mockingly,daring me again, provoking that dark part of me that can’t resist her challenge.
“Can the big, scary cartel king handle a toy gun?” she teases, leaning casually against the booth, watching me with eyes too knowing, too sharp.
I step close, crowding her against the booth, caging her with one arm planted firmly at her side. My voice drops dangerously low. “Give me something worth playing for.”
Her gaze flicks up to mine, eyes darkening with desire and something intoxicating. She leans closer, breath warm against my jaw. “If you win, you get anything you want.”
I tilt her chin up with a rough thumb, studying her flushed cheeks, parted lips, the pulse fluttering wildly at her throat. “And when I win, Princesa,” I rasp, voice dripping sin, “trust me, I’m taking everything.”
Her breath catches, and I watch in dark satisfaction as her confidence falters for one heartbeat before she steels herself again.
“Promises, promises,” she murmurs, smiling wickedly as she slips from my grasp, sliding one of the cheap toy guns into my hand.
She picks up her own gun, stance confident, eyes fierce with determination, hair wild in the breeze.
Game on.
The cheap plastic feels ridiculous in my hands, but her hungry gaze locked onto mine makes it worth it. Her mouth curves, smug and confident as she lines up the shot, certain she’s going to beat me.
Cute.
The buzzer sounds, targets pop up, and I fire. Smooth, precise, lethal, even with a damn toy in my grip. My shots land dead center, one after another, methodical, controlled. Beside me,Camille curses softly, missing twice, her frustration adorably obvious as she tries, and fails, to catch up.
When the game ends, the scoreboard flashes obnoxiously above us: my perfect score, her half-hearted attempt trailing behind.
Camille huffs, cheeks flushed with a mix of annoyance and reluctant admiration. She tosses her gun down dramatically, pouting. “You couldn’t let me have this one?”
“Not a fucking chance.” I smirk, savoring every second of her irritation.
“Show off,” she mutters, biting down on her lush bottom lip.
I lean down, crowding her space, savoring the way she trembles, how her pulse flutters at her throat, the intoxicating blend of defiance and surrender in her eyes. “I warned you, Princesa.”
She exhales shakily, glaring half-heartedly. “Fine. Claim your victory.”
My gaze drags slowly, possessively, over every fucking inch of her, letting her see exactly how I plan to claim her later, in private. Then I jerk my chin toward the prize wall. “Biggest one.”
The booth worker grabs the obnoxiously huge stuffed bear and shoves it into my hands with an amused smirk. I thrust it toward Camille, watching her eyes widen in surprise.
