Page 27 of Corrupting Camille
She’s trembling, breath ragged, eyes glazed like she’s drifting somewhere between the woman she used to be and the woman she’s about to become.
The woman I just remade with my tongue, my mouth, my hands.
Mine.
Slowly, I drag my palm up the inside of her thigh, soft enough to soothe, firm enough to remind her who put her here. She flinches at my touch, overstimulated, sensitive, stripped raw.
Fucking perfect.
“Look at me,” I tell her.
My voice is quiet.
No sharpness. No edge.
Just that steady, relentless demand that she obeys.
She blinks slowly, eyes still hazy, like she’s still coming down from the high.
“Camille,” I say again, lower, closer to something that might almost be tenderness, if it wasn’t laced with the kind of danger she knows she can’t resist. “Look. At. Me.”
Finally, her eyes find mine. Wide. Open. Wrecked.
And seeing her like this, vulnerable and ruined, lights something primal behind my ribs. Because no one else gets this part of her.
This belongs only to me.
I reach up, brush a strand of hair from her flushed face, fingertips lingering against her skin.
“Eres tan jodidamente hermosa.”
You’re so fucking beautiful.
Not whispered. Not a compliment. A confession, raw and reckless, drawn from that hollow space I never show anyone.
Then I rise. Slow. Silent. Controlled.
She stays on her knees, lingerie twisted and damp, skin glowing softly in the dim light, pulse thrumming visibly at her throat. She’s still trembling, still waiting, still hungry.
My perfect, polished heiress. My chaos wrapped in silk and lace. My sweetest poison.
I lean down, scoop her effortlessly into my arms. One hand beneath her knees, one behind her back.
She gasps quietly, a sound so delicate I almost miss it. Her head drops to my chest, breath shallow, heart pounding.
Not surrendering. Not yet. But bracing for more.
And I’m not giving it to her. Yet.
The bedroom waits, dark sheets, deeper shadows, moonlight spilling across the bed like silver ink. I lay her down carefully, deliberately, like something I’m planning to break, but not yet.
She stares up at me, lips swollen, body still flushed and wanting. Still desperate.
I lean in, kissing her slowly, firmly, just enough pressure to brand her. To remind her that she’ll feel this even when she’s back in her perfect, empty world tomorrow.
When I pull back, her breath catches sharply, eyes fluttering in confusion. She’s used to getting what she wants. She’s never been left like this.
Hungry. Needy. Waiting.
