Page 59 of Corrupting Camille
She stiffens.
I lift my hand, just my knuckles, and let them glide across her cheek, featherlight. A ghost of a touch.
She trembles.
Her body remembers.
Me.
Even if her mouth keeps trying to forget.
I drag my fingers down the side of her neck, slow and easy, feeling her pulse race under skin that used to beg to be marked.
“Let’s be completely honest about that night, my sweet little liar,” I murmur, my tone slipping lower, rougher.
Her breath catches. I hear it. Feel it.
“You came up on your own,” I say. “No coercion. No games. Just pure fucking need.”
Her throat flexes beneath my fingers.
I trail lower, across the hollow of her collarbone, my touch barely there, but she feels all of it. Her body leans in before she can stop it. A betrayal. A tell.
“I remember how you let me taste you…”
I let the words land. Slow. Measured.
“Your lips… both sets…”
Her breath catches, tight, needy, like a moan she won’t let herself make.
And I fucking grin.
“Dripping for me,” I murmur, my mouth brushing her cheek. “Melting on my tongue like the best fucking vanilla ice cream I’ve ever tasted.”
She shivers. I feel it roll through her, spine to thighs.
I drag my nose along the line of her jaw, slowly, savoring, breathing her in like smoke I’m never quitting.
“Sweet as sin,” I whisper. “Addictive as fuck.”
Her lips part, a soundless protest dying unspoken as I close the last inches between us. My mouth ghosts across hers, lips barely grazing. Taunting. Tempting. Her body melts toward me, traitorous in the way it reaches out.
“You hate that you loved it,” I rasp softly, tongue sliding along her lower lip. “You hate that it’s all you think about at night, when your fingers drift under your sheets.”
Her breath hitches hard, shock and shame coloring her cheeks deeper. I hum low, enjoying the delicious torture of her silence.
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Won’t happen…again,” she breathes out, voice trembling beneath the weight of a promise she can’t keep. I pull back. Watch her shatter. It’s beautiful. The way her cheeks flush, heat and humiliation fighting for dominance. The way her chin lifts, like that pride is still fighting. Like it can save her. But it can’t. Not from me. Not from the memory of what I did to her. The truth of what she begged for.
I grin. Slow. Wicked. Victorious.
“Say it again.”
She snaps her head toward me, eyes blazing. “It won’t happen again.” Her gaze drops to my mouth. I smile slowly. Predatory. Sharp edges hidden beneath velvet softness.
She inhales sharply, breath stuttering, pulse jumping under my touch. Her pride is a fragile, beautiful thing, shaking, slipping.
“Tell me, Camille,” I whisper, voice rough, almost mocking, eyes locked mercilessly on hers, “should I prove how wrong you are?”
