Page 7 of Corrupting Camille
And I just lit the match.
She hesitates briefly, recalibrating, debating if this is her moment of power or mistake.
It’s both, sweetheart.
She sits carefully, back straight as steel, chin tilted in practiced arrogance. Her lips press into a perfect line of composure, hiding the moans I plan to rip from her throat. She smells like neroli and liquid sugar, privilege wrapped around her like a silken noose.
I want to tighten it until she bleeds for me.
She doesn’t speak first. Smart. But those eyes flicker, tracing my tattoos, my whiskey glass, calculating if I’m below her or dangerously out of reach.
So, I help her choose.
I lean forward. Slow, intentional, shifting gravity just enough to make her feel off-balance. To make her ache for stability only I can provide. Her shoulders tighten, sensing the danger before I even speak. That’s how you get under the skin of a woman like Camille Sinclair. You don’t compliment her; you make her world tilt until she reaches out blindly.
Then you watch her fall.
“What’s your price?”
The words slice through the quiet lounge like a surgeon’s knife. Precise. Ruthless. Designed to leave a scar.
Her lashes flicker…microsecond response…but it’s enough. First confusion, then fury, then ice-cold offense sliding smoothly into those dark eyes.
“For what?” Her voice is precise, inspecting my words like they’re poisoned blades.
She’s already bracing.
I lean closer, elbows resting on my knees, gaze locked onto hers like a bullet in the chamber.
“To taste you.”
It lands exactly where I aim it. Lips parting involuntarily, breath hitching. I don’t wait for her recovery.
“To have you. Bent. Stripped. Ruined. Just once.”
Dead silence.
Then she blinks, recovering, mouth snapping shut, composure icing over. But her body hasn’t caught up. It never does. Her mind is skilled at deception, but her body whispers secrets louder than screams.
No slap. No shocked gasp. No outraged exit.
Just quiet recalibration, searching for an exit she’ll never find.
I smile slowly, mercilessly, savoring her panic. “You walked in here like you wanted to be hunted,” I murmur, voice velvet-wrapped poison. “I’m just delivering the ending you’ve been aching for.”
She still doesn’t move.
But her thighs do.
A subtle shift, barely noticeable, unless you’re fluent in the silent language of restraint and desperation.
And me? I’m goddamn native.
“You think I’m an escort?” Her chin rises, every inch a Sinclair, sharp and proud.
I tilt my head, studying her like she’s a queen sliding blindly toward checkmate.
“You tell me,” I say softly, deliberately cruel. “You came here wrapped in temptation, silk, slit, and mystery. It begs a man to wonder exactly how much it’d cost to unwrap you.”
