Page 8 of Corrupting Camille
Her jaw tenses, that perfect mouth straining around unspoken curses, pride glittering dangerously in her eyes.
I twist deeper.
“Don’t play offended, princesa. Everyone sells something. I just want your rate.”
Her nostrils flare. Beautiful rage. A first.
I press my tongue against my teeth, letting her believe I’m calculating her worth down to the penny.
“You want a number?” My voice lowers, dripping dark honey. “Fifty grand.”
Her brows lift, slightly. Just enough.
“Cash,” I say slowly, my voice edged like a blade as my fingertips drum the armrest, lazy, lethal. “Upfront. No sweet talk, no fucking fairy tales. I’m not here to hear your life story or pretend your carefully rehearsed personality impresses me. One night. You, on your knees, that perfect mouth stretched around my cock, finally tasting something worth your pride.”
Her breath catches hard, quick, like I’ve just sunk a knife between her ribs. She recovers fast, but not fast enough.
“And before you start clutching pearls about respect,” I continue, tone cold, clipped, razor-sharp, “don’t get confused. I respect the hustle. You want to parade around in that dress like a high-priced sugar baby? Fine. I’m happy to play daddy, make your throat raw, ruin your mascara, and leave your account flush.”
I lean back deliberately, all predator, inviting her gaze to roam. Let her look. Let her see exactly what kind of monster she’s dealing with.
Camille
I stare at him, my pulse a vicious drumbeat, my breath choking on a scream I’ll never let him hear. This asshole of a man who’s somehow both infuriatingly reckless and dangerously controlled, lounging opposite me like he’s just offered up the universe and expects gratitude for his charity.
Fifty-grand.
Dropped casually, insultingly easy. Like tipping the valet. Like sliding bills beneath a stripper’s waistband. Like my pride is just another thing he can buy and discard without a second thought.
He watches me, eyes calm, cruel, endlessly patient. Waiting for the first tremor, the smallest flinch.
No, this isn't some clumsy gossip columnist trying to bait an easy headline. He’s something else entirely…dangerous, deliberate. Calculated violence hiding beneath tailored shirts and an arrogant smirk. The kind of man who treats power like currency, and everyone around him as either pawn or prey.
My gaze sharpens, dissecting him piece by brutal piece. Everything about him screams ruthless control, from the expensive watch glinting at his wrist, to the practiced ease of how he sprawls in that chair, occupying space like he owns it. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing tattoos snaking around his forearms, dark and hypnotic, whispering stories I suddenly find myself wanting to read.
He tilts his head slightly, amused by my silence. "Trying to figure me out, princess? I'll save you the trouble. I'm exactly as bad as you think, probably worse."
"You flatter yourself," I say coldly, resisting the urge to dig my nails into my palm. "I was just deciding if your arrogance is compensation for something."
His smile grows sharper, eyes darkening, a predator tasting first blood. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely intertwined. Closer now, close enough that his scent, rich and maddening, fills my senses.
"Careful," he warns softly, my name a deliberate caress dripping with menace and temptation. "You're staring a little too long to pretend you're uninterested."
"I stare at train wrecks, too," I retort evenly, ignoring the tightening sensation deep in my stomach. "Doesn't mean I want to climb aboard."
“The ride’s worth the crash, Camille.” He drawls, voice pitched low, dripping with wicked humor.
“You know my name.”
His smile deepens, slow and predatory. “I know a lot more than your name, princesa.”
Something cold crawls down my spine, followed by heat, dark, delicious heat, coiling tight between my thighs.
This man is trouble, raw and unfiltered.
And I’m sitting here, letting him slowly peel away every careful layer I’ve spent my life building.
“Fifty thousand,” I repeat softly, tilting my head. “For one night?”
