Page 9 of Corrupting Camille
He doesn’t even blink. “One night.”
My lips twitch slightly. A smirk I let him see. “Insultingly low.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes, brief, bright, gone in a heartbeat, and then he smiles. Really smiles, slow and wicked and utterly lethal.
“There she is,” he whispers, leaning forward once more. “Now give me your real price.”
I hold his stare, blood racing beneath the skin. Something reckless rises inside me. Something wild, buried beneath my breeding and good manners, clawing its way out. “More than you can afford.”
His eyes gleam, savage and hungry. “Try me.”
I should walk away.
That’s what a Sinclair woman would do. What my mother would expect. What my father, Preston would demand.
But I’m not built like them.
Not tonight.
Not with his voice still staining the air like smoke, like sin. Not with my thighs tight, my spine rigid, my skin prickling with the kind of awareness no amount of pedigree can suffocate.
He said fifty thousand.
Like I’m for sale.
Like he could buy a night and own me forever in his memory.
Fine.
Let’s see how deep his pockets really go.
I lean forward, slow and smooth, resting my elbows on the table, mirroring his earlier pose. My eyes lock to his, and I let him see it, the spark. The shift. The wicked thing uncoiling inside me that’s sick of being good.
“One hundred thousand,” I say, voice like satin and shards. “Half up front. Cash only.”
His jaw ticks, barely. But I see it. The quiet thrill beneath his calm. The flash of hunger he doesn’t bother to hide.
“And for that,” I go on, lips curving slightly, “you get exactly one night. One room. No names. No small talk. Just your hands on my skin and your mouth shut.”
He lets out a low breath, something between a growl and a chuckle. “That’s cute.”
“No,” I say, leaning closer. “That’s the cost of fucking a Sinclair.”
His eyes blaze now, dark and bottomless, storm-wrecked seas with no horizon. He tilts his head like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss me or rip my throat out.
“Tell me something, princesa…” he murmurs, voice rough now, hoarse like the edge of something undone. “Is that the real price? Or are you just trying to see how far I’ll bend to prove I want you?”
I smile. Not sweetly.
This one’s all teeth.
“You’re the one who made an offer,” I whisper, low enough for only him to hear. “I’m just raising the stakes.”
He leans in, so close now I can smell him, something dark and expensive, leather and danger and the kind of man who burns better women than me for sport.
“Then here’s my counter,” he says, his tone dropping, deadly-soft. “Two hundred thousand.”
My breath catches, barely.
