Page 97 of Corrupting Camille
Because it’s the only move I have left that might save me.
Or destroy me.
Preston leads us forward, smiling for the cameras, for the crowd, for the donors who will sign checks to fund his future.
And I follow, stiff and silent, feeling Kane’s eyes scorch a trail down my spine with every step.
I don’t have to look to know he’s watching.
I feel it.
Burning.
Kane
She runs.
Predictable.
Not surprising.
Not disappointing either.
Because beneath the panic, beneath the pride, beneath the wide-eyed terror of me and Ivy walking straight up to her future, straight fucking through it, Camille’s eyes burned.
That same wildfire look she gave me when she begged for more in the penthouse. When she rode my fingers in the backseat of the Rolls. The kind of look that says touch me and I’ll break, but please don’t stop.
And it’s that look, that flicker of need she still hasn’t learned to hide…that made her dodge.
Made her flinch.
Cut a clean, desperate line across the room like she could outrun this…outrun me.
Dragging Caldwell behind her like a life raft she just now remembered was sinking.
I watch her go.
And fuck… look at her.
The dress clings like a second skin, dark and liquid over caramel that I’ve tasted, bitten, bruised. Fabric sculpted to the delicate arch of her back, dipping low enough to make every man in this room want to sin.
Rounded hips sway with each retreating step, that heart-shaped ass I’ve gripped in both hands, fucked from behind, marked with my mouth. Legs for days, legs I’ve lived between, worshipped on my knees, palms locked around her thighs while she begged for more.
The slit in her dress cuts damn near to her hipbone, flashing glimpses of thigh that make my fists curl at my sides.
And her tits… Perfect. Pushed up high and smooth, right there on display like she doesn’t remember how I came on them the last time she called me a mistake.
She dressed for me.
She always does.
Even now, even running, she walks like she knows my eyes are on her. Like she wants them to be. Like some sick part of her needs to be hunted.
Beside me, Ivy shifts, following my gaze.
“Rivera,” Ivy purrs, voice all velvet edges and casual menace. “You’re staring.”
“Observing.”
