Page 102 of Corrupting Camille
It’s not a protest. It’s not even a refusal.
It’s a confession. A moan wrapped in denial.
His touch slows.
Stops.
Torturous. Intentional. Fucking ruthless.
I feel the absence instantly, my body screaming for him, chasing what’s already gone.
No. No. No. No.
His lips brush against my ear again, featherlight and lethal.
“Then suffer,” he breathes, voice a silk-covered dagger.
And then…he’s gone.
Just like that.
No touch.
No warmth.
Nothing but the cruel, echoing silence between my thighs and the savage, icy ache of something unfinished. Something stolen.
My whole body seizes with the shock, lungs locking mid-breath. Pleasure still pulses like a ghost inside me, phantom contractions that offer no relief. Just heat. Just shame.
My cheeks burn. My throat closes around the lump of humiliation rising like bile. I’m soaked and desperate, completelywrecked, and he sits beside me like nothing happened. Like I’m not spiraling out of control under his hand, or the lack of it.
Kane’s face is unreadable. Cold. Composed.
A picture of control while I’m coming apart molecule by molecule.
He owns it. All of it.
My ruin.
My pleasure.
My pain.
All his.
To give.
To take.
To keep.
Kane
She’s trembling.
Not in fear, yet. It’s something rawer. Closer to unraveling. Every breath she tries to suppress is a confession. Every delicate shiver beneath that flawless exterior is a tell. Camille Sinclair, heir to a porcelain throne, is fracturing beside me.
I don’t need to look. Her tension lives in my bloodstream now.
