Page 139 of Corrupting Camille
“You can’t resist taking, can you?” she murmurs softly, eyes lifting slowly to mine, a wicked promise glittering there.
I lean forward, taking her knight, meeting her challenge head-on. “Never could. But sacrifices leave you vulnerable, Camille. You know that.”
She’s quiet a moment, eyes dark, lashes low, something unreadable flashing behind that carefully composed expression. Then she moves her queen decisively, suddenly claiming controlof the board’s center, her strategy becoming clear. Clever. Ruthless.
“You’re exposed,” she breathes softly, voice threaded with quiet triumph.
Fuck me. She’s right. For one split second, I see it, her victory edging closer. I almost laugh at the brilliance of it.
Almost.
But I’m not done yet.
I adjust my rook, fortifying my position, tension coiling tightly between us. “Only if I let you in,” I murmur, voice dropping lower. “And I only let you in when I want you there.”
Her cheeks flush slightly at the double meaning, her lips parting softly as her eyes flicker briefly to my mouth, then back to the board. She makes another quick move, keeping the pressure relentless.
I counter her smoothly, silently impressed, my pulse racing as we exchange move after move, tension tightening like wire. She pushes me back, then I push harder. Our pieces dance across the board—strikes and counterstrikes, strategy and instinct, patience and aggression tangled into something exhilarating, something deeper and sharper than the game itself.
Another battlefield. Another playing field.
Another way we fuck, raw and cerebral.
Finally, Camille pauses, biting softly on her lower lip, eyes narrowed, searching the board for an opening. She’s brilliant, challenging me at every turn, taking risks no ordinary player would dare.
“You’re exceptional,” I admit, voice roughened with genuine admiration, chest tight with the truth of it.
She glances up sharply, surprised by the praise. Her voice drops to a whisper, vulnerable yet provocative. “Still think emotion is a weakness?”
My gaze holds hers, unwavering, possessive. “With you? It might just be my downfall.”
She inhales sharply, breath hitching, pulse visible at her throat. Slowly, carefully, she reaches across the board, making a final, decisive move, placing her queen exactly where I least expected dangerously close to checkmate.
She lifts her eyes to mine, daring me to surrender, daring me to resist.
“Your move,” she breathes softly.
My heartbeat kicks viciously in my chest as I stare down at the board, the marble queen positioned like a knife to my throat. Dangerous. Calculated. Ruthless. Exactly like the woman sitting across from me, eyes glittering with satisfaction, a knowing smirk playing at the edges of her mouth.
She’s stunning like this. Brilliant. Savage. Completely fucking unafraid.
The tension in the room stretches, pulses, sharp enough to slice skin. Neither of us speaks. I glance up slowly, my gaze meets hers, heated and unapologetic.
“You think you’ve got me?” I ask softly, voice dropping low, a dangerous taunt threaded through the quiet.
She leans forward just slightly, her robe shifting again, that smooth skin peeking out beneath the thick fabric, distracting as hell. Her lips part slightly, a wicked smile curving slow and dangerous. “I know I do.”
My jaw clenches hard, a thrill shivering down my spine at her blatant provocation. I scan the board, searching for weakness, for opportunity, for anything she might’ve missed. I finally move my bishop, sliding it carefully into position, neutralizing her immediate threat, buying myself space, time, leverage.
Her eyebrows lift slightly, impressed but unfazed. She shifts forward again, scent teasing me softly, something feminine and warm mixing with the sharp, smoky whiskey still on her lips. I’mon edge, muscles tight, every nerve humming with the tension radiating between us.
She lifts a pawn, casually placing it closer, another bold threat building, every move she makes forcing me closer to the edge.
She smiles, cocky and unrepentant. “You’re going to lose.”
“Maybe I am.” My eyes drift over her mouth, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat where her pulse flutters wildly. “But I play best under pressure.”
Her breath catches, just barely, but enough for me to see it, feel it, savor it. Slowly, deliberately, she moves her queen again, placing pressure exactly where she knows I’m weakest.
