Page 186 of Corrupting Camille
Mi diosa.
Tonight, I’ll worship every inch of her body until she forgets who she is, until the only name she knows is mine.
Without breaking our locked gaze, I take her hand gently, guiding her toward the steaming water. She steps into the porcelain tub, heat swallowing her thighs, hips, breasts. A soft gasp escapes her lips as she sinks down, her eyes drifting shut, tension draining from her shoulders.
I drop to one knee beside her, roll up my sleeves slowly, deliberately, and reach for the cloth. Silence hangs thick between us, punctuated only by soft breathing, the quiet drip of water, the pounding rhythm of possessiveness in my chest.
My hand moves with purpose.
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
I trace every line, every curve. Cloth brushes gently over her jaw, trails down her throat, glides along her collarbone. Water streams down her chest, slipping through the valley between her perfect breasts, rolling over her stomach, disappearing into the curves of her waist. My fingers flex, desperate to follow.
Patience.
I lift one slender arm, washing it tenderly, rinsing carefully, before lowering it back into the water. Then the other. Every gesture methodical. Controlled. Intimate.
No words exchanged. Only touches. Commands given in silence.
When I guide the cloth down her spine, my palm settles at her hip, coaxing her forward gently. Her body bends willingly, muscles flexing beneath silken skin. Each vertebra revealed, mapped by cloth and fingertips, a slow journey downward… I halt at the small of her back, inches away from temptation…just above where I ache most to claim.
I pause.
Restrain myself.
Barely.
Finished, I drain the tub, helping her rise, wrapping her in thick black fabric, my robe swallowing her once again, leaving only glimpses of flushed skin. Kneeling before her, I towel-dry her hair softly, reverently, as if she truly is sacred.
She opens her eyes slowly, gaze soft, trusting. Waiting.
I tilt my head slightly, mouth curving into something dark, promising. “Want the tour?”
She nods once, quiet but undeniably curious.
I take her hand, pulling her close, leading her deeper into my world.
My secrets. My darkness. My sanctuary.
The east wing, private quarters, empty now but still under surveillance. The weapons room, though I don’t let her linger there. The high library with shelves that stretch to the ceiling and hold books I haven’t had time to read in years. The rooftop overlooks where the ocean roars.
All of it.
This empire I built.
All for me.
And maybe, now, for her.
But I save the garage for last.
It’s spotless. Concrete and glass, illuminated by recessed lights and the subtle gleam of chrome and steel. Every car here tells a story, how I earned it, what I took to keep it, who I became driving it.
And she walks straight to the Bugatti.
Jet black. Polished to a mirror.
