Page 64 of Corrupting Camille
Wouldn’t make those raw, breathless sounds. Wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t claw at me, wouldn’t beg for release even while cursing my name.
I shut my eyes, and suddenly, Camille is there, burned into my memory, back arched, hips bucking, voice shattering on a broken moan. Nails carving into my shoulders as she tried, hopelessly, to shove me away, all while her body surrendered with a desperate honesty her mouth tried to deny.
I open my eyes, chest tight, frustration and hunger twisting in my gut.
I’m done pretending.
I lean toward the brunette slowly, deliberately, and watch her lips part, anticipation sparking in her gaze. Just as she’s about to smile, I smirk instead, voice low and indifferent.
“Not tonight, sweetheart.”
Her expression falters. “Excuse me?”
But I’m already standing, straightening my cuffs, adjusting my sleeves, leaving without a backward glance.
Because I don’t want hollow.
I want Camille.
Not when she’s ready.
When she’s desperate.
***
The city lies beneath me, glittering, vicious, and cold, every building, every streetlight, every shadow hiding another lie. I stand at the balcony railing, glass of whiskey clutched tight, my other hand already pulling my phone out before I can talk myself out of it.
This obsession claws at me, relentless, vicious, my own personal brand of poison.
She’s probably lying in that pristine glass townhouse, drowning in thousand-thread-count sheets, convincing herself it meant nothing. That it was just weakness. A momentary lapse.
But Camille and I both know better.
I type slowly, deliberately.
You sore, Muneca?
I let the words linger there, bright against the dark screen, imagining her reaction, the sharp hitch of breath, the heated flush crawling over her skin, thighs pressed tight before pride kicks in, before she tries to deny the ache I know she still feels.
Because I know her now.
Not just her body.
I know her secrets. Her lies. Every carefully built mask she’s crafted, I tore them all away, piece by perfect fucking piece.
I take a slow sip of whiskey, savoring the burn, and type again.
Bet you’re still wet.
Send.
I stare at the screen, lips curving into a cold, satisfied smile.
Because no matter how desperately she hates me, no matter how high she tries to rebuild those walls, the truth remains:
I already broke her.
And she fucking loved it.
