Page 125 of Corrupting Camille

This is insane. He’s insane. I’m insane.

The elevator chime pulls me from my spiral, doors sliding open smoothly, silently, and then I’m walking, slow and steady right into Kane Rivera’s penthouse.

My heaven. My hell. My biggest mistake. I still have his penthouse key. God help me, I should’ve burned it. Dropped it in the river. Melted it down and buried the metal in a concrete block. But I didn’t.

Because I knew one day I’d come back.

And here I am.

I swipe the card and push the door open like I belong here, like my legs aren’t already trembling, like my heart isn’t thudding so loud I can feel it behind my eyes.

Chapter Eleven

Camille

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet that sinks into your bones, waits patiently, and whispers dangerous little suggestions until you’re desperate enough to listen.

I step inside.

The penthouse is exactly as I remember, sharp edges, sleek lines, ruthless luxury. Cold and beautiful and absolutely merciless. It doesn’t matter how much distance I put between us or how many lies I tell myself; the moment I cross his threshold, reality snaps back like a rubber band, stinging my skin raw.

And then there’s the scent.

It punches straight into my chest…dark, spicy, unmistakably Kane. It lingers, taunting, like he’s still standing right here, breathing down my neck, ready to remind me exactly what happens when I dare to forget.

My heart kicks violently, blood roaring in my ears.

My hands shake, fingertips burning.

“Kane?”

Fuck.

One word and I already sound desperate. Weak. Aching with longing I’ve spent weeks denying, drowning in lies and forced smiles and a ring that doesn’t mean shit. One word, and all my carefully constructed lies crumble, leaving me exposed on his cold marble floor, stripped bare and trembling.

I swallow hard, fists clenching. Waiting. Wanting.

No answer.

But silence is Kane’s weapon.

He knows exactly how to wield it.

And then…he appears.

He steps into view slowly, like he knows exactly how badly I’m breaking, exactly how fucking desperate I’ve been, waiting to see him again. My breath catches sharply, lodged in my chest, trapped beneath humiliation and the shameless heat already crawling between my thighs.

Kane pauses there, leaning casually against the doorway, damp steam rolling off his skin in waves. Every brutal, beautiful inch of him gleams beneath the low lights, his body glistening, carved from relentless discipline and violent self-control. His dark hair is slicked back, wet strands clinging to his forehead, dripping slow, lazy droplets down a face that could tempt angels to sin and saints to ruin.

My gaze drags over him shamelessly, drawn down his powerful shoulders and across thick biceps wrapped in ink, dark tattoos twisting like secrets along muscle and sinew, winding up the side of his neck, hinting at the kind of darkness that should make me run, not fucking drool.

But I don’t run.

Instead, I stare helplessly, drinking in the breadth of his chest, wide and strong, dusted lightly with a trail of dark hairthat tempts my fingertips, my tongue, my sanity. Water beads roll torturously slow down his skin, following the deep grooves carved beneath, every rigid line of his abs sharply defined, an obscene work of art crafted from sweat and obsession.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He simply lets me look, daring me silently to pretend I’m not hungry for every inch of what he’s showing me.