Page 137 of Corrupting Camille

My steps falter as my gaze lands on a sleek black table positioned near the expansive windows, illuminated softly by the glow of city lights beyond the glass. A chessboard rests there, elegant and poised, frozen mid-strategy, pieces locked in silent tension. I stare at it, disbelief flickering through me, quickly chased by a surge of recognition. Of course Kane plays chess. A game of patience and control, foresight and dominance. It’s everything he is, everything he’s proven himself capable of.

My pulse quickens as I step closer, setting the tumbler down softly on the polished surface beside the board. My fingers hover over the black and white pieces, realizing exactly what this means: Kane and I share something, something real, something beyond the heat and the destruction and the reckless pleasure. Chess is a secret of mine. A quiet passion no one truly knows I possess. And now it’s one more invisible thread connecting me to him, pulling me deeper.

My heart races as my eyes trace the board, analyzing the position, instantly recognizing the subtle ruthlessness of his last moves…offensive, aggressive, perfectly balanced. He’s brilliant, deliberate, cunning. My fingertips skim lightly over the black king, feeling the weight and smoothness beneath my touch. The echo of Kane’s intensity radiating from every carefully positioned piece.

“You play?”

I jump, startled, turning sharply to find Kane leaning against the doorway, arms crossed casually, eyes dark and intense, fixed on me. His voice is low, lazy, edged with intrigue and something deeper, something dangerous.

Slowly, I raise my eyes, meeting his challenge head-on, allowing myself a small, secretive smile. “Yes, a little.”

That's a Lie. I’m brilliant. But I don’t tell him that. Bragging isn’t classy.

His eyes darken with quiet amusement, interest flaring again like a match struck between us. “Interesting.”

“Surprised?”

He pushes off the wall, stalking toward me with that slow, confident ease, his movements controlled, his gaze unwavering and fierce. “Not even a little bit, Camille.”

I swallow, pulse kicking into overdrive, my heart slamming painfully against my ribs as the air between us thickens once again. Another piece of him revealed. Another hidden side exposed. Another secret bridging the dangerous distance we keep pretending exists between us.

“You seem intrigued,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth.

I take another sip of whiskey, savoring the burn, then slowly lower my eyes back to the marble board, fingertips skimming lightly above the pieces. “I’ve never seen anyone play like this…leaving a game suspended, unresolved.”

He shrugs casually, stopping just beside me, “Sometimes I make one move a day. Sometimes I reset the board and start over.”

I nod, understanding immediately. Another way he controls the chaos. Another careful dance, another ruthless exercise in patience and dominance. My fingers hover briefly above a knight, then pull back, unwilling to reveal my thoughts just yet.

Kane

I shove the tension down and step out from the hallway, shoulders tight, jaw locked, my entire body strung like a loaded weapon. The call with Javi pissed me off, small shit with the casinos, nothing urgent now, but I’ve lived this life long enough to know little cracks turn into cave-ins if you don’t seal them early. I was ready to take that frustration out on something, someone.

But then…she's there.

The sight of her punches the air from my lungs.

She hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s standing in front of my chessboard, my sanctuary, draped in my black robe like she was born in it. The heavy fabric hangs off one bare shoulder, sliding down just enough to make my fingers twitch. Her hair is still wet from the shower, long curls dripping lazily against the dark material, strands clinging to her collarbone, her neck. That fucking neck I’ve had my mouth on. Bruised. Claimed.

She’s holding one of my tumblers in her hand. My whiskey glows in the crystal like fire caught in glass. She lifts it to her lips, slow and sensual, sipping with the kind of quiet reverence that makes me feel like I’m watching something sacred. My drink in her mouth. My robe on her skin.

My game under her eyes.

She studies the board with precision, her eyes sharp and calculating, fingertips ghosting over the pieces like she already knows my strategy, like she’s in my head, unraveling every move I made.

My pulse spikes, because everything about her right now is mine. Everything she touches. Everything she wears. Every breath she takes in this space.

I move toward her without a sound, not out of caution but because I want to savor this. Her tells. The way her back straightens the second she feels me behind her. The sharp littleinhale she doesn’t even realize she makes. She doesn’t turn around. But she knows.

She fucking knows.

The air between us shifts. Loaded.

She brings the glass to her lips again, another sip, and my jaw flexes so hard I taste blood. That glass on her mouth is suddenly the most intimate thing I’ve ever seen. Not the sex. Not the bruises I left on her thighs. That. Right now.

That’s the thing that makes me lose focus.

“I’ve never seen anyone play like this,” she says quietly, not looking at me, “Leaving a game suspended. Unresolved.”