Page 15 of Corrupting Camille

K. One letter. Sharp, controlled, utterly certain it owns me already. My heartbeat pulses viciously in my ears, and suddenly--I’m breathing him in again. Dark eyes, whispered threats, promises dripping with sin and possession. I close my eyes for a heartbeat, feeling every sharp, dark word burrow beneath my skin, igniting every nerve, crawling down my spine like fingertips dipped in poison and honey.

One night. You, on your knees, that perfect mouth stretched around my cock, finally tasting something worth your pride.

His voice is still inside me, rough and sinful and unbearably confident. I can feel the phantom heat of his breath grazing my ear, sliding lower, tracing promises down the curve of my throat, down my spine, straight between my thighs.

My palm tightens around the penthouse keycard, the sleek black plastic digging into my skin like its weight feels like ten thousand secrets. Ten thousand sins.

This is reckless.

Dangerous.

Everything I’m supposed to hate.

God help me… it’s exactly what I crave.

I lift my head sharply, eyes scanning the ballroom, searching for him instinctively, urgently. My pulse races, chest squeezing as if he’s right here, watching from the shadows, savoring the way my composure splinters--piece by carefully crafted piece.

But he’s gone.

Or hidden.

Or worse…watching from somewhere I can’t see.

Waiting to see if I’m brave enough or reckless enough to meet him in the dark.

“Camille?”

Preston’s voice slices through the thick fog of my spiraling thoughts, jarring me back into reality. I spin sharply, heart lodged in my throat, fingers clenching the keycard and note tighter, hidden behind my palm.

His eyes are slightly narrowed, brows drawn tight in a mild frown of annoyance. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lie forcing a perfectly polished smile. Fake. Empty. A mask slipping back into place with practiced ease.

His gaze flicks down briefly, landing on my clenched fist. Suspicion flickers behind his polite expression. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I reply instantly, effortlessly, every syllable a careful deception. “Just the valet ticket. I left something in the car.”

Preston hesitates, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he simply nods, mouth pressed into a thin, impatient line. “Hurry back, Camille. I’ve humored you long enough tonight.”

I stiffen at the sharp edge buried beneath Preston’s carefully chosen words.

Humored me.

Like a child testing boundaries, not the woman he’s going to marry.

I meet his gaze, jaw clenched tight beneath my practiced smile. “Of course. Wouldn't want to inconvenience you any further.”

His eyes flicker, irritation tempered by mild surprise. Preston Caldwell isn’t used to me pushing back. He expects quiet, controlled obedience, he expects my silence.

“I wouldn’t dream of ruining the night, Preston.” My voice drips sugar, “After all, your image is everything, isn’t it?”

He stiffens slightly, irritation flashing behind that practiced calm. “Our image, Camille.”

“Of course,” I murmur. “How could I forget?” My heart pounds violently beneath my ribs, a trapped bird thrashing inside me, desperate for escape. Preston leans closer, voice dropping even lower, the threat beneath his polished exterior finally exposed.

"Don't push me tonight. I'm not in the mood for your games."

My games.