Page 185 of Corrupting Camille

I find her exactly where I knew she’d be.

She’s standing barefoot on polished marble, bathed in fading gold from the Miami sunset flooding the west sitting room. My black shirt still drapes loosely over her body, swallowing every curve yet somehow highlighting everything beneath delicate lines, smooth skin, quiet strength. The most intoxicating fucking sight I’ve ever laid eyes on.

She’s not wandering.

She’s not lost.

She’s strategizing.

Camille stands utterly still, her arms crossed beneath her chest, pulling the dark fabric tighter over her breasts. Her eyes lock onto the antique chessboard, unblinking, like she’s mid-battle, calculating a hundred lethal moves ahead. The pieces, aged ivory and polished onyx, handcrafted in Italy, sit arranged neatly, perfectly, in a formation I instantly recognize.

The Sicilian Defense.

Bold. Aggressive. Ruthless.

Exactly like how she plays.

She doesn’t hear me approach, and I don’t make a sound. Silence is my weapon, stealth my advantage. Crossing the room, every step absorbed by plush, woven rugs until I stand right behind her, close enough to breathe in her warmth. Her scent coils into my lungs, vanilla, always that intoxicating vanilla and something sharper, sweeter, distinctly hers.

In one smooth, controlled movement, my arm curls around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest. Her breath hitches softly, body pressing instinctively back into me, perfectly aligned, like she knows exactly where she belongs.

“Looking for something?” I murmur, voice dark velvet brushing her ear.

She doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t yield. “I was bored.”

“And chess was your entertainment of choice?”

“I didn’t realize it was decorative.”

“It’s not.” My gaze flicks to the board again, memorizing her every move. “You opened with the Rossolimo. Interesting choice.”

She shrugs slightly, defiantly smug. “Maybe I wanted to see how you’d counter.”

My thumb strokes lazily along the curve of her waist, tracing hidden shapes against the fabric. “I already know how you play. Watched you studying the board back in New York. You weren’t faking it.”

Her answer comes slow, loaded with quiet challenge. “I never fake it…with you.”

Each word lands sharp, charged, intentional.

My grip tightens, fingers branding her flesh as I press a possessive kiss into her neck, brief, rough, marking territory. Then, without another word, I lead her from the room.

She follows, quiet but unhesitating.

We walk through shadowed hallways, past wrought-iron staircases and arched doorways, deeper into my wing. Her bare feet whisper against stone, legs exposed, hair tousled, looking fierce and wild, dangerous. Perfect. Utterly fucking mine.

My suite is expansive, dark marble, rich tapestries, high ceilings framed by exposed beams. Sunlight spills through tall arched windows, painting everything in shades of amber. I move silently, purposefully, toward the master bath, reaching for brass taps set in a porcelain tub beneath the open skylight. Water steams upward, coiling through beams of dying sunlight. Cedar, bergamot, and heat perfume the air.

Camille lingers in the doorway, watching my every move. Patient. Quiet. Waiting for my next step.

I turn toward her, crossing the distance slowly, deliberately, until we’re inches apart. I reach for the shirt, lifting it gently. She lifts her arms obediently, allowing the fabric to slide free and fall silently away.

She’s naked. Exposed. Bathed in molten sunlight and shadows.

Utterly, devastatingly mine.

My eyes roam over every inch of her, taking my time. Memorizing. Her skin glows, silken perfection marked only by faint, beautiful imperfections, three delicate beauty marks forming a tiny triangle near her left nipple, a constellation waiting to be explored by tongue and teeth. Soft, perfect breasts, crafted to fit my palms; nipples hardened beneath my gaze, begging for my mouth. The curve of her waist invites my fingers, my hands, my grip. Wide hips framing a pussy so perfectly designed for me it makes my jaw clench with barely restrained hunger, made for my mouth, my tongue, my cock. Long, toned legs made to wrap around my hips, feet beautifully manicured, begging to press against my shoulders, my chest, my mouth.

A goddess.